Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (62 page)

Knowing it was the only way to cover their tracks and to possibly sabotage any future shipments to Britain, the Angel turned from Jeanie to help the Noble in the search. Jeanie joined them, muttering in sad resignation.

It did not take long to find the file that held all the shipping orders from one “
Madam Fleur de la Montagne of Le Jardin, Balinghem
.”

What shocked and caused the Noble and the Angel to meet their eyes in fear were the numerous countries the spice was being sent to. The poisoning of the Chosen was not isolated to the British Isles. It was an all out attempt to exterminate the Chosen from every corner of the earth.

Closing the thick file, Fernando tucked it inside his vest for safe keeping and broke the side of the oil lamp reservoir against the corner of the desk. The Noble sprinkled the pungent liquid all over the floor, dousing the body as best he could with what he had left. Once done, using a soapstone paperweight, the Angel knocked the gas lamps from their copper hoses sending hissing vapours into the room.

“Everybody out,” ordered the Angel.

Fernando dropped the lit lamp wick onto the body. The fire caught with a whoosh as he walked out the door, the chimes ringing pleasantly.

Grabbing Jeanie by the arm, the Angel pulled her out into the cool night air, raising his hood against possible prying eyes.

“Keep walking,” he ordered, following the Noble as they left the block the warehouse resided on.

Jeanie did the best she could, but she was no match for their easy strides, and found herself huffing and puffing in the cold air. If it were not for the Angel’s grip on her upper arm she would have stopped long ago.

The explosion behind them shook doors, shattered windows, and caused them to stumble in mid-stride. Turning around, all three watched in as the yellow-orange glow of the conflagration lit up the sky. Knowing that there would be nothing left of the murder, the Angel viewed the destruction in resolute silence. The sound of the fire roared in his ears.

Glancing down at Jeanie’s shaken form, he turned around, ready to vacate the premises before the fire drew curious onlookers. Fernando caught his eye, smiling like a satisfied cat as he patted his chest where the file was lodged, and nodded. It was high time to be leaving.

The quick clicks of their shoes accompanied the snapping of fire eaten wood as it sparked hoards of fireflies high into the night air. Turning down a street, they saw the first of many men and machines of the fire brigade race down the cobbles, horses foaming at the quick pace they were forced to pull their heavy loads.

The three sped up their pace but kept it to a mortal one that Jeanie could keep with. Each turn took them farther away from the destruction until they were able to slow down, the fire naught but a silent orange illumination against a black backdrop. Assuming they were heading back to the hotel, the Angel caught up with the Noble, placing Jeanie between them, her breath puffing white clouds.

A flicker of movement down an alleyway caught his attention. It seemed that their tail was back. Noticing Fernando’s frown, he knew the Noble had seen it too.

“Do you not find it odd that the manager was untainted?” asked the Noble. His eyes glanced up and fell back down, fixated on the walkway ahead.

The Angel nodded. In a flash of insight he knew why. “They knew we were coming.” Barely audible footpads scurried far behind them.

“The trap is preparing to be sprung.” Fernando unsheathed his blades, concealing them under his cape.

“What trap? What are ye sayin’?” Jeanie’s voice rose in anxiety.

“Madam Fleur de le Montagne seems to want us to find her,” answered the Angel. Movement along the rooftop caught his attention and he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” stated Jeanie, oblivious to the goings on around her. “She’s the one tryin’ t’kill the Chosen, why no poison one or even both of ye if she knows yer commin’?”

Fernando turned down into a dark cul-de-sac of dormant warehouses and came to a halt. “You are absolutely right, and the only way to find the answers is to spring the trap.”

With a nod of agreement, the Angel saw that Jeanie stood confused at where they found themselves, and at the answer. She did not notice the silent figures standing in the darkened doorways and alleys, or the one perched on the rooftop of the warehouse in front of them.

A tense silence filled the night.

“I never expected to see you back so soon,” called the dark figure on top of the building. His rich French voice filled the oppressive quiet.

“What do you want, Hugo?” replied the Angel, throwing back his hood to have an unrestricted view of his surroundings.

“You know this vampire?” Fernando shot a dark gaze at the Angel.

The Angel nodded, refusing to move his eyes off of Hugo. He heard Jeanie’s gasp of surprise.

“Where is
Le Bon Père?
” said Hugo.

“In London,” retorted the Angel. “Answer my question.” He heard the shiftings of the Chosen around them coming closer and tightened his grip on his sword. Sensing Jeanie’s distress, he drew her to his right side and brought her inside his cloak. Her eyes went wide as he drew the ancient sword, still concealing it under the panels of heavy black fabric.

“You are without the amnesty of
Le Bon Père’s
presence,
L’Ange
,” answered Hugo, menacingly. “You were told by
Le Maître
that if you set foot on French soil without being under
Le Bon Père’s
protection you would be Destroyed.”

“Now what could you have done to have gotten the Master of Paris into such a knot?” Fernando’s whisper held a cocktail of amusement, fear, and simmering anger.

The Angel glanced sharply at the smirking Noble. “Since Aimeri became Master of the French Chosen, they’ve become quite irrational as to who is and who isn’t pure Chosen.”

Fernando’s eyes widened, feeling that he was on the brink of another discovery of the elusive Angel. “What are you saying?”

“They don’t like my looks,” stated the Angel, matter-of-factly.

Ignoring the Noble’s bark of laughter, the Angel brought his attention back to the Chosen on the roof, fully aware of the slow onset of the others around them. “Let Aimeri show himself.”

“You know that is not possible,” spat Hugo, “
Le Maître
is in Nice mourning his beloved Marie. While he decides whether or not to partake of the sun, I am in charge.”

“
Merda
,” swore the Noble, testing the grips on the daggers.

The Angel returned his attention back to Jeanie, knowing that no matter what happened in the next few moments he had to do everything in his power to protect her.

“Hold on,” he whispered, wrapping his right arm around her chest. He felt her trembling arms encircle his waist. Her terrified eyes met his. “Whatever you do, do not let go.”

“What are ye going t’do?” asked Jeanie. Her eyes wide in fright, she gripped his belt.

“I’m going to fight with one hand tied behind my back.” He tried giving Jeanie a confident smile, but only the corner of his mouth lifted, belying his concern.

The sudden whoosh and subtle change in the air was the only warning of the attacking Chosen. With Jeanie tucked in one arm he spun with preternatural speed, brandished his weapon and cleanly cleaved through the waist of the male Chosen who flew at him. Blood dripped down the single, wide blood groove, stealing away its silver gleam. There was no time to think, only to react as others, having realised the Angel and his partner was armed, drew their own bladed weapons.

Fear lacerated through him as he realized how difficult it would be to overcome the odds while protecting Jeanie. Schooling his expression, he fixed his grip around Jeanie’s waist and slipped into the centuries of training and practice.

The French Chosen did not attack one at a time, but rushed he and Fernando. Back to back with the Noble he fought, easily deflecting knife and rapier attacks. None managed to touch him, but with his long reach and well-trained hand, he caused many to lose hold of their weapons.

A cry from his right drew his attention from the knife attack before him. Easily sidestepping the clumsy thrust, he brought his blade through the neck of the off balanced Chosen, decapitating in an easy fluid blow. Red rain sprayed. It did not slow him down as he used the momentum of the swing. Pivoting on one foot, he brought the ancient sword to shatter the rapier intended to stab him.

The Chosen holding the ruined blade stood dumbfounded before fear dissolved any gusto of the battle. The last thing he saw was the Angels furious red eyes before darkening cobbles stared back at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Angel saw that Fernando was more than capable with his two daggers. Defending against another foolhardy attack, he realized he had to end this before he decimated the French Chosen. Unhanding one female Chosen of her dirk, he ignored her screams and sought the one who could end this.

Finding Hugo watching from his vantage point on the roof, the Angel came to the only decision he could make.

He rushed to the building certain Fernando could hold his own, and shouted for Jeanie to hold on. He did not know if she heard him or not as there was no time. With the speed and strength of the Chosen he leapt, landing forcefully on the roof. He felt Jeanie’s stumble and he held her tightly, barely giving her time to gasp for breath before he advanced on Hugo.

Witnessing
l'Ange
leap effortlessly to his position, Hugo unsheathed his broadsword. The clean blade rang clear barely before meeting the long sword in a parry of crashing sparks and thunderous clang.

Moving easily on the flat roof, the Angel pressed his advantage. Height and centuries of training forced Hugo’s adequate defence back as their blades met again and again in a shower of sparks.

“Do you yield,” the Angel called out over the ringing metal.

“Never,” seethed Hugo. He swung again, his sword stopped once again by
l'Ange’s.
“I’ll see you in hell first. The English Chosen will not win their war against the French.”

Not understanding Hugo’s reasons for the fight, he pressed on, forcing the French Chosen to meet each swing, each thrust, with less and less effective countermeasures.

Stepping forward, he swung knowing Hugo would meet his sword with his. When the crash of metal against metal came, he spun; Jeanie gripped in one arm, his cloak flowing out around him in a grim parody of black wings, and stepped inside Hugo’s range. His sword landed against his opponent’s neck and halted, biting deep enough to let Hugo know that if he pressed the attack further, he would not only lose the battle, but his head as well.

Glaring down at the temporary leader of the French Chosen, he watched as Hugo’s blood swelled into his sword’s blood groove to mingle with those that he had already slain.

“Do you yield?” the Angel demanded once again, his voice filled with the promise of death.

Hugo stared up at him, hatred written cleanly in the ice blue of his eyes. Momentarily impressed at Hugo’s bravado, the Angel released his arm from around Jeanie. Ignoring her stumble to the ground to land undignified with her legs a skewed under her and her head in her hands, he shifted Geraint’s ancient blade, drawing the line in Hugo’s flesh further across by gripping with both hands. The threat of the beheading became a promise and he stared into Hugo’s startled eyes.

“I have no wish to become
Le Maître
,” hissed the Angel between clenched teeth, “but know this; if you do not drop your weapon and call a halt to these hostilities, the last thing you will see is
me
.”

The clatter of metal against the roof rang as Hugo raised his hands in placation.

Relaxing his stance, the Angel relinquished his sword from Hugo’s neck. He stood back, sword poised in his hand, waiting to see if he would still have to follow through on his threat.