This time Bridget had the wherewithal to stay quiet. Silently she knew Fernando was right. She just did not like the way her Chosen was handling the situation.
Notus understood where Fernando
’
s concerns came from and he frowned. The images that were invoked through the Noble
’
s description of the boy
’
s torture were as difficult to face as seeing the boy
’
s scars.
“
I know that you both are concerned,
”
began the Good Father, slowly.
“
I greatly appreciate it. Never before has the Angel and I had such friends
–
family if you will. We know what potential dangers we may face, but my work with the British Museum has tied my hands and offered me an opportunity of a lifetime and for me to say such a thing is, well...
”
“
You
’
re Chosen, you don
’
t have to follow human conventions,
”
rebutted Fernando.
“
True,
”
nodded the monk.
“
But I have the opportunity to see how my own works through the centuries have fared and to properly restore them.
”
“
You don
’
t have to go to North America for that,
”
commented Bridget.
Notus turned to face his Mistress.
“
I do. The whole collection is going on tour. They want me to go with it to make sure everything is treated properly and to fix anything that may be damaged during the travels.
”
“
Can
’
t someone else do this?
”
beseeched Fernando.
Notus pursed his lips and shook his head.
“
Dr. Mark Preston was supposed to go on tour with the collection, but his skiing accident last week in Switzerland has left him wheelchair bound for at least two months and he
’
ll be in therapy for at least two more. I only agreed to cover the tour until he was able to resume his duties. I didn
’
t realize that the tour was through the United States and Canada. I said yes before I knew. Now I
’
m stuck and the Museum is stuck.
”
Again Notus shook his head.
“
We
’
ll come straight home as soon as Dr. Preston can take over. I promise.
”
“
And who knows what will happen in the mean time,
”
grumbled Fernando, knowing he had lost the argument.
T
he darkness of the tunnel into Victoria Station gave way to the dull illumination of the platforms in the distance. Drips of water untainted by the blustery cold above ground echoed through the abandoned tunnels mingling with the occasional squeak from a rodent in search of Christmas dinner. It was not long before the Angel squinted up at the gloaming lights of the sleeping station. No trains ran during the storm. It would not only be from the inability of the trains to plough through the snow at the open air stations, but the fact that the conductors of the trains would be hard pressed to get to work.
It was odd to see the place vacant. Usually this hub was chaotic in its flurry of activity. People moving from here to there, unaware of those that brushed past them, all eager to remain solitary as they sought connection with those they journeyed to, while others, usually teens, chatted loudly, sang along with music only for their ears, or called to each other as they jumped from tube to tube. Above it all would be the static calls from the overhead speakers indicating which trains would be coming in and where they would be going.
Tonight the only sounds were the squeaks of the mice and rats that inhabited the tunnels, runnels of water and the soft footfalls of feet moving preternaturally fast.
The damp tunnels were a relief from the snowstorm that raged outside, allowing for the Angel to make up the time lost as he struggled against winter
’
s onslaught. Occasionally he would sight a homeless individual huddled in the darkness. Tonight they were lucky as there were no bobbies to come and remove them. The officers of the peace would be keeping to their precincts unless absolutely necessary.
Hefting the strap that held the sword length box higher up on his shoulder, the Angel was careful not to step on the third rail as he bounded up onto the deserted platform. Even though no trains rode the tracks the electric hum of the third rail spoke of a sleeping monster that would attack any trespasser.
With a quick cursory glance around, which was more habit than required, he followed the signs to the escalators that would take him to the large open station that served to tie the Tube
’
s intricate network with that of the National Rail. The escalator remained stationary. There would be no relaxing while the mechanical stairs lifted him to ground level, but that was no problem for the Angel who quickly bounded up the metal stairs three at a time.
Emerging from the entrance of the Tube, voices filtered to his sensitive ears before he saw them. He knew he should not have been surprised, but when he rounded the corner to see so many homeless in the make-do shelter his eyes widened. The large open area that normally would be bustling with people desperately trying to achieve their destinations was replaced with makeshift sleeping arrangements for the dozens of homeless that trickled in from the storm.
The scents of bitter hot coffee and sweet hot chocolate mingled with the cold damp sour smell of unwashed bodies. A few volunteers handed out hot beverages and blankets; while others helped those with steaming mugs to find a place to get comfortable.
This was not a place for the Angel. It would be impossible to keep out of notice.
Sticking to areas least populated he sought his way out of Victoria Station. It was more difficult than expected as more homeless came in through rotating doors that were filled with slush and ice.
Keeping to the far reaches of the wide-open space, the Angel measured his pace to that of a mortal lest someone see him. It still surprised him that in an age of such magic and ingenuity there were still so many who had nothing. Some things did not change.
He turned a corner finding an exit. The wind howled against the glass door, rattling it as if to say he were not allowed out on a night when the storm ruled. Giving the door a firmer push than normally required he stepped into the storm, the wind whipping his dishevelled hair in punishment. Snow blasted, his face and eyes stinging, he stood outside in the midst of the storm at full force.
The Angel hunkered under the 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 towards the man, he found it a relief to feel the wind diminish and the constant pounding of snow lessen.
With the Angel
’
s appearance, the dilapidated man
’
s brown eyes widened.
“’
Ere wot?
”
He tried to regain his feet but could not. Instead he lay there huffing.
The Angel came to stand before the battered creature covered in grime and snow. If he allowed himself he would feel sorrow for this man and his wasted life. Instead he stood there with a decision to make and a choice to present. Placing the sword case down onto the snow covered alley, he knelt, his knee sinking deep into the fluff to pull unexpectedly on the ragged scar along his thigh.