In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1

by Savage, Fanny Lee

  In

  the

  Shadow

  of

  Angels

  Fanny Lee Savage

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead in entirely coincidental.

  Copyright©2014 Fanny Lee Savage

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Fanny Lee Savage

  Photo by Lilu13 Dreamstime.com

  Revised and edited - 9/29/2014 Version 2.09.29.14

  Contents

  Note to Reader

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Note to Readers

  This novel is recommended for a mature audience. (18+)

  This novel contains depictions of violence, sexual abuse and some strong language. There may be scenes that could pose as “triggers” for some readers.

  for my big sisters,

  for teaching me about friendship and love

  Prologue

  Charlotte grips the brush tightly and runs it through her mother’s hair. The soft bristles glide through the silky, honey color strands. Light shines through the long windows, catching golden highlights with each pass. Charlotte is small for her age and has to stand on her tip-toes to reach the top of her mother’s head, straining to see.

  “Tell us the story again, Mommy.” Emily stands next to her sister, waiting her turn to brush their mothers long, flowing hair.

  “Again?” Their mother asks, her mouth turning up at the corner. She has told them this story every day, for ten years. “Will you never tire of hearing it?”

  “No,” Charlotte says, softly. She passes the brush to her sister and sits at their mother's feet. “It’s a story of love and devotion.”

  Their mother smiles, and settles back in her chair. “One day, I will make you tell me this story. When I am old and weary.”

  “You will never be old, Mommy,” Emily says.

  “Hush now,” the girl’s mother scolds. “Sit and listen, you have to make sure you can tell it right.”

  Emily settles down at her mother’s feet, close to her sister. Their saffron yellow dresses fall around their legs. Long golden strands graze over each girl’s small shoulders. Their blue eyes wide in anticipation.

  “The first time the Moon God saw the human, she was standing in the apple orchard, picking fruit from the small trees,” their mother begins. “The pale blue moon highlighted the gold threads in the hair that fell, in dark velvet waves, down her bare back. Her eyes shone with the cunning of a lion, a bright amber. Her skin gleamed with life. Every movement was fluid, mesmerizing him, like the dancers that bathed in blossom scented waters, preparing for the ceremony, worshiping his name. She was of the Earth. A pure and perfect creation.

  “The basket at her feet overflowed with ripe fruit, spilling onto the soft grass. Moonlight glistened through the branches, falling over her shoulders and the coarse robes she wore. The crisp scent of apples blew over her skin and carried to him in the night breeze, where the Moon God stood and watched the woman in wonder.

  “When she turned his way, he held his breath. He was surprised the human didn’t shake in fear, her hands didn’t tremble, and she didn’t fall to her knees in praise. He watched as she moved forward until she stood in front of the God. Dew shone in her hair and on the tips of her lashes. Dawn would arrive soon, brightening the dark satin of the sky and force him to retreat into the shadows.

  “He told her his name, Yarikh, but she didn’t understand his language. Her bright eyes found his and her lips spread into a sweet smile, one he swore she had saved just for him. Yarikh knew at that moment, he would give over his life, his power, to always catch a glimpse of her smile. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the soft skin over her shoulders, touch her lips and feel her breath fall over his chest. To run his fingers through her soft hair, and forever see her face behind his eyes when he slept.

  “Yarikh swore, nothing but the purest of the Earth would ever touch her skin. Her dresses must be of the finest robes, and at her breast, the dark blue stone of the moon. She would be his, and he would give his heart to her.

  “Yarikh held out his hand, an offering. The woman took it in hers and pressed the palms to her lips. A kiss of devotion.”

  “Why did she do that, Mommy?” Emily asks.

  “The woman wanted Yarikh to know she would always be by his side.” Their mother patted Emily’s head.

  “What does Yarikh do?” Charlotte urges their mother on.

  “Yarikh stands now, in the same orchards, watching from the shadows as she walks, a basket in her hand,” the girl’s mother continues. “The fruit from the tree’s spill out, falling to the bright new grass around her bare feet. She picks the delicate pink flowers, placing the blossoms in her hair. She wears blue stones around her neck, gold is woven throughout the plaits in her hair. Soft white robes flow around her legs. Yarikh smiles, she is his breath and his life.

  “Behind her, two little girls walk, twins, bound together forever, sharing the same thoughts, the same hearts. These fragile girls are the proof of Yarikh’s love for the captivating human woman that stole his heart.

  “The girl's feet are wet from the moisture of the dew that sits on every leaf and blade of grass. They sing, with pretty voices, songs of love and of the night. The twins hair shines like the sun, golden streaks of light. Eyes, just as their father’s, crystal clear and as blue as the waters of the rivers near their home. The girl’s skin is dark and warm, like their mother, sprinkled with a dusting of freckles, kisses of the sun. They are of the Heavens; powerful creatures that hold the secrets of the gods. They are of the Earth, and carry the whispers of man’s sins. Yarikh watches them, and in his heart knows, the Earth will never be the same.”

  Chapter One

  There are exactly three things to do in this beach side town I now call home. First, is obviously, the beach. One can lie all day in the heat, sweating like a pig, and slathering on sunblock every hour, so you don't burn like the tourists that flock to the shore. Sand will stick to every exposed surface, no matter how hard you try to keep your limbs on the blanket that you’ve oh-so-carefully laid out. Small shells find their way into the bottoms of the bright red bikini you wear, e
very time you dare to get in the flat salty water.

  All this, only after the struggle to carry a beach blanket, bottles of water, and book, from the too far away parking lot. The sand scalds, nearing blistering temperatures, slipping in between sensitive toes and the flip flops that provide little protection. Once you’re all settled and relatively comfortable, you look up to discover a balding man, with so much back hair, you swear he was the missing link, has positioned his ratty beach chair; just so. This offers him a perfect view of your overexposed legs every time you lie back to try to read that rumpled paperback you brought with you. The one you swore you’d finish that very day.

  The second and my least favorite activity are all things involving water and sports. This includes anything with the words: boat, fish, sail or board attached to them. None of those appeal to me. I get seasick and am terrified of fish. There are hazy memories, buried deep in my subconscious, involving Daddy and a catfish. I shudder at the thought.

  The third and the final option: bar-hopping. This is the past-time I favor, and the only real entertainment my co-worker, and one and only friend, Janice and I find on Friday nights. Sometimes Saturdays, but that depends on if we’ve actually walked out of the local bars and weren’t carried or thrown.

  The entire bar-hopping process involves: A conversation between us girls about how this time, we will find something that will keep us entertained, and then maybe we won’t drink so much. Then, after we’ve finished our first, quickly becoming third round of shots at home, we head out, our bodies wrapped up in breath restricting shirts and jeans we had to make a few deals with the devil to fit into.

  This, is what I have done, every weekend for the last five years. Ever since I packed up my Mustang and hit the open road. Like every runaway, I took only what I needed and left all my possession’s and the memories they hold behind. My future open, all possibilities of a new life, lay out in front of me. I could go anywhere, become whoever I chose. Except for one thing. Then, I was twenty-five, and I am now living, sadly, a two-hour drive from my childhood home.

  I sit on the back porch of my house drinking my morning coffee. The sun is too bright, giving everything a stark, bleached-out look. My eyes squeeze shut, still trying to adjust to the bright light. I have endured yet another restless night fighting the nightmares that snaked their way through my wine induced sleep. The skin on my arms and legs is moist. I bathed thirty minutes before, but sweat is already forming on my lower back and under the arms of my shirt.

  Every breath sucks in the humid air, coating my lungs and filling me with the rank smell of seaweed. It is just the beginning of summer, and schools still have a month before letting out, but somehow, we have gone from a mild winter, head-first into summer, passing over what is usually a wet and rainy spring.

  Normally, the east coast of Florida waits until late summer before falling into the long stretch of hot, humid days. The afternoon heat broken by intense thunderstorms, lightning filling the skies, the rain in torrents, clogging up gutters and filling driveways. This year the sunshine state is in a hurry. It welcomes tourists to its beaches, burning their pale northern skin. They’ll bring home, not only cheaply made shell magnet’s, painted in bold colors naming the towns they traveled through, but sand. They won’t even know it. Weeks later, once they think they have finally washed all the clothes enough times and the bathing suits they wore, they’ll find it in the bottom of their cars, hiding under the floor-mats.

  I despise Florida. This state is nothing but heat, rain, mosquitoes, and sand, but it is all I have ever known.

  I hate the month of May, as well. It’s hot and sticky. It holds painful memories, pieces of my past, I want to keep hidden. Images I never want to see again. Not to mention, it is only three and a half weeks until my thirtieth birthday. This, itself, is enough to make a woman turn to a bottle.

  My hands wrap around the mug, and I try again to focus on the beach. The coffee is hot, but I drink it anyway, hoping the caffeine will dull the pain in my head. I massage my temples, trying to calm the ache, from too much wine and too long of hours. I move from my temples to the long raised scar that runs over my collar bone, rubbing away the phantom pain.

  The entire reason I had come to the small town was to escape the memories living at home holds. I can’t walk into a room without flashing on one of the joyful times. The flood of emotions each memory brings is overwhelming. My father’s empty stare is too much. The sorrow; unbearable. Running away had been my only option and finding this quiet, forgotten town saved my life. There are still days where the horror threatens to consume, but the ocean and its calm always rescue me from the vicious nightmares. The soothing waves keep the demons at bay, holding them hostage under the still waters.

  The view from my porch is beautiful. A narrow stretch of road and rocks separate my house from the beach. The house is a two story cottage resting on stilts, with worn cedar shingles bleached gray from years of sun, giving it a weathered, almost forgotten look. Large sliding glass doors lead to the porch where I sit, offering spectacular views of the Atlantic.

  The times when I wake early, or more common, still awake from a sleepless night, I love to watch the sunrise. Dramatic strokes of color by an overzealous painter. The deep royal blue breaking the dark night before giving way to the vivid peaches, bright oranges and finally a golden yellow, announcing the sun’s arrival and the beginning of the day. Though the rent is ridiculous, the cottage is my sanctuary.

  My neighbors are summer vacationers, pasty white Yankee’s, Sally, my boss, calls them. This year the homes are rented to quiet elderly couples that keep to themselves, for which I am grateful. I am not the neighborly type. No one here accuses me of being overly friendly.

  The span of beach across from my rental home is mine, at least this is how I view it. Never mind that I have neighbors or in fact it belongs to the city. Today I am glad there are no tourists crowding my stretch of beach, though the lack of people never fails to surprise me. The visitors that come through opt for the beach ramp or inlet. Not that I am complaining. Looking at the shore in front of my house, I soak in the view. The sand is pale and flat, the waves calm and serene.

  I pick up my digital SLR and snap a few quick shots of the beach, capturing the small sandpipers scattering along the shoreline. In only two hours, I’m due at the motel where I work. Sally won’t like me coming in again with a hangover. I’m sure she suspects I’m a blooming alcoholic, and I debate calling in, but Janice would strangle me.

  I walk from the glass doors over to the kitchen and reach for a bottle of pain medication. The ache in my head is getting worse, no matter how much caffeine I drink. From the counter, my cell phone makes its quiet beep, indicating I have a message. No doubt a reminder from Jan, telling me I have agreed to fill in for her this morning. The other downside to living here; poor cell reception.

  A loud rap on my front door startles me out of my fog. Who the hell is knocking? Janice is at Doc Spencer’s getting her flu shot, or more accurately, flirting with the good doctor. She knows better than to call instead of drop by. I hate visitors, especially the unexpected kind.

  I hesitate, aware I’m wearing only a flimsy white t-shirt and jogging shorts, but walk to the front door. I open it just wide enough to stick my face in the opening. On my front porch is a man. At first glance, he is drop-dead, cheat-on-your-boyfriend kind of gorgeous. That is until it hits me. This is not just any man. I know this man, and well.

  He is tall and too handsome, with broad shoulders. His skin is tanned, golden; his dark hair streaked with soft warm highlights. He is stunning and my breath catches. But it’s not his good looks that make my legs weak, it is his eyes. Dark brown with gold leaf flecks. Eyes that as a child I trusted more than anyone. Eyes that stare back at me now.

  Growing up on the vast southern plantation, we had been inseparable. Fighting and conspiring like only best friends could. He had come to live in my family’s home as a young boy. There are early memories of him argu
ing over toys and attention from my mother. Then right before our eighteenth birthday, he was gone. He left a skinny tanned teenager carrying pieces of me with him. I had never seen him again. Not once did he call, or try to visit. Until now.

  My stomach drops, my heart threatens to pound out of my chest, as quiet dread washes over me. I have worked hard to forget him. Forget the promises and the way I felt when he was near. I locked up the memories of our youth, pushing them into the shadows, pretending they don’t exist. The silly daring teenager that I loved is now a man, standing inches from me. The boy that I trusted and fell in love with, my best friend. The boy who tore my life in two.

  Emily.

  Her face flashes in my mind, laughing, eyes sparkling, hanging on his every word. Emily loved him too. Too much.

  I blink, hoping when I open my eyes he will have disappeared. An apparition, the ghost that carries my heart. I have learned to live without him, walking around with pieces of me missing. When I open my eyes, he is still there. My heart tears in my chest.

  He stands on my porch; his hands shoved in the pockets of his crisp jeans. His eyes are wide, questioning. A small smile, that smile, the one that always made my heart pound, is spread over his full lips. “Hello, Charlotte.”

  Chapter Two

  He came into my life, on a bright sunny morning, a small and quiet boy. I watched him climb from the car, holding my father’s hand. Emily and I peaked out the window, hiding behind the curtains. He was nothing but large brown eyes and a scared face. When he caught me staring, he smiled, this huge, explosion of a grin, and I knew then, my life would forever be changed.

  I was born Charlotte Elizabeth Duval to Stephan and Abigail Duval. My identical twin sister Emily arrived three minutes later. Abigail always told us we were in such a hurry to see the world, we barely gave her time to realize what was happening. One minute she was brushing her hair, the next she was screaming for the housekeepers to call an ambulance.