Fallen Angel

Chapter 5.2

Cesare Borgia was once again a favoured son, a beloved general to a benevolent Master. Since receiving his mission three days ago, he had successfully formed his strike team. It hadn't been easy at first, but the demons selected would certainly prove a challenge for any angel or Nephilim that crossed their path, for they all had one thing in common - ruthlessness.

There were fellow two noblemen. One was the Frenchman Gilles de Rais, who had fought with Joan of Arc against the English and had even watched her burn. That would certainly be a pleasant reunion. The other was a richly dressed Prince by the name of Vlad Tepes. Many rumours of this man had spread, and he became known far and wide as the Impaler, the inspiration for one of the greatest monsters ever created, the vampire Count Dracula. All spoke of the horrifying acts he had committed, the terror he struck in the hearts of his enemies, the bloodshed... A worthy addition to the mission.
Cesare looked on as the noblemen duelled each other. De Rais certainly had grace, whereas Tepes had a rougher and more direct approach. Both men looked alike, with hair as dark as his own, sharp facial features, and (surprisingly) neatly trimmed moustaches. The Frenchman carried a haughty demeanour compared to the regal Walachian Prince.

A soft mumbling coming from a corner of the training grounds drew Cesare's attention. He eyed Erzsebet Bathory suspiciously and with some concern. Had he been allowed to have a say in the matter, he wouldn't have even considered that witch. Yet the Master himself had requested her, and to question him now would be most unwise. 
Bathory was close to royalty, owning lands in Hungary and Transylvania. History knew her as the Blood Countess, having killed over five hundred women in her lifetime. With the help of a few selected servants, she had bathed in her victims' blood in the firm belief that the ritual proved to be some pagan Fountain of Youth.
Cesare looked at the Bathory woman more closely. Porcelain skin, almost too white. Thick brown hair, carefully plaited. Dark, unholy eyes which stood quite close together, and delicate pink lips. She looked Lucrezia's age and yet had died whilst well in her fifties, in a cold tower, where the only light that shone came from the latch that had opened three times a day to hand her food. Perhaps there was some truth in the legend? Or perhaps her youth had been the price of a deal struck with a higher power?
Thus far, the only thing Bathory had done was sit in a corner, surrounded by candles, mumbling words that no one could make sense of. It was clear that there was far more to the Blood Countess than everyone assumed. He would have to watch his back around her.

And then, of course, there was the sinister figure, dressed in dark clothes and hiding his face under a top hat, sharpening his blades under a red canopy - the Ripper. His identity was still a mystery, but his skill and bloodlust were fact. Jack the Ripper had made the Whitechapel district in London unsafe on the eve of the twentieth century, killing a select group of women, motives unclear.
Cesare had not hesitated in selecting him. The Ripper was a silent murderer. His blades were well hidden, and when one did see them, it was already too late. A single slash across the throat was all he needed. For some reason, the Ripper liked to take out organs as well, but Cesare had not asked why. He hated to admit it, but he actually feared the answer. Best to know as little as possible about what drove this... creature, in lack of a better term. It did not matter anyway. All Cesare needed were assassins, which was precisely what he had now.

"Signore, a moment, if you will?"

Cesare turned to find the Russian monk at the entrance of the training grounds. He sneered at the Master's stooge.

"What do you want?" 

"I have a message from the Master," answered the man he knew was named Grigori. "Our Lord wishes to inform you of a... development."

"Yes?" Cesare grew impatient.

"Gabriël and Joan are together."

Cesare raised his brow.