Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (9 page)

“You were about to tell them–” reminded Valraven.

“Ah yes.” Her face became sombre and she leaned forward in her throne, hands placed on the padded armrests. “Fernando and the Angel, to get back what I hold hostage you are to discover who is behind this poisoning and put an end to it before we are all dead. You found what one sip could do to you. Draining a mortal will kill you. I have seen it done to others of our kind. Find the reason. Squash it. Only then will I give you back what I have taken. But take heed. I have sent others out before and they have been found dead or not found at all. If you fail, what is yours becomes mine.”

She leaned back in her chair, a pallor overcoming her features. “Go now. I am weary of you.”

Fernando opened his mouth to protest but stopped as Valraven stepped before him. “You will leave now. My Lady needs her rest.”

Furious at the dismissal, Fernando turned on his heel and strode out of the theatre.

Watching the Portuguese Chosen stomp up the slope to the doors, he turned to look down at the assistant to the Mistress. “What will the Mistress do with Notus?” concern lighting his tone.

Startled at being addressed by the enigmatic vampire, Valraven quickly glanced up at the fearful face and then back down. “Anything she wishes,” he stated plainly.

Taking a heart wrenching last look at his Chooser, he closed his eyes and silently vowed he would see Notus safe and out of her clutches, and frowned at the lack of response. Slowly he walked up the slope and cleaning off Peter’s blood with a handkerchief, left Notus in the care of an insane woman.

J
eanie halted and watched from behind the protection of a lamppost
as the Angel ascended the steps to the old abandoned theatre. It was when he paused at the top that she noticed the two burly men standing guard.

This must be the place.
She poked her head closer, squinting to see into the shadows. What she did see was the Angel entering the theatre.

Turning her back to the building she leaned heavily against the lamppost. She needed to find out if the Good Father was in there and why. The Angel would be angry with her, she knew this, but swallowing the fear of his disapproval she turned to walk up the steps.

“Who goes there?” demanded one of the guards as he lifted to his feet, discarding the tattered blanket.

She paused before taking the last step, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. These men could easily break her in half. She coughed her nervousness.

“My name is Jeanie, and I’m here with the Angel.”

A large hand, snaked with ropy muscle, unhooked the holster and pulled out a gun. “Who goes there?” he repeated, his eyes focusing on nothing.

Her eyes widened as the barrel levelled onto her position. She did not need to be asked a third time.

“Sorry. Wrong address,” she blurted before fleeing down the stairs.

Halting at the lamppost, Jeanie breathed a sigh of relief and blotted her forehead with the cuff of her coat. She turned to look back up the theatre stairs to find the two guards huddled under ratty blankets. Heart still hammering in her chest she realized that this was more serious than she first realized. Staring at the large double doors, she decided that if she could not get in she would keep watch on the place.

After what seemed to be an indeterminably long time Jeanie sat down on the ground under the lamp, ignoring the damp permeating through her skirt. Her feet had grown sore from standing so long, waiting for the Angel to re-emerge from the theatre, and with no other option, she made do with the walkway, leaning her back against the base of the lamppost, her skirt tucked warmly around her legs. She could not imagine what could be taking so long. All he had to do was go in, get the Good Father and leave. Or so she had originally assumed. Waiting was not one of her strong points and once again she had to force down her rising irritation.

A loud rumble arose from the depths of her stomach bringing her attention to how famished she was. She had not eaten in over twelve long hours and images of steaming meat pies and mashed potatoes and peas made her mouth water and her stomach roar louder.

With a sigh, she placed her hands into her coat pockets to warm them knowing food would have to wait. A crunching piece of paper rubbed against her hand and she pulled out the note the Angel had forced upon her. The sight of the five-pound note staggered her to her feet. Not believing her eyes, she turned it this way and that under the yellow glow of lamplight.

I could buy a hundred meat pies!
she thought. That would surely fill her up, and at the most, make her explode.

The sound of shoes rapidly clicking against stone brought her attention away from the small fortune to face the bobby walking towards her. A little too hastily she jammed the note back into her pocked as he walked past, taking no mind of her except a polite nod.

Not three steps past he turned around, the echo of his shoes swallowed up by the night, and frowned down at her. Jeanie’s eyes widened at his approach into the sphere of luminescence, his brass buttons and badge reflecting brightly.

“What’s a nice looking girl like you doing out here all by yourself?” His voice was deep, issuing forth from lips veiled under a thick brown moustache.

“I’m waitin’ for my friend,” she stammered. She could see in his brown eyes that he did not believe her. “No, really, I am,” she hastily added.

“Now luv, waiting for a friend is fine, but in the middle of the night I have to be questioning the manner of that friendship.” His tone was condescending as he gave her another thorough look over.

Biting her lip, Jeanie tried to decide whether to tell the police officer about the abduction and the retrieval of the Good Father. Then again, there was no need. The Angel would be out with the priest, and hopefully very soon. The glowering brown eyes told her that she was taking too long in answering, so she decided to bend the truth. “My friend is the son of my employer and—”

“Meeting for some extracurricular employment, wot?” The bobby’s eyes alighted.

The implication of the officer’s words instantly darkened her mood. “How dare ye!” she fumed. Relentlessly she ploughed on, not caring even it was the Queen Herself before her. “I’m no whore and I resent bein’ thought so.”

His eyes went wide at her unexpected explosion.

Heedless of his attempts to calm her to rationality, Jeanie continued, “I’m just mindin’ my own business, which is innocent enough, and ‘cause I’m standin’, waitin’ for a friend, I’m accused of prostitution!”

“Listen missy,” agitation rang in the officer’s voice once he had an opportunity to get a word in. Jeanie crossed her arms over her chest, angrily waiting for him to continue. “I did not accuse you of anything. It is my job to keep things right on the streets. Since you have stated – quite fervently – that you are not a prostitute, then it becomes my job to see if you’re safe.”

“I am safe.”

“I can see that.” He turned around to continue his beat. “No one in their right mind would bother you,” she heard him mumble as he walked away, clicking heels fading into the distance.

Jeanie glared at his retreating figure. She could not believe the audacity of the bobby.
Thinkin’ I’m a whore,
she exhaled explosively, leaving a faint cloud to dissipate.
I’m no even dressed like one!
She shoved her cold hands under her armpits. She was not even in the right district. At least the confrontation diverted her from the rumblings of her stomach.

The large heavy wooden door clicked shut, leaving behind the hope for Notus’ emancipation. He did not want to let go of the brass knob. Every instinct screamed that he should storm back in and save Notus, but he knew that they would both be dead before he even reached his Chooser. The staff across the back was just a warning.

Cold steel lined the walls with the Chosen. He had heard it hiss when the other tried to reach the Mistress. It could have been possible if he had brought his sword, his age and training most likely outmatched everyone in the theatre, but at what cost? Releasing his grip, he hit the door, palm open, causing the wood to cave and crack. The door was reinforced.

Damn!
he raged. He was as trapped as Notus.

“Putting a crack in the door isn’t nearly as satisfying as the idea of putting one in Katherine’s skull, not to mention her lackey as well.”

He spun around to find a wry smile edging the corners of the Portuguese Chosen’s full lips.
Fernando. That is what she called him.
A spark of recognition flared again. It seemed that Fernando should be wearing something from an earlier time, instead of the dark charcoal suit and the cravat studded with a ruby pin.

A half smile pulled at Fernando’s face and he took a step towards the infamous Angel. Despite what Katherine had tangled him into, he had a chance to do something no other Chosen before him had even attempted – to find out more about the Angel from the Angel himself. Bridget would be thrilled and would do almost anything for any sort of tidbit Fernando could glean. He could not pass up that opportunity for the world.

“Since Katherine was so rude as not to introduce us, I imagine we have to do it ourselves.” He stuck out a dark, strong hand, one that had never known toil or hardship. “I am the Noble Fernando de Sargres, the last heir to the title, Fidalgo de Sagres.”

He let his hand fall to his side when the Angel did not take it. His brows rose in mild amusement as the Angel suspiciously watched him. “And you are, of course, the Angel.”

They turned at the scratching sound of the little bald man shuffling out with black cloaks draped over each arm. The distraction was perfect. There was something slightly disturbing about Fernando de Sagres, something the Angel could not put a finger upon. He lifted his cloak from the servant and draped it over his slim, muscular frame, and pulled out the ancient clasp from his pocket. The little man bowed his head and went next to the Noble.

Fernando acquiesced to the interruption with a scowl. Loathing the perceived impertinence, he yanked his cloak causing two daggers to hit the carpeted floor with a loud thunk. Silence reigned momentarily as all three stared at the curving blades. The panicked mortal heartbeat was audible to immortal ears.

The scowl deepened on the Noble’s face, forcing fear to widen the servant’s features. His cry was strangled off as Fernando’s hand whipped out to grip the mortal’s throat.

“Why you infinitesimal slug, I’ll teach you to be respectful of your betters, and their possessions,” hissed the Noble.

The servant’s squeaked his fear at the tightening clasp.

The whole display seemed surreal and completely unwarranted. The Angel could not understand Fernando’s anger. It was an accident. Not worthy of such an outburst. But one thing he did understand was that if he stood by and did nothing, the man would be dead very shortly. “Let him go,” he ordered, his voice barely audible.

Fernando turned to look up at the Angel, scowl intact. “I think not. This dog needs to learn some manners.” He pulled the servant closer. The man’s eyes bulged with the lack of oxygen.

“I said, let him go.” He placed a bone white hand on Fernando’s finely tailored arm.

“Or what?” spat Fernando. He glared into determined crimson eyes expecting to stare down the Angel but found himself backing down as the pale hand squeezed painfully. With a growl, Fernando released his grasp, allowing the servant to fall to his knees, gasping in great quantities of air.

Kneeling down beside the man, ignoring the Noble’s burning glare, he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sir,” wheezed the man, hand rubbing his bruising throat. He allowed the Angel to gently lift him to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go home. It is not safe here.” He glared over the servant’s head to Fernando. He was met with a look of disgust, but did not care. He was disgusted himself. The servant nodded and fled the room without so much as a glance to the Noble.