Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (88 page)

The room suddenly seemed too small to continue pacing and he dropped onto the bed. What was he to do with the information? Once back in London Bridget would instantly know that something was wrong and he knew he was incapable of warding off her probing now that he had agreed to open himself to her. His knowledge would put her in danger as well unless he chose to keep the secret and could convince Bridget of the same.

The quandary seemed suddenly lifted at the realization that the Angel most likely would insist on joining in at the council and to do so would invite his Destruction. Katherine would make sure of that. She had always seen the Angel as a threat to her position. To see him so damaged and weakened would thrill her to no end. The Angel would be killed and Notus would be forced to watch, and Fernando reluctantly admitted that he did not want such a fate to occur.

The visualization of such an outcome shook the Noble, as did the understanding that Katherine would most likely believe that he knew about the Angel’s differences and hid them from her. Her paranoia was well known and feared. Standing up, Fernando went to the door and left his room to start the necessary arrangements to get them back to London.

Not knowing what to do with the truth about the Angel clouded his mind and fogged his emotions, leaving him angry with himself for becoming so entranced with discovering the truth about the Angel. It had not turned out the way he had expected.

T
he breeze pulled at his hair, whipping it around his shoulders and face.
Each time the strands slapped his back he stiffened. Standing on the wharf, supporting himself on his good leg in an effort to alleviate the burning aches, he carefully crossed his arms over his chest and winced. He could feel Jeanie’s warmth beside him and knew that she wanted to help him but an arm around his waist would most likely make him buckle.

It had been humiliating enough allowing her to help him dress, padding the waist of his trousers so that the fabric would not rub. He could hardly stand the touch of the light cotton shirt and refused the jacket and cloak. He did not care that he was dressed out of season and would draw attention. The slightest touch across his back was a slash of fiery pain reminiscent of the lashes of the metal tailed scourge, threatening another immobilizing spasm.

If dressing for travel had been torture enough, riding horseback was worse. Each sway, each pounding step, drove red-fogged pain through his mind. Several times they had to stop as another fit took hold. Brother Absolon and Father Theodore both had beseeched them to wait until he was better healed, but there was no choice. Too much time had passed and they needed to get back to London, especially with what Violet had revealed to him. He had been barely conscious when they rode their horses into Calais. It had been Fernando’s suggestion that they tie him to the horse that kept him from falling into the mud-strewn road.

The revelation that the Mistress of
Le Jardin
had been Jean's best friend at the Inn still rocked him. It also explained why she had always seemed so familiar. Whenever he had seen her, Violet had made him uncomfortable with her stares. It was hard to imagine that it was she who had smoothly manipulated Jeanie and him. Then another thought gripped him – Violet wished to possess him even from the first time he walked into
The Rose and Thorn
with Jeanie. He shuddered and tried to hold himself together.

The ship bobbed up and down; making his head spin and he closed his eyes. He did not want to contemplate the journey across the Channel. He had not told Fernando about that added difference and he doubted Jeanie had either. Between the gusts he could make out the Noble talking with the First Mate, finalizing the orders and expectations. It would not be long before he would hobble painfully up the gangplank. The thought sent him trembling.

“Are ye alright?” asked Jeanie. Worry tinged her voice and she came closer, holding his sword along her front. “Ye dinna hae t’do this now. We can wait ‘till ye recover some. Brother Absolon said ye shouldna’ be walking ‘round.”

He opened his eyes and frowned at her bruised face, realizing that none of them had come away without injury. The purple tinged green and yellow marked the healing that was already making promise of the return of Jeanie’s beauty, yet now there was a strength in her eyes he had not ever seen before, tempered with horrific experience and violence. He had never wanted to see that in the springtime of her eyes.

“Too much time has passed,” he whispered. “There is no choice.”

Jeanie nodded and returned to stand next to him on the pier.

Closing his eyes once more, he breathed deep the moist salt scent the breeze carried and halted in mid-intake. A presence crept up on him, several in fact. Waves of curiosity and fear predominated and he knew they were Chosen.

The French, having been informed about the Vampires in a letter Fernando had sent to Hugo, now watched from darkened abodes to witness the Angel and his entourage leave their soil. Another presence over powered the others, the loathing an emotional spear directed at the Angel, and the Angel knew it was Hugo. The power of the emotion nearly staggered him, but he managed to hold his ground and he knew, somehow, that there was a new Master of Paris and Hugo had gained it.

It was not a surprise that some new ability came with his wounding, something always seemed to be given in exchange for his suffering, most often it would distinguish him farther apart from others. There was no exception this time. The conscious awareness of it came slowly with Fernando’s presence. He had at first been able to sense Fernando’s position within St. Martin’s, and then when that awareness settled he became the unwilling observer of Fernando’s emotional state. It did not make sense and there seemed to be no way to block it. One thing was certain was that the Noble did not sense the same from him.

Irritation mixed with concern stepped towards him. It was Fernando - the Noble’s talks with the First Mate complete. Forcing a deep breath, he tried to push back the mixture of emotions from all directions and opened his eyes. The feelings still buzzed at the edge of his awareness. Fernando’s tired brown eyes seemed larger in the bronze colouring the sun had bequeathed him.

“Let’s go,” stated the Noble, gruffly turning away, yelling at one of the crew to be careful with their belongings.

Jeanie lightly touched his arm. “I’ll take care of ye.”

“I know,” he whispered, attempting to make the best show of not being injured. He grit his teeth as his left foot touched down, sending excruciating shocks up his whole body, and slowly made his way towards the ship. He knew he was limping badly and he felt a stitch in his leg give way under the tight bandages. A hot liquid sensation spread out on his black trousers to drip down his leg.

It was difficult to manage across the gang board. The sudden vertigo gripped him as soon as he was past the dock and over the water and worsened as he staggered onto the deck. Miraculously, he remained standing. He closed his eyes in hope that the sensation would abate, but the world started to swirl and detach. Faster and more furiously it tilted and spun until he could not catch his breath. The deck seemed to heave under his feet and then bottom out. The fever that had been simmering all evening spiked red hot and blackness swam over his vision as a woman screamed a name.
           

His whole body ached and throbbed. Those were the first sensations that came to mind even before he opened his eyes. The second was that he lay face down on something soft and comfortable. He wanted to go back to the sacred grove, to drink more from the font of the well and watch the white faced demons swirl, but he had come back to the tattered remains of his body.

Curious, he opened his eyes and let the vision of dark red silk register as well as the appearance of his left forearm bereft of bandages. Blackened flesh encircled his wrist as he attempted to twist it for a better look, but it was the sight of the stitches in the centre of his wrist that caught his breath. He knew that the back of his wrist fared no better and he tried to flex his fingers. Pain shot up as his digits failed to fully complete the move. Closing his eyes, he sighed, his head throbbing with the effort.

He did not know where he was, but the bed - if that was what he was on - was comfortable. It did not rise and fall and all sense of vertigo had been dispelled. Wherever he was, he was no longer at sea and was grateful for this, but it still did not answer his question.

Taking another deep breath he became aware of a multitude of feelings emanating from around him and knew without a doubt that other Chosen were close, but what he picked up made no sense, making the headache thunder. Joy, anger, annoyance, boredom, worry, hunger and sexual rapture confused him. He knew they came from at least five Chosen somewhere nearby, but he did not know where. He needed it to stop.

A sudden gripping captured the breath at the revelation that he must be awaiting the verdict of his destruction from the Mistress of London. Fernando must have made the only decision he could and went to her to divulge the secrets of the Angel. He shuddered at the thought of what was coming, but regardless of the fact that he now knew her secret, it was all the more reason to Destroy him and Notus.

Pulling his arms down to his sides to push himself up, he knew he had to find Jeanie, to tell her to flee, but a shock of pain up his back forced a grunt and held him fast to the bed. He could feel the oncoming of the seizure snaking up his spine with every movement.

“Stay still,” ordered a woman. “The more you move about the harder it is to make sure your wounds are properly redressed.”

He turned his head to face the other direction, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman whose weight settled down beside him, and instantly regretted the action. He could feel her cool reticence flow over him at the same instant a shock of cold flared up his back. Gasping he closed his eyes against the pain. She was putting something on his back and every time the cold liquid touched he felt its stinging lash.

Anger, worry and dejection flowed from the woman and he sucked in a breath with the realization that she was Chosen and that she was witness to his differences. Trembling at her touch, he wondered what it was she placed upon his body. Was it something that would help the sun to immolate him? But did she not say she was redressing his wounds? Moving his arms up to his sides again he tried to push himself up only to feel a strong hand push him back down.

“I told you not to move.” The woman sighed and resumed her painful ministrations. “This was never how I wanted to get the Angel into my bed.”

The admission froze him in place, bringing with it a flash of memory of Violet’s possession that sent him shuddering. His hands made to grasp the pillow under his head, but were held in place by the pain stabbing through his back.

He was back there, immobilized and the seizure that had been held at bay for so long suddenly let loose. With the constriction of damaged muscles, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes at the explosion of pain all along his body. His body shook with the force that belied the damage and he tried in vain not to cry out.

“Oh dear.” Concern and shock poured from the woman. “I - I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I wasn‘t told.”

He felt her stand and move away as he shut his eyes to the memories. The sharp metal cutting flesh. The touch of her lips and tongue against the wounds. A hand brushed his hair from his face evoking the torture and he whimpered. Images both visceral and mental played through him of Violet’s physical desire to capture him. He did not know if he begged aloud for her to stop through his chattering teeth. Without opening his eyes he could feel the Chosen’s presence before him and heard the rustling of her skirts as she knelt beside his head.

“Don’t fight it,” she whispered. “Let it out or it will consume you and taint the rest of your nights.”

He shook his head and wanted to voice his denial of everything that was ever done to him because of his differences. His breath came in great heaving sobs. Tears ran down his face to drip into the silk covered pillow. He never wanted this life. He never chose it. All his life the choices were taken away from him because his differences set him apart. Shame sent him shivering into fatigue as the seizure abated.

He heard her shift again and felt a wash of empathy from her. “Trust me. I know.”

A cool hand graced his brow and then a soft cloth wiped away his tears before he heard her stand and walk away, allowing him time to regain his tattered emotions and for his body to relinquish its agonizing hold.