----
I finally sensed Gabrielle was in the Gwangseong Garrison area, so rushed there as quickly as I could. I did not feel the presence of any other Blood Angel in the lower peninsula, so that was promising.
I traced her to a Hanok that appeared to have been long abandoned. The exterior of its plain rectangular structure was cracked and dirty, and tiles were missing from its roof. Overgrowth covered a courtyard and threatened to return its walls to nature. It actually shocked me, considering how particular Gabrielle could be about a residence.
But inside was another story. It might be only two rooms, one for cooking and eating, with the other for sleeping, but it was whitewashed into brilliance and the packed earth floor was surprisingly cared for. There was a sturdy, dynasty-style, four-poster bed in the back room; the cooking area had stools and utensils, a barrel of water sat beside the hearth, and four ring-necked pheasants hanging by the fire.
I knew at once she had prepared all of this for her chosen mate...to help in her seduction of him. But he was nowhere nearby and...
And then I saw Gabrielle.
She was seated in a corner by the bed, dressed in an elegant black riding habit. Looking remarkably beautiful. And for the first time in my life, she did not cast me a glare of derision when I appeared at her door. In fact, she did not even look at me.
In her hands was a book, nicely bound in black leather with the form of a raven cut into the front, red and white bits fitted in to highlight its eyes and parts of its feathers. She held it in a way that seemed almost tender. Never before had she appeared to be so vulnerable.
I remained silent, from respect. She would speak to me when she was ready.
For several minutes we were motionless before she sighed and said, “I despise humans and their stupidity. Sometimes I wonder if it might be best to round them up and keep them fenced in compounds, as they do cattle, rather than let them roam free.”
I could not argue the point. I’d seen enough of man’s vile behavior to man.
She let her eyes shift to me. “You know why I am here.”
As it was not a question, I merely gave her the smallest of nods.
She continued with, “My arrival was delayed. The Korean navy refused my ship berth. Both in Inchon and Pyongyang. Nor was I close enough to land to transport myself ashore. I was forced to port at Tangshan and enter through China. By that time...it was too late.”
Too late? Had I been lucky?
She opened the book. I moved close to see an elegant sketch of a man’s face, in profile. Flowing hair. Strong features. Good chin under a light beard. Strength and beauty radiated from it.
“Gabrielle, this is glorious.”
“It’s but a representation. I look. I draw what I see. Let others determine what it means.”
"Have you tried this new thing called photography?" I said, as tenderly as I could.
She nodded. "Since the Daguerreotypes. But the technology is too limited, still. Perhaps when they advance."
"I've heard some say it will take the place of art."
Now she snorted with derision. "More evidence there are far too many stupid people in the world."
"No disagreement, here."
She hesitated...to my shock; I had never seen her hesitate on anything, before...then turned the page to another sketch, this one of the same American officer collapsed against some rubble, clutching his groin, covered in blood, his uniform and shirt torn open to reveal his chest, lost in death. A Korean soldier stood over him, seen from behind, ancient rifle smoking, triumphant.
“Did you see this?” I asked. "You gave me the impression he was already dead."
“He had been killed the day before I crossed the frontier. I did not really understand until yesterday. I found the man who fired the shot. Saw it all...”
“So rifles provide stories the same as swords and daggers?”
She nodded. “This is my recreation of...of how he died."
"I’ve made many sketches like this," she murmured. "Representations of men I have fed upon. This is the first of one whose death I had nothing to do with."
She caressed the sketch then continued with, "Did you know that while assisting with the Bayeux Tapestry, I was criticized for not working my thread in the same manner as the other ladies? I used it in ways to make each character come more alive and suitable. Our sister made great sport of me, for it. Thinking she was hurting me. When she realized I didn’t care, she saw to it I was dismissed. I didn’t mind. I prefered to sketch and paint.”
“Do you love it, still?”
She was silent for another minute, her hand resting on the sketch, then shrugged. “For me, it is a record...a log of my history. A reminder of all that I have done...and of how angry I can be. And I did grow angry. So very angry. More than I have been in...oh, in centuries."
Her expression grew cruel. "I destroyed that man's entire regiment...or whatever it’s called. Did not feed. Would not debase myself. Only slaughtered them like so many cattle. In ways as creative as I could be."
Which almost made me cringe. "And now you are sad."
She finally looked straight at me, her eyes cold and black as she said, "No...now my anger is quiet..."
