In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1

by Savage, Fanny Lee

  We never made it to the hospital. We were born in her room on a Sunday morning while Abigail was getting ready for church, arriving three weeks early. The sun high and shining through the window, like we were angels, she said, sent directly from heaven.

  Nineteen at our birth, Abigail treated us more as siblings than her children. Emily and I would sit and take turns brushing her hair as she told us stories of twins, born in the light, there to change the world. We spent hours running through the woods, fighting imaginary beasts, playing at saving the world, our golden hair marking us as its future Queens.

  I have always loved the story of our birth. It made it sound as if Emily and I were destined for something grand, arriving in the glow of the sunlight. Growing up on an old southern plantation, the idea of adventure outside our small world was enticing.

  We are from old money, growing up private school rich, sheltered behind a glass fence of wealth and privilege. Our family are the descendants of one of the original French families that came to Florida after René Goulaine de Laudonnière set up his colony in 1564. Later on, my ancestors built one of the oldest sugar plantations in the central part of the state. Our family had controlled the majority of the sugar industry and sale of cigars all the way down to Cuba.

  Today, all that remains are just a few hundred acres now overgrown with tall pines, live oaks and low-laying palms. The tall crumpled ruins of the mill, a few slaves quarters, and the old slave master house stand hidden in the dense woods.

  The plantation lies an hours drive outside a small rural town in the central part of the state. Rebuilt after a devastating fire, the main house stands in the center of a large plot, shaded by massive live oaks hung with Spanish moss. A vast yard creeping with St. Augustine grass sets it back from the dirt road, the only access from the old trucker routes. Built in the classic Antebellum Plantation style, it rests grand with tall white columns, large colonial windows, the circular drive lined with ancient oaks and magnolia trees.

  Emily and I spent the first few years of our childhood as the only children in the family. We were spoiled, especially by our mother. Poor Nanny was our only disciplinarian and would chase us around yelling, it seemed, just about every day. Nanny is beautiful, with dark skin and hair. I used to wonder why she had no husband or children of her own. The time I asked her, she told me that Emily and I were her only girls and we were enough work for one woman.

  Abigail, when she wasn’t concerning herself over one of Daddy’s dinner parties, trained us to be well behaved, good mannered southern girls. And, we were good at it. Emily and I could sit for hours, hands folded in our laps, pretty smiles plastered to our faces, ankles crossed, backs straight, just as our mother told us. That is until we were unleashed.

  We would run wild in the woods at dusk, playing in the abandoned shells of slave houses or in the gardens battling beasts. We were always dirty, our dresses would be torn after a few hours, our faces streaked with sweat. The neat and tight braids Nanny forced us to wear, would carry pieces of dirt and twigs. Emily would stuff grass and roly-polies in her pockets. I drug around long sticks I declared were swords, to fight the dragons that slept in the woods. They hid in the mill ruins and ate the Spanish moss that wrapped itself around every oak tree.

  When we were six years old, Henri Moreau came to live with us. We were told his father went to school with ours and had died before Henri was born. Henri’s mother had passed after a long illness a few years later. Henri was left in the care of his father’s adopted brother, Ashur Moreau, who ran the family winery in France. Busy with the business he oversaw, Ashur sent Henri to live with us so he could continue to grow in a more settled environment.

  “Who is this?” Emily asked, eyeing the new addition.

  “This is Henri. He will be living here with us. You and Charlotte are to treat him as family,” Daddy had instructed.

  “Henry,” I sneered, “What a dull name.”

  “No, Henri.” He pronounced the name ahn-ree, leaning on his French accent.

  “Pourquoi avez-vous les mêmes yeux que moi?” Henri had asked. “Your eyes, why are we the same?”

  We were taught phrases in several languages. Nanny said the two of us couldn’t sit still long enough to listen, but I was determined to prove her wrong.

  “Parce que nous voyons les mêmes choses,” I responded, proud to have remembered the words. Emily laughed at my remark. We were good at teasing and it was true, we did see the same things.

  We were thrilled with our new playmate, quickly taking a liking to him. Days after his arrival, Henri was following us everywhere, finding mischief in the main house or scaring each other with ghost stories in the old slave quarters. For the better part of our childhood, the three of us were inseparable. At night, we would sneak into each others rooms. In the mornings, Nanny found us sound asleep, huddled in one bed.

  During the day, the plantation and the surrounding woods were serene. Emily and I ran through the forests, the sun twinkling through the laurel oaks and pines. The smell of dank wood and raw earth stinging our noses. The air tranquil and quiet.

  At night, the woods became charged, as if the very air I breathed was made of lightning. It left me almost feverish, and I rarely got a full night’s sleep. I could feel the ghosts of the plantation walk, their feet following my path, their eyes always watching.

  Daddy would sit at the piano and play at night. I could almost see his small hands working over the piano keys, his eyes dark and sad as the notes rang out. The songs were melancholy, the haunting echoes of Chopin and Beethoven filling the house, darkening the corners. It was hard to imagine what happened in his life that forced such pain into his heart.

  Emily and I would lay in bed, Henri at our feet, tickling our toes. His fingers brushing over our ankles, his hair glowing with golden highlights, a halo in the dim light. Emily and I held up the charms around our neck, a gift from our mother for our thirteenth birthday. They were delicately cast angels, made of platinum, with long abstract bodies. My angel curved to the right, her graceful arm outstretched to one side, one wing swept out in the opposite direction. When Emily brought her angel next to mine, their arms embraced, their bodies interlocked, faces pressed together and turned into one whole woman, her wings open and soaring.

  In those moments, my life was beautiful. Emily’s face would shine and her eyes would glimmer with happiness, despite the soft sadness that twinkled up to our room. Henri would lay and watch us; I saw he loved us. As sisters, as friends. More. We were all connected.

  As children, anyone who didn't know Emily and I couldn’t tell us apart. We both had light blond hair, streaked with gold, our eyes a crystal blue as bright and clear as the natural springs that dotted the state. Our skin as fair and smooth as a porcelain doll. As we grew older, the differences between us became apparent. Emily’s hair began to turn, steaks of ember, bright fire highlights that shone red, while mine took the deep honey color of our mother. My skin, like hers, started to show light traces of freckles, too many hours playing in the sun, Abigail would tell me. But with just a glance we were identical, we even carried the same birthmark; a small peach patch of skin on our inner thigh.

  When Nanny caught us comparing our marks as little girls, she screamed at us, saying that only our husbands were meant to see so high on our thighs. I remember we giggled, sharing the same thought, no man would ever know us the way we knew each other. Our minds were linked, we could finish each others sentences, and held secrets that only two who shared the womb would have. Secrets we never shared, not even with our mother, though I believe she knew. Abigail never uttered a word, always brushing off our uncanny ability to read a person, like we could feel their thoughts and see into their souls.

  “He’s bad inside, Mommy,” I told her once. Emily nodded in agreement. We were outside with our mother, playing with dolls. I pointed to the young man who tended the rose gardens behind the main house. He was new and kept to himself. But I hated the way he watched me and my sister,
his eyes gleaming with something I didn’t understand. Abigail had grown angry at my words, slapping me, her hand hard and unexpected. Abigail’s actions were so uncharacteristic that we dared never to speak again of our ability to read people. The gardener though, didn’t return after that day.

  By the time we were fifteen, the differences between Emily and I were stark. Emily was vibrant, and outspoken, the center of attention. I was sullen and quiet, preferring to stay on the outskirts. She lived in the limelight, always craving attention while I kept in the shadows, watching everyone as they fumbled over themselves to catch a glimpse of my twin. Emily was stunning. Even though we were identical, she was called the vibrant one, the beautiful one. She glowed to the point even in my head I referred to her as so.

  We knew we were beautiful. Everyone had told us so from as far back as we could remember. Emily was that mean girl, chased by the football quarterback. I was the girl that got pushed around, hiding in books and avoiding others. We grew up in our very own cliché and never even knew it.

  None of the boys in school held my attention. It was Henri that had captured my heart. One day Emily had been ill, laying in bed alone, her stomach in knots. Nanny had sent Henri and I away so as not to catch the dreadful bug. We had walked to the ruin of the sugar mill, our old hideout. Tall pillars stood, marking what was once the entrance. Massive coquina storage houses surrounded it, the wooden doors melted away by time, leaving iron hinges hanging in the dark openings. Black mouths open in silent screams.

  It was there, in our childhood playhouse, Henri had made his move. It was sweet and innocent, my first kiss. Henri had leaned in as we sat contemplating what we were to do with our afternoon. Emily had always been the one to plan the long summer days, me checking off the list as we went.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, pressing my fingers to my lips.

  “I wanted to.”

  We managed to sneak away, taking advantage of Emily’s distraction with friends in school. We spent anywhere from a few minutes, to hours, holding hands, and talking. As time went on Henri’s kisses turned heated, though he never got far. Henri always pushed for more, but I got nervous and brushed his frenzied hands away, secretly loving the attention, and the crazy energy that flowed from him. For once, I was the desired one, the center of Henri’s world, his eyes always on me, smiling slyly at our secret.

  A week before our eighteenth birthday I was helping Abigail plan for the large party to be thrown in our honor. Henri was to be included in the party as he always had since his birthday was three days after ours. Emily had run off avoiding work, as was her specialty, and Henri was nowhere to be found. The two had a knack for avoiding work, usually leaving me to the chores.

  I followed the thin trail we had cut through the dense woods over the years. By the time the mill came into view, I was fuming. A light giggle, barely audible over the small chirping of birds came from the storage building. The room where we had smuggled blankets and books, pillows, and flashlights, stolen from the main house over years of play. The same storage house Henri took me to whisper in my ear and cover me with kisses.

  The sound of Emily’s soft giggle infuriated me. Hours I had spent, planning in what would turn into a celebration for Emily to shine, stealing the attention away from everyone else. I crept slowly towards the doorway, intending to scare the daylights out of them. An evil grin of delight spread over my face, thinking of their screams when I barged into the room.

  As children Henri had tried to scare us, talking of the beast that roamed our woods, feasting on the flesh and bones of children. In the entrance, I lowered myself, peering around the corner so I could look into the room, preparing to rush through the doorway.

  Emily lay in the makeshift bed we had made as children, her face turned toward Henri, who lay on top of her. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew what he was doing. He had done the very same just a day prior. I knew he was kissing her lips, deep and passionate, his need making him rushed and sloppy.

  The times Henri had brought me to the storehouse, he had placed me on the piles of blankets, cupping my head in his hand. He pushed himself between my legs, his kisses hungry and possessive. I kept his advances for more at bay, telling him I wasn’t ready. Henri waited for me, his frustration growing, pressing himself to me. I loved his desperation, but knew he would never push too far, whispering I was his and his alone and he would wait, forever if need be. One day I’d be his. I felt safe, protected, and loved like I had never been before, soaking in his warmth and desire.

  My throat swelled, pain filling it, leaving me unable to breathe. My stomach lurched, my eyes glazed over, the tears out, running hot down my face. I stepped back, snapping a stick under my heel.

  “What was that?” I heard Emily ask.

  The thought of Henri touching Emily made me sick. Of Emily’s hands moving over him, tracing the places where mine had been. I gasped as loud sobs racked my body and stood hysterical in the center of our elaborate garden. Abigail had come running out asking what was wrong, her eyes fearful and searching. Once she saw my face, she knew the truth. We were no longer little girls that played house. She had seen us change, watched us grow.

  That night my mother was yelling to someone over the phone, pleading, her voice like I had never heard. Abigail was demure, the perfect example of a wealthy southern housewife. Desperation rang out as she spoke. In between my cries, I heard her talking to Daddy, their voices got louder as the argument grew heated and things started breaking. I stayed in my room, feeling guilty that I had caused this. My stupidity, my trust and belief that I was somehow special. That Henri was mine, and he loved only me.

  The next evening, Henri was gone and so was my mother. She had gathered us in the parlor, sitting us on the floral love seat. Emily, Henri, and I had our heads hanging ashamed, as we waited for what was sure to be a long and embarrassing talk.

  “I am leaving this evening for France to stay with Henri and his uncle. I will be there for some time.” Her lovely face was stone. My head snapped up, and I stared in disbelief. So shocked by her words I sat mute, looking at this hard, cold woman, her sweet and loving demeanor nowhere to be found. My mother was thirty-seven years old, her eyes that used to glow with youth and kindness only held pain and anger.

  With that, she had grabbed her bags and walked Henri out the door, not once looking back. Henri hesitated his face pained, looking at me.

  “I’m so sorry, Char,” he whispered before following behind my mother.

  Anger swelled inside me. How could she leave? Leave us? How could she leave to go across the world, when her daughters, her angels she called us, needed her?

  How could she take him?

  I looked at Emily, enraged. “You whore!” I screamed, slapping her face so hard she tumbled back. Nanny came to my side trying to calm me, to wrap me in her loving arms as she had done my entire life, but I was gone, lost in a sea of betrayal and pain.

  Chapter Three

  A loud crack of thunder thrusts me from my memories. Henri jumps slightly at the noise, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Sounds like rain,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His voice is soft, smooth, holding a hint of his childhood accent. “I called, but I guess you didn't get the message.”

  Another loud crack, closer that time, stunning us both. Henri turns to look up at the darkening sky. “I did not miss the afternoon storms.”

  The rush of unwanted memories returns, stealing my voice. Henri whispering in my ear, his breath warm, plotting a devious prank on Emily. He had always radiated warmth. Emily and I had agreed, he was good inside. It comes out of him in waves, melted over him like a blanket. Goodness and love wrapped into a small tanned boy.

  “So may I come in? Preferably before I’m struck by lightning?” He asks.

  Too many words are frozen in my throat. What do I say to the boy that tore my life apart? I stand back, allowing him to enter. Henri walks into my living room, his eyes scanning the spa
ce. I gesture for him to sit in the loud floral sofa that comes with the rental. For the first time, I regret not redecorating. I sit down across from him, still not speaking.

  “How are you?” Henri asks. His hands rub together in his lap. The cuticles are neat, manicured, like someone who works inside. His dark brown eyes land on mine. I blink.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. Good. Straight to the point. My brain seems to have lost the years of training in social etiquette, though my voice has returned. I start to fidget under his stare. There is too much history, he knows too much about me.

  That is the thing about first loves. They know your inner workings like no other. Before you had even figured it out for yourself. Before you could put up armor to keep people out. Henri knows me. The eighteen-year-old version, before she became jaded. Before she was scared.

  Henri purses his lips, making a small grimace, like he is testing the words in his head before he speaks. “Abigail sent me.”

  My mother sent the last person I ever wanted to see, regardless of how many times I had envisioned reuniting with him.

  “Seems like a poor choice sending you,” I say.

  He looks away. I hit the right spot; he still feels guilt.

  Good.

  “How have you been?” He tries again, brushing off my statement.

  “Fabulous.” Small talk? Really?

  “You look well. Amazing really. It’s been so long.” His voice has a melancholy ring to it. “I’ve missed you.”

  Remaining silent is my best option. I don’t think I can avoid being sarcastic. If I open my mouth, something sly will come out, giving me away. Even after twelve years, Henri will be able to see through it. I rub my hands over my face, trying to scrub away the sudden rush of anger.

  “Henri?” He looks up at me. Henri always made direct eye contact. As if he has nothing to hide, and somehow knows everything about you. I try not to squirm. “Can we just cut the BS? Why are you here?”