Angels of Belle Meade

by Lindsey Iler

  With a pleased chuckle, he acknowledges our waitress. “We’ll each have a glass of your best red.”

  “Edric,” I protest.

  “Your best red,” Edric reiterates.

  She merely nods. No I.D. check. No glance in my direction.

  When we are alone again, my stare narrows in on Edric. Why am I surprised by his talent with the females? He can practically make me eat out of the palm of his hand.

  “Are you used to getting everything you want?” I ask.

  “Typically,” he answers, taking the offered wine from the waitress and sliding one over to me. He holds the glass up, and I follow behind him and clink ours together. “To getting everything we want.”

  “Cheers.” I take a quick sip, shocked by the harsh alcohol burning the back of my tongue. I set the glass down, promising myself it will be the only sip I indulge in.

  We assess each other across the stark white tablecloth. The waitress takes our orders and leaves a basket of bread, but neither of us move. The atmosphere in the room is heavy with uncertainty. His stare, burning into me, practically lights me on fire. I’m uncomfortable being the center of another’s attention. If he’d look away, even for a second, I could collect my thoughts, but he doesn’t. I can’t take it anymore.

  “I don’t trust you,” I blurt. Dammit, if only there was a way I could shove the nonsense back into my mouth.

  “Why would you?” Edric rests his forearms on the table, his chiseled face illuminated by the candle between us. “To trust someone, you have to know them, down to their marrow. You have to be able to hear their blood flowing through their veins, understand what makes them tick.”

  “Is that what you want? To be close to me?” I goad, desperate to know his answer.

  “I’m already close to you; you just don’t know it yet. Every time you feel a hand when you’re alone, the slickness of a tongue against your fair skin, it’s me.”

  At his words, my center clenches, and immediate relief courses through me. A feathery stroke skates across my middle, but his hands are resting on the table. I gasp, shocked at the reality of the world I live in. He can touch me, feel me, without lifting a single finger. An excitement courses through me at the thought. The hair draped over my shoulder shifts to the side, and warmth envelops the thin layer of skin on the nape of my neck.

  “How?” I breathe out.

  “You can run. You can hide.” Head tilted to the side, he bites down on his lower lip and inspects me like I’m a piece of meat.

  Perhaps to him, I’m a meal, but I don’t feel the threat of being gobbled up. Edric, he’d savor me.

  “But it will be useless.” I nod with a newfound understanding.

  A finger glides my thong to the side, prodding softly at my entrance. A hot sensation courses through my veins, and a pleased moan escapes my lips.

  “I can make you feel things you’ve never known were imaginable.” The words are whispered into my ear, but Edric remains across the table, a smirk on his lips to prove he’s fully in control.

  I close my eyes, wondering if I’m imagining this.

  A pressure is applied to my center, and my eyelids spring open with satisfaction, watching him watch me come unraveled. Whenever I believe I’m fully in control, Edric does something, says something, proving me wrong. I’m useless to myself right now, and it’s exhilarating to feel his heat without him laying a single finger on me.

  The heat shifts into a roaring fire, and I swallow, trying to stifle the pain. My breaths grow shallow, and what once was pure ecstasy is now unbridled pain. It soars through my veins like a wave, starting from my toes and ending on my wrist. I lift my sleeve and find the skin around my mark a burning red. To conceal it, I drop the fabric.

  “Lennox, are you okay?” He glances around the space, worry altering his handsome face. He rises, ready to come to my rescue.

  I push my chair back until it hits the wall, stumbling as I stand. All I want is to no longer breathe, if it means I don’t feel the pain the Peacekeeper causes.

  “I have to go!” I holler. The deep and guttural voice is nothing like my normal cool, even tone.

  “Let me drive you home.”

  I squeeze my eyelids shut, praying the pain passes soon. When Mr. Reynolds had explained the Peacekeeper would summon us by our markings, I never imagined the pain it would inflict to send us to trial.

  “Don’t touch me!” I shout, hunching over, clutching at my hollowed stomach.

  Edric lifts his hands and backs away. I’m evil, and maybe Edric will be wary of what I’m turning into right in front of him.

  No longer the sarcastic, sweet girl, I’m a frightened, pained, and troubled version of my old self.

  “Lennox, let me drive you.” Edric grips my elbow, pulling me in close. At his touch, the burn fades just enough to regain my composure.

  “Okay,” I whisper, praying he doesn’t release me.

  This is not good. Instead of stopping him, I allow Edric to escort me to the SUV. He opens my door, releasing his hold on my arm. The moment his skin no longer touches mine, the searing pain assaults me again.

  “Ahhh!” I screech. “Fuck.”

  Edric clicks the button to start the engine and slips the gear shift into drive. As he pulls into traffic, he reaches across the console and graces my skin with his again. The relief I’m desperate for is immediate. A minute passes, and he lifts his hand. The pain shoots through me like a thunderbolt once again.

  “Ouch.” I slam my hand into the dashboard.

  Edric must sense what I need, because he presses his palm to my arm.

  “Where do I need to go?”

  Why isn’t he at all concerned with the odd things that have happened in the last ten minutes? Any other person would be running for the hills and here is he, acting as if nothing has changed.

  I take a deep breath in hopes of keeping my voice from quivering. “Take a left up here.”

  Edric follows my directions, turn by turn, until we park in front of the old building, now the home of my destiny, where I’m learning who I am, down to my DNA.

  “Why does it go away when I touch you?” Edric asks.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

  “I know exactly what you are, Lennox Callahan.” He leans over me, releasing his soothing hold to open my door, and the familiar burn courses through me.

  “And what exactly do you think I am?” I pant the question, fighting through the pain.

  “My mortal enemy, and surprisingly, my reason for living.”

  At his words, fire scorches my skin, and I jump out of the car, desperate to find the release inside. With my hand wrapped around each of the handles, I open the double doors.

  Amilee and Emerson wait at the front, holding hands and chatting. They’re calm, and obviously not feeling pain.

  “Is this the welcoming party?” I joke, slumping against the doorframe as another shock runs through me.

  Emerson lunges forward to catch me. “You okay?”

  “Girls? Now!” Mr. Reynolds demands from down the hallway, a determined urgency in his voice.

  “Umm, I don’t think that’s going to be possible!” Amilee yells. “Something’s wrong with Lenny.”

  Mr. Reynolds races in to check me over. His hands trail over my shoulders, stopping on my wrists. I wince and shrivel up. When he moves the fabric, blood trickles off my marking like it’s freshly cut into my skin.

  “How long?” he asks. “How long has this been like this?”

  “I was at dinner with Edric when the Peacekeeper called. It got so intense, I could barely stand. It was like my legs forgot how to function. He drove me here, ‘cause there’s no way I’d have made it on my own.”

  “Edric brought you here?” Mr. Reynolds points to the floor and shakes his head. “Never mind. We don’t have time. Come on, girls.”

  Emerson takes my arm and guides me through the halls into a room I’ve never been in before. The walls are lined with
deep green velvet. In the middle are three large thrones, each adorned with deep gray details, leather, and large studs. The outside walls are covered in old photos and stacks of bookshelves.

  “This is the trial room. You will sit and listen as the case is presented to you. You will not speak, nor will you show emotion, no matter who is brought in front of you.” Mr. Reynolds inspects each of us. “Do you understand?”

  The three of us nod.

  “Lennox, how’s the pain?” His face sours.

  Right about now would be where I need answers.

  “It’s subsided.”

  “Mr. Reynolds, is there a reason why she was in so much pain, and we weren’t?” Amilee asks.

  This is the exact thing I am most curious about. The pain was excruciating, damn near unbearable. One thing I refuse to divulge is the way Edric’s touch compressed the power of the Peacekeeper. No, that is one piece of information I’ll keep to myself for now.

  “Like I said before, nothing is as it should be.” He pins me with his wide eyes.

  Once again, I get the sense he’s trying to tell me something without speaking the right words.

  Mr. Reynolds guides us to our places. The middle largest throne is mine, with Emerson to my left, and Amilee finishing off our psycho semi-circle on my right. Each of us grab the books resting on our seats before taking our rightful positions.

  Mr. Reynolds leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. It’s quiet, deafeningly so. Not one of us knows a single thing to say.

  “What’s going to happen?” Amilee asks, and I sigh in relief from the break of silence.

  At her question, she and I look to Emerson for wisdom. She’s the smart one, always a nose buried in the book and forever the answer giver. Amilee is the lips of our group. She can charm the pants off anyone. Me? Well, I’m the mouthy, stubborn one. Something tells me neither my traits or Amilee’s will help us out in this situation.

  “The first few pages spell out the ritual of trial pretty basically. There’s a script we follow, and we never deviate from that script,” Emerson explains, her eyes darting between the two of us.

  “And what if we do?” I ask, curious what’s causing her to tremble.

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?” Emerson leans forward, forcing her eyes to penetrate both of us. Amilee shakes her head, and I mirror her confusion. “We’re never alone. Even when we think we’re alone, we aren’t.”

  “The consequences Mr. Reynolds mentioned . . .” I start to say.

  Emerson nods. “We may spill the blood, but we don’t control the sword.”

  The three of us are the epitome of power, but perhaps the little control we believe we have isn’t there.

  “Ladies.” Mr. Reynolds’ voice booms into the room like a cannon, demanding our attention.

  He waltzes in, dragging a man whose head is covered with a dark sheath. When they stop in the center of our throne area, Mr. Reynolds turns to us.

  It’s time.

  “Before you stands a criminal, a man of low moral significance, and someone who deserves to be treated as such,” Mr. Reynolds states. Every word that exits his mouth is trained and sturdy, not as if he is leading a man to his doom, but as if he’s fulfilling his destiny.

  “In front of you, you will see all the evidence you will need to bring this case to trial. Angels, your position is never simple or cut and dry. You each hold a dagger in your hands; now, it’s time to decide how far to wield it.” Mr. Reynolds wheels around to Amilee. “Please.” Offered to her is a dark gray gavel. He nods, urging her to bang it.

  With the sound of silver metal on the wooden plate, the first trial begins.

  Mr. Reynolds removes the cloak from the man, and I gasp.

  It’s Mr. Smelks, the groundskeeper at Dylan’s estate. A man I’ve ridden around on the lawnmower with countless times as a child. The sweet man who smiles and waves to everyone who passes by.

  How did he land himself here?

  What has he done?

  Emerson reaches over me, flipping Amilee’s pages, and points. At the direction, Amilee runs her hand over the words.

  “Lennox.” Mr. Smelks lunges forward, but the shackles on his ankles swiftly stop him. His hands reach out to me, begging for mercy. “I swear, I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Silence,” Emerson barks. She sits up a bit straighter. Perhaps the new position has given her the permission to be more dominant.

  At her harsh command, Mr. Reynolds smiles. This must be what he has been talking about. We will fall into our reigns easier than we could ever imagine. Our once-sweet Emerson is now capable of straightening a room of people’s posture with one single word.

  “A crime has been done. The time has come. Now you must pay a penance.” The way Amilee’s voice grumbles, the notes of anger and apprehension make a haunted melody. “Will it be with flesh and blood? Or a toll? No one will know what is meant to be, until we see the truth.”

  When she finishes, Amilee checks with Emerson, who now holds an odd orb in her hand. It glows brightly with piercing blues and shocking reds. The colors swirl into a magnificent display and transform right before us to a blurry image.

  The voices are muffled, and the silhouettes quickly come into focus.

  The image is horrifying. Mr. Smelks stands over a woman, looming above her like a mountain over a valley, displaying a clear contrast of power. One a mighty lion and the other a frail lamb. His hand raises up and strikes her with a metal stake two times against her temple. She falls limp, and I gasp, surprised and frightened of the beast some people hide so well.

  As blood trickles from her skull, pooling around her limp form, I’m the only one who keeps Mr. Smelks in sight. Everyone in the room has already written his fate.

  If I’ve learned anything in my short nineteen years, it’s that sometimes things are more complicated than they seem. Sometimes even the worst kind of people still have a glimmer of humanity seeping through their blood.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Emerson says. “This is your chance, Mr. Smelks. Consider yourself your only hope.”

  As if he’d swallowed a sword, Mr. Smelks struggles, his throat bobbing slowly as he steps as far as the chains will allow. His hair is disheveled, and his pants torn. He didn’t come to stand in front of us easy, proving there is still fight left in him.

  “You have to understand. She threatened my family,” he begs.

  “And please explain to us who the lady was you so brutally murdered in cold blood?” Amilee asks, twirling a knife with curvy edges on the arm of her chair.

  “Hellen Hillington.” With her name still thick on his tongue, his frightened eyes widen, and all color drains from his face. The simple name holds a heavy weight.

  “And who may Hellen Hillington be?” Amilee continues to grill, ever the best judge. “If she didn’t matter, if she had committed some crime, then you wouldn’t be standing in front of us right now.”

  “She’s the sister of the Queen of Greenfield.” Mr. Smelks’ stare shifts to the floor, as though coming to grips with his obvious fate, a fate I’m not quite sure I’m capable of finalizing.

  I stick the information in the back of my mind to remember to investigate.

  “Who’s the Queen of Greenfield?” Amilee whispers to me.

  I shrug in answer because the man in front of me is about to lose the very breath from his lungs. And. I’m. clueless.

  “Girls!” Mr. Reynolds shouts, his eyeballs bulging from their sockets and his face reddened with anger. “Let’s try to stay on course. You’re young and will be forgiven, but you have a job to do. The only thing that matters is closing out this trial.” His hand circles midair, encouraging us to move it along.

  Emerson clears her throat and rustles in her seat until she finds herself comfortable. “Now the time has come. Crimes undone, but ours will last forever. Under the Peacekeeper and the Angels, we now find you guilty.”

  Emerson glances beyond me, nearly throu
gh me, to alert Amilee of her upcoming part.

  Amilee has the decency to make full eye contact with me. Her saddened, sunken expression should piss me off because we all know what’s coming.

  We all understand the end game is blood on my hands.

  “You will not pay with coins. You will not pay with words. Blood will run through the streets to prove your penance,” Amilee says the words directly at me. She shrugs, knowing we have no choice.

  I’m going to have to kill Mr. Smelks. The man who snuck me lollipops every day after school, knowing my mother would strike him down if she ever knew.

  “Lennox, you’re the executioner. You have a choice. You don’t have to do this!” Mr. Smelks yells.

  The gavel hits hard, rattling the books on the shelves and every one of my bones.

  “This trial is closed.”

  The dark shroud is thrown over Mr. Smelks’ head.

  “What now?” I ask, standing from my throne.

  Mr. Reynolds unlocks the shackles at Mr. Smelks’ feet.

  “You better run,” Mr. Reynolds says, watching me but addressing Mr. Smelks. “You can’t leave the city limits, and remember, she’ll always find you. Go.”

  At his words, Mr. Smelks stumbles to find the door, glancing back at me before he rushes away.

  “It’s a chase. No one told me it was a chase,” I bark.

  “Fear makes people weak. What kind of death would it be if we just slit his throat in the middle of the court, huh?” Mr. Reynolds steps up to me. “Blood lost is not for the weak. He’ll run, and you’ll chase. Last moments are made up of fear and desperation. Let that fuel you. Dig deep into your lineage. That thirst is present. Break her free.”

  At his words, he leaves the room. Emerson and Amilee flank me, standing beside me to show support. They won’t be on the battlefield. It will be me and my victim.

  I’ll look men and women in the eyes and shed every last bit of life out of them.

  It’s meant to feel natural. It’s meant to be a birthright.

  A prison sentence is what it is.

  Chapter Eleven

  Edric

  “Hello, Mr. Callahan,” I say to one of the most intimidating men I’ve ever encountered.