In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 Read Online Free Page B

specialist in France. Ashur is doing everything he can.”
    “And now, because she is knocking at death’s door, she wants to see me.” My voice drips with anger. I hate being such an open book.
    “There is more to it than that. She wants to talk to you. To explain why she left.”
    “I don’t want to see her, Henri.”
    He nods like he understands. Instead of standing to leave he continues to sit on my hideous sofa and stare at me. He is so close I can smell the cologne he wears. It reminds me of the woods and dry soil. I take a deep breath.
    “I have to go to work.” Liar that I am knows I have almost two hours before I am due at work, but I need to get away from him.
    “OK.” He nods and stands. “Can I see you later?”
    It is me who is nodding.
    “Good. I’ll pick you up.”
    “OK,” I say before I can think too much further. I walk him to the door and open it for him. The air I breathe in is thick and awkward. I hope it isn’t obvious how I have started sweating, how my heart has begun to beat rapidly.
    “Then I’ll see you later.”
    “Sure.” I say, amazed the word has come out.
    Henri nods and turns to walk down the stairs. I watch him get in his shiny SUV and driveway. I shut the door. My legs are getting weak, my throat is beginning to clog. Abigail wants to see me. My dying mother. And she has sent Henri to tell me. My Henri, who had betrayed me.

Chapter Four
     
    The clouds are still gathering, threatening a dangerous lightning storm, but it’s all just a big show, never finishing the act. The rain refuses to spill over as I walk the three blocks to the Sandpiper Motel. It sits along the main highway through town; an old, low concrete building with a small weathered sign announcing it has vacancies.
    The idea of working today doesn’t exactly thrill me. Not after Henri. Seeing him is proving to be a dangerous distraction, leaving me foggy and in a foul mood. Everything he said plays like a record in my head, his words jumping and repeating. The slight hangover probably isn’t helping.
    Usually, I love people and find them fascinating. They hold secrets, carry around hope and happiness packed neatly into small bags. Some are sad; I avoid them. Some glow with possibility; I bath in the energy they radiate. But, as much as I enjoy them, I can only handle short bursts. Emily used to tell me that I could only handle being nice for so long. Maybe it is true. The fake smiles and small talk soon wear on me. The pleasantries we use on strangers becomes irritating. I was too straight forward, Emily would tease. Couldn't handle the bullshit that is life. She was right, I can’t. It is exhausting.
    When I walk in the lobby, the door chimes announcing my arrival. The cool blast of the stale AC mixed with pine air freshener hits my nose. Sally repainted and put new carpeting in last month, but the Formica guest counter and pastel beach paintings that hang on the walls, tell the tale of what the place really is: a cheap seedy motel.
    Janice and I have the ever engrossing challenge of being the Sandpiper Motel’s only housekeepers. Sally swears she is looking for more help, but no one has yet to apply. Not that I am surprised. From the outside, the motel reeks of bad choices. Layers paint fail to conceal the regret that bleeds through the guest room walls.
    “Whalan called,” Sally yells from the private office. Her door is slightly ajar, she sits at her desk, twirling her over-dyed, dried out blond hair around her finger. She is busting out of her tight t-shirt and blue jeans that look and fit like she’s had them since high school. It’s way too hot for jeans, but then her sweaty, pale forehead remind me she rarely goes outside long enough to be bothered by it.
    “There’s a tourist bus com’n through.” Sally’s voice has the slight southern accent most Floridians have. Not the deep southern drawl people native to Georgia or Alabama have, but a distinct hint of an accent. It is unique to