In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 (12 page)

“Has Henri shown you around the chateau?” Claudette asks.

“No,” I say, suppressing a sigh. She knows well enough he has not. “I would love to see it.”

Claudette stands and pulls me to my feet. For whatever reason she keeps me close. Something about keeping your enemies within reach no doubt. She is my height and she looks me directly in the eyes when she talks.
These people are intense.

“The chateau was built in the 11th Century. Originally is was built for a relative of King Charles the V. I am a descendant, far removed.” Of course, she is royalty. Claudette is grandiose, it is only fitting that she would be related to Kings.

“That is fascinating,” I say.

Claudette turns to Aydin, who has been watching our exchange. “Aydin, come with us, you can show Charlotte where you like to play.”

When he stands, the weight of her words seem to drag him down, like the idea of having to endure Claudette’s tour is about as appealing as getting a lobotomy. Maybe that is what it will take to enjoy it.

“I have been sitting here, simply hoping you would invite me along.” Aydin’s voice is so dry, I can practically hear leaves crunch in his teeth.

Claudette waves to Henri, but he bats her away and goes back to his phone. Part of me wishes I can pull the same trick, but at least I am not stuck alone with her again. Aydin, I hope, will keep her from airing more dirty laundry.

As we walk from one room to another, I try hard to listen, but Claudette’s voice drones on. I can tell she loves the chateau and its history. I don’t blame her, I would love it too, had anyone else been showing me around.

We enter into a large room with paintings on almost every inch of wall space. Large oils in thick frames. Some gilded, some elaborately carved. Some both. In the center of a large marble fireplace hangs a massive framed picture of none other than Claudette. Of course, she has a framed picture of herself. Almost life-sized.
I really don’t like her.

“Well, look at that.” The words escape before I can clamp my lips shut.

“Yes,” Aydin says rubbing his thin beard. He looks over and rolls his eyes. My face shows my shock at his sudden teasing, and he smiles slyly.

“My father had it commissioned for my twentieth birthday,” Claudette says, her back to us.

I refocus back to the painting. It's exquisitely done, in the style of when every artist painted women with soft faces and full cheeks. I am no expert, but it looks like it was plucked from the 1500’s, all the way down to the red lips and rosy complexion. As a self proclaimed photographer, I can appreciate the light, the use of color, and awe at the way the artist captured her. Even the slight secretive glint is caught in the stark blue of her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, hoping that will appease her and we can move on. I step away, my eyes catch a smaller painting. Black hair, a soft face, the hint of light eyes.

“Come, let’s see where Aydin plays.” Claudette grabs my arm and pulls me out into the long corridor. “The Great Hall is this way.”

We walk to the west wing through a narrow hall I’m guessing was used in the past by servants. We end up at the other side of the chateau in yet another long corridor. Large double doors line the room, one set stands open. We walk through them into a massive room.

“The Great Hall.” Claudette spreads out her arm in a large sweeping motion. “The old family used to hold gatherings here.”

“Soiree’s,” Aydin says, his tone is exaggerated and he raises his eyebrows. I laugh. He’s unexpectedly playful.

　
Long tables line one side of the room. Thick columns hold up carved arches that fade into the fresco ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hang down the center, running the full length of the room. It is opulent, yet somehow understated compared to the rest of the chateau. The walls are covered in faded murals. They depict scenes of ancient gardens and ladies dancing in flowing gowns. A large grand piano sits toward the end of the room near a huge set of french doors that lead out to the gardens. I realize my room sits directly overhead.

“I’m actually speechless,” I confess. “This is beautiful.”

“If you cannot find Aydin in the library, this is where he will be,” Claudette says.

I glance over and catch Aydin watching me. Again. I wonder what sort of playing he does in here and why he finds the room so appealing. My eyes rest on the piano and I point towards it, intending to ask if he plays.

Loud footsteps echo as Henri walks into the room. “I see Claudette has given you the tour,” he says, interrupting my train of thought. “Sorry, I had to take the call, it was about work.”

“Come, Charlotte’s glass is empty,” Claudette says, before she walks out of the room. I look at my wine glass confused, but follow everyone back to the parlor. My empty glass seems to be an urgent matter in need of immediate attention.

Once I am squeezed back in the small settee next to Claudette, a glass of red wine in my hand, she seems satisfied. I can’t fathom why the woman is so insistent upon feeding me booze, but I go with it. Abigail raised me well. I behave. Most of the time. At least I try when others are watching.

“Tell us about the plantation,” Claudette says “Henri and Abigail have told us some of what it was like. Your home sounds lovely.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say. Bright sun and a flash of dense woods fill my mind.

“Henri says it was like living in a storybook.” Claudette’s voice is excited. Her entire demeanor is so vastly different from earlier. If it hadn’t been for the wicked way she had spoken, I would say that she is almost endearing. “He said there was an old sugar mill that you played in as children.”

“Yes. The plantation was like living in a storybook,” I agree. “It was enchanting.”

“How so?”

“There is a lot of history there,” I tell her. “Many generations, each with their own stories, their own losses. I swear there were ghosts hiding behind the old oaks. The woods were full of them, like you could feel them lurking.”

Silence fills the room. Sometimes, I really wish I had a better mouth filter.

“But Henri swore it was a beast,” I laugh, slightly uncomfortable.

“The Beast of Duval Plantation,” Henri says and grins wickedly.

“Henri would tell us terrible stories trying to scare us,” I say. “I told him that it was the ghosts of slaves. Emily swore the woods whispered the words of a man who had lost his love. She was like that.”

I look down at my glass. I said her name. Spoken it in front of them. Her topaz blue eyes and fire streaks of hair, just like her temper, spring up. My chest aches and I swallow past the pain.

“Stephan told me the story. I was simply passing it along,” Henri says. His face is grim. The room is so quiet, the crickets from the open windows chirp, deafening. So much for my storybook childhood.

“Why did you think your home was haunted, Charlotte?” Aydin asks. He has moved closer, away from the fire, next to Henri, his eyes on my face.

“I’m not sure,” I say, “I supposed because the woods felt too troubled. Like, they had seen too much sorrow. Can you imagine how awful life must have been for the people that worked the mill?”

“Do you mean the slaves?” Aydin asks. His fingers play with the hair on his chin, his mouth turned down in a frown.

I nod. “Maybe it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes it didn’t feel so sad. Mostly my home was peaceful. Except, there were times the entire house felt different.”

“How?” Aydin asks, he leans forward, placing his arms on his thighs.

“You never told me this,” Henri says. He glances to Aydin then to me. “Then again, you usually had the most ridiculous ideas.”

“I don’t know.” I wave my hand, Henri’s words making me blush. “It must have just been the plantation. If you were to see it, stand in it, you would understand.”

I look back at Aydin, he is sitting forward, his eyebrows up, the long fingers still playing with the thick hair over his face, waiting for my response.
Fine.
“Sometimes, at night, it was like you could feel them watching you. Henri doesn’t believe in ghosts, he never lost sleep.”

“And, you did?” Aydin asks, his face is unreadable “Because you thought the ghost of slaves were watching you?”

All eyes are on me, leaving me uneasy. I laugh and sip my wine, shaking my head.

Aydin leans back in his chair, his long finger rubs over his bottom lip. I can’t tell what he is thinking. His face is completely void of emotion.

“I believe in ghosts,” he says, finally. “They are the people we once loved, the memories that live in our minds.”

Chapter
Fifteen

Henri is off doing whatever he does in his lab and my other hosts are nowhere to be found. I spend the day in the gardens, taking pictures I didn’t get the day before. Every twist and turn around the paths I spot Lance, my personal bodyguard. He is constantly in my peripheral, just out of the line sight.

After I snap a few pictures of the sun setting over the chateau, the golden flares of light falling over the silhouette of the tall towers; I head back to my room. Lance leaves me, finally, to get ready for the evening. I dress for dinner in a lavender slinky number that is maybe too short and search for someone to help me locate my hosts.

The men that work for Aydin all look similar, dark suits, perfectly tailored to fit their muscular bodies. They look like they’ve been snatched from old gangster movies. I half expect to see machine guns hiding behind their backs and fedoras magically appear on their heads. The suit I walk with is the first one I had seen upon my arrival, the pinstriped guy. It is a small rebellion from the plain suits that mill about. He is guiding me to the library where I can hear voices.

“You are a liar!” Claudette’s voice is loud and carries through the hall. I look to pinstripe suit and he shrugs his shoulders. He holds the door open and I walk in. Claudette stands over a large table at the center of the room. Her face is twisted with rage. She tears large diamonds from her ears and throws them on the table. Piles of money, coins, and a watch lay at the center. Bicycle cards are scattered around. Some on the floor, some on the table.

Lance sits, his tall frame upright and unmoving, his back to me. Henri is laughing loud, his face covered with the cards in his hands. Tears form as he bends over, trying to catch his breath. Aydin sits in the corner, his leg swung over the side of a deep plush chair, reading a book. He looks up as I walk in, letting his book fall to his lap. He appears calm, he feels calm, the air in the room is relaxed, for which I am grateful.

As children, Daddy would allow the three of us to spend the long rainy summer afternoons with him as he taught us to play poker. Henri always won, raking in our chips mercilessly. He became a master of deception, never consistent in his bluffs. It made it impossible to find his “tell.”

“Your boyfriend is a liar and a cheat!” Claudette hollers.

“Oh, please. I won it fair and square!” Henri defends himself. “It’s not my fault you can’t tell when I’m bluffing.”

Taken back a bit by Claudette calling him my boyfriend, I move to the table to see what has happened. “Henri has always won at poker,” I say. “And, he plays dirty.”

“I do not!”

The table looks like it belongs in a saloon. Claudette’s diamond earrings mix with other pieces of what I assume is her jewelry, and what I think maybe Lance’s watch as well. It is simple, understated but expensive. It looks like Lance.

“Henri is a good liar,” Aydin says from his seat. He has sat upright but still appears to be reading, only half paying attention to the game. “That is why I don’t waste my time.”

“I am not!”

“You don’t play Aydin because you are an old boring man,” Claudette teases.

“I’m not boring,” Aydin says, pulling his book to his face. The thick leather binding is faded and in a language I don’t recognize. “I would simply rather keep my watch.”

“Hey, I gave you the last one back,” Henri says.

“Only because you are scared of me,” Aydin smiles over his book.

“You can play with him,” Claudette says, pointing to Henri. “I’m out of money and jewelry for him to steal.”

Henri laughs harder and pushes the chair out with his foot. “Come on, Charlotte, you know you wanna play.” He smiles at me, the same grin he would give before he took all of my poker chips.

I sit down and watch as Lance gathers the cards from the floor and the table. “Come on, Aydin,” his voice is smooth and strong, “Stop being a bore and join us.”

My mouth pops open and I gasp, placing my hand over my heart, all exaggerated southern-belle style. Those were the most words he has strung together since I had met him days before. “My shopping buddy can speak.”

Lance gives me a dry look.

Aydin chuckles, and comes up behind me. He takes Claudette’s chair and sits near me. His presence instantly puts me on edge. “You should hear him when he’s drunk. Lance never shuts up.”

“That is hard to believe,” I say.

Lance ignores my remark and hands out the cards. We are playing the simple five card game my father taught me. My hand is terrible, and I look up to see Aydin biting his lip, his eyes moving over my face and hands as I arrange my cards.

“You have a terrible poker face, Miss Charlotte,” he says, his own face impassive.

“Doesn’t she?” Henri roars, he is infectious, making everyone grin. “She makes it so easy.”

“Maybe I do it on purpose,” I lie, laying out two cards facedown.

“She doesn’t,” Henri says.

I pick up the two cards Lance deals, and know that there is no way I am winning the hand. I try, really hard, to keep my face unreadable, but I can feel Aydin watching me. So I fold.

Henri sighs, “Aww, come on Char!”

“I refuse to let you swindle me out of my possessions Henri, you have already made off with my Ken doll and, let’s not forget, my collection of porcelain rabbits.”

“Are you serious?” Lance bends his head to look at me, his brows knitted together in genuine disbelief. I can barely hear him over Henri’s laughter. “He took your Ken doll?”

“It’s not called swindling, Char, it’s called winning.” Henri stands and comes toward me putting his arm around my shoulders.“You got your little rabbits back, didn’t you? Now the Ken doll, on the other hand, well, he was sentenced to death I’m afraid.”

“What did you do with him?” Lance asks, he still looks appalled.

“Remember those old fireworks I found?” Henri looks down at me, his face mischievous. “Ken’s death held meaning, there is honor in dying to advance scientific research.”

“What Henri wouldn’t do in the name of science,” Aydin says. He pushes back from the table and stands.

Henri pulls me from the seat, weaving his fingers behind my back, forcing my body close to his. “I’m sorry about your Ken.” His smile says otherwise. He leans in and brushes his lips over mine. My cheeks heat, acutely aware that Aydin stands right next to me.

I step back. “It is fine. Barbie moved on. One can only mourn the loss of her love for so long.” I don’t know why I feel such a mean streak. His touch is suddenly unwelcome in such close quarters with people I don’t know.