Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (8 page)

No, not quite.
He would never allow Mistress, Master, or anyone for that matter, to drink from him again. He did not care if she saw the burning hatred in his eyes.

“That was a very stupid move.” Her hand gently caressed his smooth face, revelling in the surge of control regained. “Of course I can forgive your tiny indiscretion, having never been in
my
Court, but any more inappropriate behaviour and I may have to do something to your pretty face.”

Ignoring her threat, he watched as she turned to face her Court. His eyes bored into her back.

Lady Julia floated down the dais to stand before him. Her finely decorated hand, every finger covered with at least one jewelled ring, cupped his chin, wet with tears of fright, and lifted him to his knees. Cold brown eyes met his and then turned to Antonius. “He is not but a child. A sweet innocent child.”

She returned her frosty gaze. “Is that what you are?”

Too frightened, he said nothing.

The Mistress painfully grasped his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “I command you. Answer me!”

“I don’t know?” he nervously blurted.

Lady Julia released her grip. “Are you not one of the Chosen? Do you call Father Notus a liar?”

Before he could even think to form a reply, Notus spoke up. “He is Chosen, my Lady. By accident.”

Her blond brow lifted. “Is that so? But is his blood pure?” Her finger followed the scar on his arm from shoulder to as far as his pinned arms would allow.

He did not hear if his Chooser made any response before Lady Julia bit deep into his neck.

“You do not have the authority to hold Father Notus,” he stated flatly. The sting across his face was expected.

Mistress Katherine’s face was tight with fury. “I am the Mistress. I hold all authority over every Vampire in the United Kingdom. You will do my bidding as I see fit. If not, then he dies!” She swung her arm to point at the tormented priest. “Is that what you want?”

He set his jaw, tasting blood. “No.”

“Then what do you want?” she glared at him. Even on his knees he was of a height with her.

The two holding his arms behind his back gave a sharp tug that threatened to pull his arms from their sockets. He refused to allow the pain to override his response. “I want Notus back.”

This time her slap was unpredicted. At least she had balanced out the stinging sensation in his face.

“Wrong. What you want is to serve me. For if you do not he will die. Make certain of it. Now what do you want?”

He bit his tongue. He had no choice if he had any chance to free Notus. With venom he spat, “I want to serve you.”

Her mood brightened immediately as if some switch was turned. She waved off the men holding him. “That’s much better.”

Slowly he regained his feet, rubbing back the feeling into his shoulders. Following her motion to get off the stage, he jumped down to stand beside the richly dressed man. He ignored the appraising gaze, keeping his attention on the Mistress.

“Now that I have your attention.” She went to stand before her throne. “I will tell you both why I went to such great lengths to force your attendance.” She snapped her fingers and continued. “We British Vampires have a problem. Somehow we are being poisoned to death. Or more to the point, our food source is becoming tainted.”

Two others he had not seen before dragged a thin, ragged man out of stage left. The man, weeping with his head down, did not struggle; his scuffed and worn shoes scraped the wooden stage. Following behind, a woman carried a double edged dagger in one hand and a large ornately decorated gold chalice in the other.

“To illustrate my point I had this street urchin delivered so that you will see that I do not lie.” The Mistress took the proffered blade from the woman who then curtsied to her Mistress and moved off to the side.

The mortal was made to stand before the Mistress and she grabbed a handful of dirty mousy brown hair, lifting the weeping man to face the Court.

A flicker of recognition passed on the Angel’s face.
Peter!

The look on the man’s face turned into one of hope. “Angel, please save me from these crazed pe–” His pleading was cut short by a hand at his throat.

Standing rigid, he controlled himself as the Mistress grabbed Peter’s arm and cut deep lengthwise along the long blue vein at the wrist to the sound of his thin scream.

The smell of hot pungent blood swept into the air even before the first rushes of scarlet liquid were caught up in the chalice. He could do nothing to save the man that had called to him for help. All he could do was watch impotently as Peter’s life filled and then spilled over the chalice.

The Mistress released her grip on the now flaccid arm and allowed the men to release their hold on the corpse. It hit the stage with a loud splat as it landed in its own cooling blood. Lifting the chalice, it ran red with blood at her movement.

“Angel? Strange that it would pray to an angel in such a manner. Unless it was expecting that
you
would save it,” she taunted.

Carefully she kept the chalice at arm’s length so as not to soil her fine attire. “Somehow I cannot imagine Fernando saving anyone, not even a puppy. But you I can imagine doing such a thing. Now why is it that you are called the Angel? I can see you being called a demon, a devil, yes. Tell me so that my curiosity is satiated. Speak!”

He loosened his jaw to answer. “It is a name. Nothing more.”

“Is that all?” she probed.

He refused to say anymore.

Dismissing the subject with a shrug, the Mistress said absentmindedly, “Now where was I?”

“You were about to illustrate your point, my Lady,” offered Valraven who came to stand beside her.

“Yes. Now I remember.” She startled as if waking from a dream. “Valraven, would you be a dear and take this to Fernando and the Angel?”

The Mistress’ assistant took the heavily filled chalice, ignoring the wash of blood streaming over his hand, bowed and moved off into the wing only to re-emerge onto the spectators’ level only a moment later. He offered it first to Fernando, who eyed Valraven and the chalice with extreme prejudice.

“Take a sip,” ordered the Mistress, seeing his reluctance.

Fernando flashed an angry glare. Unaccustomed to receiving orders he stiffly pulled out a finely tailored white handkerchief bordered with lace from an inner pocket of his tailed jacket. Flicked out to full size, Fernando used it as a barrier to keep his hands clean as he took the chalice, careful not to spill any blood. Mocking a salute by slightly raising the cup, he did as ordered and gave it back to Valraven, soiled rag and all.

The Mistress’ assistant ignored the handkerchief and hesitantly went to stand before the tall pale vampire. Valraven did not look up to meet the angry red glare and instead chose to stare at the black lapelled suit jacket that fit perfectly across the muscular chest.

Carefully, taking the cup from Valraven, he soiled his hands as the blood soaked through the kerchief. This was all that remained of Peter, a homeless nobody who never did anyone harm, one of the countless many who received what little help they could from a priest wise in the world of suffering. He did not salute the Mistress. He just took a slight sip and passed back the chalice. At first he could not bring himself to swallow, but hunger won out but not before he noticed the subtle, almost nonexistent, sickly sweet taste.

“There is nothing wrong with this blo–” Fernando halted in mid-sentence, his anger rapidly dissipated to a look first of surprise and then illness.

Trying to blink away the blurriness, the Angel ran a pale hand across his face. He followed Fernando’s collapse to his knees, all sensation in his extremities suddenly replaced by paralysing numbness.

“You bitch!” croaked Fernando, “You poisoned me!”

“Not quite, my dear,” purred the Mistress, enjoying the submission of her subjects. “Give it a moment. It will pass.”

She was true to her word. Feeling rapidly returned to arms and legs. Blurred eyesight cleared. Steadily they rose to their feet. Glancing quickly at the other out of a habit of concern, Fernando seemed fine and yet somehow familiar. He did not match the other’s enraged expression. He finally believed the threat the Mistress mentioned.

“You see that I do not lie.” She sat down on her throne, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in her black dress.

“Lie? You sit there after you poison–”

“If this is what you wished to show me, you need not abduct Notus,” his soft spoken words cut short Fernando’s rant.

Brown eyes flickered from the Angel to the Mistress. “Nor steal my holdings,” remarked Fernando, jumping on the bandwagon.

“Ah, but I had to.” The Mistress smiled and raised her hand to halt the words ready to explode from Fernando’s lips. The Angel stood silently still, waiting for her to make her point. “Taking the Father and the possessions were not only to get your attention, but to hold your attention until such time as I decide you are worthy for me to release them. Think of them as my hostages.”

“What?” he balked. This was impossible, unheard of. To hold another Chosen hostage was an anathema to the honour he was taught that the Chosen should hold. His cool façade slipped into horror.

“O grande puta! Como e que tu podes fazer isso? Eu vou te cortar em pedacos. Meu Deu que quero—”
Fernando absently slipped into the language of his birth, his fury forcing him to forget English.

“Quiet!” roared Valraven. His voice reverberated throughout the theatre until there was nothing but silence.

Satisfied that Fernando’s seething would not burst forth into another non-intelligible rant, Valraven nodded to his Mistress and placed the chalice on the edge of the stage. A red ring connected gold and wood.

“Thank you, my dear,” said the Mistress, sweetly. Reclining into the soft cushions of her throne, she crossed one slender leg over the other, exposing a finely shaped pale calf.

Suppressing his shudder of rage, her nonchalant attitude infuriating him to the point he could not hide it, he stated through clenched teeth, “What do you what?”

“How wonderful that you should ask such a question. It is too bad that you didn’t phrase it correctly, but no matter.” The Mistress leaned forward, hands folded on her knee. “I cannot expect too much from you too soon.”

“Get on with it, Katherine,” spat Fernando, his patience at an end.

She glowered at the Portuguese vampire, angered at the use of her name. After all she was the Mistress and not some common vampire to have her name bandied about. “Fine, Fernando,” her small mouth warping his name, “what would you do to get back your holdings?”

Sensing a trap, Fernando slowly said, “Depends on what I’m requested to do.”

“And the Angel,” she pivoted in her seat. “What would you to do get back your sire?”

“Anything,” he said without hesitation, ignoring the surprise on Fernando’s face.

“Is that so? Hmmmm.” She placed a graceful finger against her lips, red against red. “Such devotion of a fledgling for his sire is rare. Notus must be a remarkable vampire.”

His gaze moved beyond the throne to the T-bar that held the unconscious form of the man who cared for him through the centuries. “Chosen,” he absently corrected.

Confusion momentarily blackened the Mistress’ features only to have the darkness replaced with the brightness of mirth. “Chosen, yes, most definitely. Now where was I?”