Read Online Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles by Karen Dales - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen Dales
Tags: Horror
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onslaught as he tried to regain his bearings. Their flat was not far from the station. Normally it would take but a moment to get there, but the foot of snow on the ground and the wind whipped ice crystals would prove difficult. The snow that had melted on him during his underground jaunt began to freeze and he could feel the runnels of water down the back of his neck grow colder. He tried to repress a shudder and failed. It would not take long before strands of white hair froze into icicles.
He lifted a hand over his eyes to shade them from the heavy snowfall and picked out familiar sights. Bearings received, he turned and trudged through the snow towards home, damning himself for not having worn boots.
The moaning sound of the wind screamed on occasion as faster flows chased after slower plodding downpours. The sad little trees, interspersed upon his route home, creaked and bent under the onslaught. The only cars on the road were buried in parking spots, their drivers’ wise enough not to drive on a night like tonight. Occasionally the Angel would see a brave cabby endeavour to force his car in the hopes of finding a stranded fare. One such individual slowed its approach upon seeing him walking and then realizing no fare was forthcoming began to spin its back wheels as it caught on some black ice under the snow. It slipped sideways and slammed into a parked car with a sickening crunch.
Shaking his head, the Angel continued on. A dogsled would be more apropos on a night like this than any modern convenience, except, of course, a snowmobile, but they were not a popular buy here in Britain.
The sound of voices in anger followed by glass bottles clinking and crashing into fragments caught the Angel ’ s attention and he glanced down the darkened alley to his left. Halting, he saw a scrubby old homeless man failing in his attempt to fight against two ruffians similarly dressed. It was not clear to the Angel what they were fighting for, but whoever it was landed blow upon blow upon the grizzled man as he succumbed to the strength of the other two men.
Tonight was supposed to be a night of brotherly love, not violence. Saddened by the sight, he shook his head and entered the alley.
The two ruffians did not hear his approach. Their first and only comprehension of the danger they were in was when the Angel grabbed the one in a long brown trench coat by the collar and with one easy movement threw him into the brick wall. A thud and a crack as body and head impacted mingled with the whistle of the wind. The Angel did not turn to see what had become of the man who slid down the wall to settle into a heap, but rather focused his attention on the other assailant who had pulled a knife.
Silver flashed as the man slashed at him.
It was easy to dodge the attack. With one hand he used his assailant’s momentum to trip and spin the man head first into the wall next to his cohort. He winced at the wet cracking sound so similar to his partners before the second assailant landed face down in the snow covered filth.
No wisps of breath emanated from the two, and the Angel knew they were dead. Sighing at the useless waste of life he turned his attention to the old man attempting a futile escape from the scene.
Grey against white, the beggar stumbled down the small alley. His skin was tinged blue against the cold. Blood shot bruising eyes attempted to keep open against the inevitable permanent slumber his injuries and the cold teased him with. The creature stumbled on until he tripped over something in the snow and crashed sideways into the wall. Sliding down, the only indication that the man was still alive was the little clouds arising from his bearded mouth. In his hand he held a bottle in blue and blackened fingers.
The Angel watched this from where the other men had died. He had seen this scenario played out hundreds, if not thousands, of times in his long life, and he knew his role in it.
Taking the steps required
He lifted a hand over his eyes to shade them from the heavy snowfall and picked out familiar sights. Bearings received, he turned and trudged through the snow towards home, damning himself for not having worn boots.
The moaning sound of the wind screamed on occasion as faster flows chased after slower plodding downpours. The sad little trees, interspersed upon his route home, creaked and bent under the onslaught. The only cars on the road were buried in parking spots, their drivers’ wise enough not to drive on a night like tonight. Occasionally the Angel would see a brave cabby endeavour to force his car in the hopes of finding a stranded fare. One such individual slowed its approach upon seeing him walking and then realizing no fare was forthcoming began to spin its back wheels as it caught on some black ice under the snow. It slipped sideways and slammed into a parked car with a sickening crunch.
Shaking his head, the Angel continued on. A dogsled would be more apropos on a night like this than any modern convenience, except, of course, a snowmobile, but they were not a popular buy here in Britain.
The sound of voices in anger followed by glass bottles clinking and crashing into fragments caught the Angel ’ s attention and he glanced down the darkened alley to his left. Halting, he saw a scrubby old homeless man failing in his attempt to fight against two ruffians similarly dressed. It was not clear to the Angel what they were fighting for, but whoever it was landed blow upon blow upon the grizzled man as he succumbed to the strength of the other two men.
Tonight was supposed to be a night of brotherly love, not violence. Saddened by the sight, he shook his head and entered the alley.
The two ruffians did not hear his approach. Their first and only comprehension of the danger they were in was when the Angel grabbed the one in a long brown trench coat by the collar and with one easy movement threw him into the brick wall. A thud and a crack as body and head impacted mingled with the whistle of the wind. The Angel did not turn to see what had become of the man who slid down the wall to settle into a heap, but rather focused his attention on the other assailant who had pulled a knife.
Silver flashed as the man slashed at him.
It was easy to dodge the attack. With one hand he used his assailant’s momentum to trip and spin the man head first into the wall next to his cohort. He winced at the wet cracking sound so similar to his partners before the second assailant landed face down in the snow covered filth.
No wisps of breath emanated from the two, and the Angel knew they were dead. Sighing at the useless waste of life he turned his attention to the old man attempting a futile escape from the scene.
Grey against white, the beggar stumbled down the small alley. His skin was tinged blue against the cold. Blood shot bruising eyes attempted to keep open against the inevitable permanent slumber his injuries and the cold teased him with. The creature stumbled on until he tripped over something in the snow and crashed sideways into the wall. Sliding down, the only indication that the man was still alive was the little clouds arising from his bearded mouth. In his hand he held a bottle in blue and blackened fingers.
The Angel watched this from where the other men had died. He had seen this scenario played out hundreds, if not thousands, of times in his long life, and he knew his role in it.
Taking the steps required
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