Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles by Karen Dales Read Free Book Online Page B

painting, revolted by the gruesomeness of the dark images. It was the large oiled canvass of a demon with burning red eyes subduing and forcing the submission of a fair haired angel with his wings hideously ripped off, that caught and held his attention.

    Master Antonius stood on the dais wearing the finery of a Roman Primus Pilus. The Master gazed angrily at him while Lady Julia, seated in a throne made of gold and draped in a fine white toga laced with gold, covered her horror with the back of her hand.
    “Kill it!” The order issued from the Master of Britain.

    He started at the touch on his arm and gazed down at a waif of a man.
    “It is time, sir.”
    The sound of the servant’s fearful heartbeat rang in his ears. Smoothing his features into a mask of non-expression, he nodded once, steadying himself to enter into the lion’s den.
    The little man turned around, keeping his eyes on the Chosen as long as possible and led the way to the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.

    Notus begged for his life on bended knee, pleading for forgiveness. Seeing his Chooser humiliate himself, he stepped forward only to be surrounded by finely forged steel blades. They did not know what such a weapon could do to him. They could never know. It had taken almost two years to come here, more than a year and a half in Ynis Witrin healing and learning to use his arm again.
    The order that he be stripped came from Lady Julia. He needed to run. Even among the Chosen he was too different.

    “They are ready for you, sir. Can I take your cloak for you?”
    He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the unwanted memories. Abasement on the servant’s drawn and tired face made him realize he gave the wrong answer. Unhooking the cloak, he folded it and handed it to the man, keeping the clasp to be pocketed. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
    “Yes, sir.” He hung the cloak over a thin arm. “You are to go in immediately, sir.” He bowed his bald head and backed away.
    Turning the cool polished brass knob, he entered into the realm of the Court. No seats lined the sloping floor that ended at the stage. A single high backed chair, ornately engraved and upholstered, stood before large drawn red velvet curtains. Those Chosen who had decided to come and pay their respects, or more likely, to watch the show, stood along the walls. Seated in the throne sat the Mistress, flanked by her select few. She did not notice his arrival; her attention was on the dark haired man in lavish attire standing before the stage.
    “ Sua puta fodida! You cannot do this to me!” hollered the man. His dark shoulder length hair whipped around in a wavy mass. The accent was unpredictable – Portuguese.
    “Ah, but I have, my dear,” purred the Mistress; her chin resting in her delicately boned hand. Dark long curls framed her pale painted face. “I can do whatever I wish. I can even take all your possessions –”
    “You wouldn’t dare!” roared the man.
    “Dare?” Her musical voice turned sour. “I’ve done!” She snapped red painted fingers and the man beside her with short black greasy hair produced a folder. She grabbed it out of his hands without so much as a thank you and opened it, showing the contents to the one before her. “Your deeds. Your leases. Your signature!”
    The man made a move to leap up onto the stage, halting as the hiss of metal issued from the sides of the theatre. “If you have everything of mine what do you need me for?” he spat.
    “All in good time. All in good time.” A victorious smile curled her red lips and the Mistress languidly sat back in her throne.
    Ice blue eyes flickered up the carpet to the figure at the back of the theatre. The Mistress bolted upright in surprise.
    His presence acknowledged he stepped down the sloping floor, ignoring the murmurs of shock and surprise. Another throne and another Mistress threatened to superimpose themselves upon this time and he clenched his jaw, trying to force back