Shattered Grace

Grace was instantly greeted by the sweet kiss of cool air. Maybe she’d been too quick in telling Quentin she’d see him in a few minutes. Surely she could come up with more reasons to stay in the bank? She loved nothing she owned more than the Shelby, but the car didn’t have air-conditioning. When exceptionally hot days like these came around, she knew that any primping done before getting into the car would be nearly undone before she reached her destination. She definitely didn’t “glow” in heat like this; she wilted.

Days like today made her wish she had a different car. There was nothing worse than driving in triple-digit heat with no air-conditioning. Scratch that. Driving in a car with no A/C in triple-digit heat swirling around you in the confines of a car with open windows was the worst.

A new car was definitely within her financial reach now. Or, she could just put air-conditioning in the Shelby. She shook her head, knowing she’d never alter the car from the way she received it from her grandfather, then swiveled around in place trying to figure out where she needed to go.

An information desk stood not far inside the bank doors to the right. A woman sat behind a boomerang-shaped desk, waiting to be of assistance.

“May I help you,” the woman asked with a pleasant smile.

The woman entered the information she gave into the computer and then picked up the phone. “Hi, Mr. Maryott. There’s a Grace Morgan here for a safe deposit box access.” As the woman listened to Mr. Maryott’s reply, butterflies wreaked havoc on Grace’s stomach. She didn’t think it possible her day could get any crappier, but a sudden rush to the bathroom due to nervous-induced IBS would definitely make it go from worse to unbearable.

Adamant about going through with this, she tried like mad to mentally go to her happy place, and willed her stomach to stop churning. Finally, the woman got off the phone. “Mr. Maryott will be right out to see you, Miss Morgan.”

“Thank you,” was all she could say or do. She’d have to wait. On the toes of her sandals, she rotated to find a chair, but was shocked by a large man in a suit standing directly behind her. A whispered shriek escaped her lips as she jumped back.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Morgan. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you alright?” the man said.

Shaking herself, she straightened. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m Jerry Maryott, manager of First Light Credit Union. If you’ll follow me, I can take you to your safe deposit box.”

And just like that, she was walking along behind him. No hassle. No explanation. No proof. They walked past a long row of tellers and down a high-ceilinged hallway, which ended in another hallway stretching both left and right. “We’ll take a left at the end of the hall. Your room will be the second door on the right.”

“My room?” she asked.

“Your safe deposit box is in a special vault of the bank,” he explained as he unlocked the door.

The room was octagon-shaped and the walls were covered with panels of what looked like copper; a table and chair sat in the center. There were no windows and no other doors. Seven sides of the room had a safe in the center of each wall, while the eighth held the door they came through. Each safe had a latch, two keyholes, and a number.

“Did you bring your key, Miss Morgan?”

Reaching in the backpack, she pulled out the key her grandfather had left her, and held it up for him. “This is the key I was told would open the safe deposit box.”

“My key goes into the left side, yours goes in the right. We both turn our keys to the left. Questions?”

“No, it seems pretty straightforward.” Mr. Maryott walked to safe number three as her gaze followed. Suddenly, she was struck with a question. “Wait,” she all but shouted at Mr. Maryott, jerking him to a stop. “Do we have to do it at the same time?”

“No, Miss Morgan. We just have to make sure that I go first and then you.” He peered back at her expectantly, smiling. “Any more questions?”

“No. I’m good.”

This was it.

Completely out of guesses at what could possibly be in the box, or why her grandfather left it there instead of at the house, her anxiousness kicked up a notch. Her stomach started to twist in nervous, nail-biting knots again. Grace watched Mr. Maryott put his key in the keyhole and turn it left. There was the softest click. “Okay, Miss Morgan, now it’s your turn.” He turned to her with his hand out in invitation to go next.

She couldn’t believe how nervous she was. Her nerves were so shot, she found herself trembling as she made her way next to him. With a heaving breath to steady herself, she fumbled with the key, barely getting it in the second keyhole. She turned it counter-clockwise as instructed.

“Now, all you need to do is pull the handle down and open it.”

Greedily, she sucked in a final cleansing breath, and pulled the handle down. Inside the door was a brass-plated box with another keyhole on the outside and a handle she used to pull the box from its place. The box wasn’t heavy and nothing clanked or moved around as she laid it carefully on the table.

“Your key will also open the box,” he said. “Unless you need anything else from me, I am going to excuse myself to give you some privacy.”

Pulling the chair out, she sat down. “Thank you.” Faintly, she heard the door latch click as Mr. Maryott retreated. “Here goes nothing.” She turned the key.

The opened lid revealed a silver bag similar to the inside lining of the backpack. Not finding the opening, she carefully pulled the bag from the brass box. The object inside was hard, somewhat round, and about a foot long, but she still had no clue as to what it could be. She pushed the box away and placed the silver bag on the table, hoping to find the opening. Grace inspected every square inch of it, which revealed no opening, no zipper, and no seam. What the heck?

Frustrated, Grace leaned over the bag. “Just open, darn it!” she said, forcing the words through tight lips. As if yelling at the dumb thing will open it, she added mentally. Almost ready to throw it across the room, she looked around for something that might cut or rip the bag. Her eyes found nothing, so she gave up and grabbed the bag, gripping the rounded thing inside.

And without fanfare, the end just fell open.

Grace all but dropped it on its side on the table, then sat gaping at the hole. There was no rip, or tear, and still no seam. It was just like the bag was made that way, with a seamless opening.

With her left hand, Grace gripped the smooth object and pulled the bag off with her right. Seeing it offered her nothing. It was definitely some kind of container. Maybe an antique of some kind?

The color was beautiful, but indescribable. It reminded her of periwinkle, but had an opalescent sheen. She flipped it over to see the bottom and then back to look at the top, slowly turning it in her hand to examine all around it. Suddenly, she felt a vibration run through her palms. Gasping, she dropped it in her lap.

Curious, she peered down at the container just as an iridescent shimmer rippled along its surface. Opaque holographic letters raised one at a time across the face as if it were introducing itself.

“Pandora?” she read aloud. “Is this some kind of joke?”

A voice spoke behind her. “I’m afraid not, child.”

Moving faster than she thought possible with instincts she didn’t know she had, Grace jumped from her seat and whirled around, holding the container protectively behind her back. Her body stiffened as she crouched into a defensive pose, ready for attack. Shocked at her own automatic movements, almost like muscle memory, Grace mentally shook her head but remained in position until she could assess the situation. Where in the world had the woman come from?

“They’ve chosen well,” the woman said with a smile. She stood a few feet away, her posture erect and proud in an almost regal way. Her arms dropped loosely in front of her, her fingers intertwined in a relaxed and nonthreatening pose.

Grace’s mind froze with surprise and confusion as she forced out, “Who are you?”

“I am Limye.”

Her senses, as well as the woman’s demeanor, convinced her that the woman was not a threat so she relaxed somewhat. Grace stood up straight, abandoning her defensive posture, but kept the container at her back. “Come again?”

The woman laughed in a grandmotherly sort of way, which was really disconcerting because she didn’t appear to be much older than Grace. She was very short, with long black hair pulled high at the crown of her head in a pony, dark chocolate eyes, and beautiful dark skin that almost seemed to glow. She was one of the most beautiful women Grace had ever seen.

“People usually have trouble with my name at first. It’s Lim-yay. Limye.”

“Why are you here, Limye?” Rudeness wasn’t normally part of Grace’s M.O, but she felt rather protective of the whatever-it-was behind her back. She didn’t understand it, but she knew to listen to her instincts.

“I’m a kind of Guardian. I’ve come to let you know you can call on me if ever you need.”

Grace’s mind whirled. “No offense, Limye,” she said in a terse voice, “but I don’t think I’ll have any need to call.”

“You might someday, child. You’ll be eighteen soon and no longer hidden. They’ll realize you’re a Chosen and will stop at nothing to find you.”

Limye was making her uneasy again. Shifting slightly, Grace wondered if she should be worried. The lady might be crazy, but she somehow knew who she was. And who were the “they” that would stop at nothing to find her?

“I don’t understand,” Grace insisted.

Limye’s features settled into a patient smile. “You’re a Chosen, Grace, just like Christophe. Your job is to protect Pandora’s jar. Evil will come out in force to take it from you. And if they succeed…well, let’s not think about that just yet.”

Grace didn’t want to think about any of it, because it sounded completely absurd. Instead, she laughed. She laughed loud and hard, tears streaming unhindered down her face. When she finally caught her breath, she looked back at Limye, who was patiently looking back at her.

“People usually have trouble with that part as well,” Limye said.

“It’s because it sounds—”

“Crazy?” Limye finished her sentence. “I assure you, it’s not.”

Needing to adjust her uncomfortable position, Grace cocked her hip and passed the jar behind her from one hand to the other. “I’m sorry, but it sounds completely crazy.”

“In time, your eyes will be opened. But now you must hurry. Put Pandora back in the bag and in the backpack, and do not take her out until you’re at your grandfather’s house. Do you understand?”

“Why do I—”

The woman’s smile disappeared and her tone became sharp as she interrupted. “Grace, you must hurry. Do you understand?”

Limye’s urgency jarred her. The lack of understanding left her frustrated and confused, while a litany of questions zipped around in her head. What the heck was a Chosen? Why did she have to protect Pandora? What in the world was a Guardian…some kind of fairy godmother? The more she questioned, the more crazy Limye seemed. Grace decided to take the opportunity offered and get the heck out of Dodge.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Limye said firmly. “Now go.”

Carefully, she nestled the container in the bag, put the bag inside the backpack, pulled its strap over her shoulder, and made her way back to the front doors of the bank. Two words from her grandfather’s letter kept playing over and over in her mind as she walked through the lobby—trust and answers. Once she pushed through the glass doors and back into the suffocating arms of the heat, she walked the short distance to where Quentin stood waiting.

Grace crossed her arms over her chest and looked at him with exasperation. “Apparently you have some answers I’m looking for?”

His face stretched in a knowing grin that twisted her insides. “That I do, Grace. That I do.”

It was hard not to focus on the allure of his smile. It pulled at her in ways she’d never felt before and complicated an already bewildering day. She nodded at him without returning his smile and suggested tersely, “We better get going.” Not waiting for a reply or to see if he was following, she turned on her heel and crossed the street. Grace didn’t know what was going on, but she sure didn’t want to wait around to see if Limye was coming too or not, and picked up the pace getting to her car.

Despite the windows being down, the unease that wedged itself between Quentin and Grace during the drive to the manor felt brutally suffocating. He couldn’t scoot close enough to the opened window to get a pardon from its stranglehold, and as far as he was concerned, they couldn’t get back to the house fast enough.

The seneschal band always tingled and warmed more in her presence. And sometimes when her emotions were high, he felt them hammer through his veins. Like now. Internally, she was spinning six ways to Sunday, and he was struggling to sit still. Moved by a compulsion he had yet to understand, Quentin shifted in his seat, trying to squelch the urge to fight whatever or whoever was upsetting her.

Unable to stop his hands from fisting, he watched her from the corner of his eye. Her furrowed brows clearly revealing her internal struggle—confusion, anger, and fear—while his internal male struggled with getting lost in her outer beauty. He was mesmerized as his gaze roamed, appreciating the sight of her. The rays of the sun played artist, brushing highlights around the halo of her long brown hair, stroking a bronzed shimmer along her skin and down the length of her…

“What?” her voice demanded, screeching his thoughts to an abrupt halt like a needle being dragged across a record.

“What? I didn’t say anything,” he said. Embarrassed at being caught in his perusal, his face warmed by the second.

Quickly, she turned her scowl on him and then back to the road. “Were you staring at my legs?”

“What?” He tried to sound incredulous. “No, of course not. I was staring at the speaker in your door.”

“There aren’t any speakers in my door,” she snapped.

“Well, see, that’s why I was staring. I didn’t think there was a speaker, so I was trying to figure out what I was looking at.” Oh hell, he thought. Is that the best I can come up with?

“So that’s the story you’re sticking to?” she asked, obviously not amused.

He thought for all of a second before answering her. “Yes, that’s the story I’m sticking to. Because it’s the truth.”

Grace smiled and chuckled softly without humor. “Okay, Quentin. If you say so.”

He didn’t dare reply. In the interest of self-preservation, he stared unblinking out the passenger window.

Grace all but ran from the car to the front door. She needed to get out of the heat. Not bothering to shut the door behind her, she carefully put the backpack on the table in the foyer, then booked it to the powder room for a towel. She was sweating like a you-know-what in church, in places girls should never sweat. Quentin didn’t have so much as a slight glisten on his upper lip or brow. That seemed to be a constant with him—being calm, cool, and collected. So not fair, she thought.

“You want some lemonade?” Quentin asked, as she approached him in the kitchen, somewhat drier after her quick pat-down. “There’s still some left from our lunch yesterday.”

“Yes,” she said. “I want to stay inside, though. It’s obviously not that hot to you, but I’ve managed to sweat all my makeup off.” She sat at the table in the breakfast nook, going over what happened at the bank, and what Limye had said. As vexation built up more in the pit of her stomach, she couldn’t sit still.

Quentin sat across from her. She watched as he continued rubbing at his shirtsleeve. “Hey, I said I could take the heat. I didn’t say I liked it.”

While he took a drink, Grace eyed him. Everything about today unnerved her. Quentin knew what was going on, and that irritated her. “True, but you’re a man. You’re the one that’s supposed to be all sweaty and gross, not me.”

“We could go for a swim,” he suggested.

“Why? So you can ‘not’ stare at my legs some more?”

“I wasn’t staring at your legs!”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What? I wasn’t,” he tried again.

“Uh-huh.”

“Even if I was—but I wasn’t—you won’t have to worry, because your legs will be in the water.” His face split in an I’m-proud-of-myself-for-coming-up-with-that-logic smile.

“You’re right. I won’t have to worry about you staring at my legs at least.”

“Come on, give me some credit. I’ll be a perfect non-staring gentleman, scout’s honor.” Giving her an innocent look, he held two fingers up in the Boy Scout salute.

Trying not to smile, she failed. “Were you really a scout?”

Quentin waggled his eyebrows. “No, but it sounded good, didn’t it?”

“No. It sounded sneaky. I’ll be right back.” Exasperated, she finished the last drink of her lemonade. “I’m going to change.” She set her glass in the sink, then headed for her room. Before hitting the stairs, she grabbed the backpack with Pandora in it from the table in the foyer.

Grace’s bedroom was on the second floor. She kept several swimsuits at her grandfather’s, none of which she particularly cared for. That’s why they were left at her grandfather’s. She never expected anyone of importance to see her in them. Not that she should care what Quentin thought.

Grumbling, she stared apprehensively at the suits spread across her bed. The yellow one-piece was definitely out. She picked that one up and tossed it on the floor. The teeny-weenie hot pink two-piece was absolutely out. She threw that little piece of fabric somewhere in the vicinity of the yellow one. That left the black tankini and the red monokini. She held them both up and decided the red one was best, then tossed the black one on the floor with the other two.

Quickly changing and double-checking the knots she tied at her hips and around her neck, she covered her suit with the sheer cover-up she always wore poolside. Carefully, she placed the backpack under her bed before leaving her room.

The pool house was off the back of the manor and to the left. Grace knew Quentin would have no problem finding it, since they had eaten lunch out back just the day before, but she was surprised to see that he already had the music going and was crouched poolside, tossing the round floating speakers into the pool as she stepped off the deck. “I see you know your way around the pool too,” she said as she walked to the edge, curling her toes toward the water.

He tilted his head to look at her and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I hope you don’t mind the music.”

“No, I don’t mind. I would have never pegged you for a Jack Johnson fan, though.”

He didn’t reply as he stood up next to her. He did start undressing, though, and Grace suddenly wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes. She swung her gaze up, then tore it away from him and looked back at the house instead. Curiosity got the best of her within seconds, forcing her to give up the pretense. Grace brought her gaze back to Quentin, trying crazily to give off the cool look of not caring. Yeah, right.

Oh my friggin’…were the only words her brain could formulate before it scrambled to mush. Grace knew Quentin had some muscle, she could tell by the way his clothing draped. But she didn’t know he had that kind. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a Calvin Klein underwear ad. Hell, even a Jockey ad. They were all the same to her.

You have got to be joking, she thought. He’s a lawyer? Maybe I should go to law school, she mused, trying to focus more on not drooling than not gawking.

Quentin yelled “Cannonball!” as he ran and jumped into a tight ball before hitting the water.

His warning barely registered enough to bring her back to her senses. Not only was him shouting “cannonball” surprising since it was so out of character for him, she was also dazed by the image of his body. The torrential downpour that came next quickly tore her out of her fog. Grace heard his laughter and saw him shaking with it through the parted curtain of her hair.

The adrenaline from the shock gave her pure liquid courage. In a quick, fluid motion, she pulled her cover-up over her head and tossed it aside. His surprised gulp didn’t go unnoticed through her determination. “You’re in for it now,” she warned as she took off in a dead run and launched into a perfect swan dive in the pool. Expertly gliding under the surface, she slowly rose out of the water with a smile. Quentin’s shock turned into a knowing male grin. It appeared he was still stupefied by her lack of attire, which Grace merely saw as opportunity. With as much force as she could muster, she splashed at him with all her might. Quentin playfully fought back through his gasping, coughing, and laughing.

Without thinking, she lurched forward and onto his back, trying to stop the onslaught by pushing him under instead. Touching him was a mistake; she realized it the instant before their skin connected. A surge of his struggling emotions shot through her fingertips, all of which Grace had absolutely no business knowing. As quickly as she could, she slid off his back to let him up for air and moved away. Quentin wasn’t having any of it. Evidently, he wasn’t done playing and grabbed her wrist.

Grace gawked at his hand, her eyes round and mouth gaping, and then back to his face. His mouth spread in a mischievous grin. “Where do you think you’re going? Payback’s a mother, isn’t it?”

Grace tried begging. “Quentin, don’t! Please.”

“That’s not gonna work, cupcake. You made your bed.” He effortlessly dragged her slowly through the water toward him, while she struggled feebly to pull away. It was torturous.

Still pulling, his smile widened. “Come here, Grace.”

Maybe talking him down would work like it did in the movies? She shoved her wet hair away from her eyes and put on an innocent, pleading face. “Quentin, you don’t want to do this.”

He spoke through his smirk. “Oh, but I do. You have no idea how badly I do.” Clearly, he was enjoying himself way too much.

Before she had time to react, she was being pulled through a wake and cradled in his arms. The same rush she’d felt at the coffee shop surged through every part of her body that touched his, causing her to suck in a sharp breath. Heat pricked her skin. Every synapse in her brain fired off, urging her to get out of his arms. Shamefully, she grappled with wanting more of the rush. Without much effort, she convinced herself struggling was futile, and ignored feeling contrite about wanting more.

He smirked down at her before saying, “If you don’t want water up your nose, you’d best plug it.” The thought “Oh, what a gentleman” rushed through her brain just as they plunged completely underwater and came up for air a breath later.

Quentin hugged her tighter to his chest as he hunched over and laughed uncontrollably. Grace gasped and swiped water out of her eyes, definitely not convinced that it was that funny.

“You can put me down now,” she said flatly.

“Ah, don’t be mad,” he teased.

“I’m not mad.” Grace’s mouth pinched together as she shifted it to the side to chew on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t know what to make of what had just happened.

He didn’t seem fazed in the slightest by their bare skin contact when he let her down. Grace forced her gaze from the chiseled arms, which had just been wrapped around her, to the ripples they made in the water as he moved them about. Quentin started making his way to the edge of the pool, leaving a wave of rippling water in his wake. Grace still watched. “Where are you going?”

As he pulled himself up, water rained down from his shorts and trickled down his bronzed skin. “I could use a drink. I thought you could too.”

“Now that you mention it…” she said absently, still mesmerized by the trail of water trickling down the length of his back.

Quentin jerked his eyes in her direction, looking at her like she’d grown horns. “Not that kind of drink. Water.”

“Oh, come on,” she joked. He obviously didn’t find it funny; all traces of a smile were absent from his face.

“I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor,” he said flatly.

“Did I mention that I found out today that I own this house?”

“Congratulations.” His scowl turned up in a brief smile, then fell away again. “But you’re still a minor,” he said in all seriousness. He stood with his hands on his hips staring down at her, and seemed to puff with male authority, ready to lay down the law.

Grace chuckled. “Relax, I-Man-You-Woman. I’m only kidding.”

She pulled herself out of the pool and grabbed a towel off one of the lounge chairs, then sat down on the edge of another to dry off. Grace focused her attention back on the questions she wanted answered and away from the muscles within her line of sight.

“Thank you.” As he handed her some water, she saw that he even had muscles in his fingers. She didn’t know a man’s hands could be attractive. Oh boy. Grace fanned herself, and hoped he thought she was reacting to the heat from the sun.

Quentin dropped into the lounge chair next to her. “Ready to talk now?”

Grace put the glass to her lips and nodded.

“I definitely want to ask you about what happened at the bank, but I have a couple other questions first.” She paused, waiting to see if he had anything to interject. “I’ve received two letters from my grandfather. Both told me to trust you and to listen to you. Why?”

There was no pause in Quentin’s response. “Because you need protection and he knew I’d give my life to keep you safe.”

Well, she wasn’t expecting that. Too absorbed on his mouth as he spoke, she absentmindedly leaned into her stare.

Out of the corner of her eye, Grace thought she saw the tattoo band wrapped around his bicep move a little, and realized what she was doing. Instead of shaking it off and moving on, she sat back up and expectantly waited for it to do it again. Nothing happened, though. Maybe it was a muscle twitch? Or a heat wave from the concrete? Either way, she reluctantly tore her gaze away. “I thought you were a lawyer.”

Thoughtfulness moved across his face. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. This time he wasn’t so quick to reply. “I am a lawyer. But I’m not practicing. I was under Christophe’s employ as his advisor and personal bodyguard, so to speak. Now I’m yours.”

His reply ran a shocked wave through her body, lifting her back straighter. “Bodyguard? Why would my grandfather need a bodyguard?” Except for protection from my family, she thought. But then again, she didn’t feel danger from them. “You can’t be serious. Someone wanted to actually hurt him? Why would anyone want to do that? He was the kindest man alive. And how come I never saw you around before if you were his bodyguard?”

A million and one questions were running laps in her head. The not knowing was just as bad as the whys. She’d never seen or felt fear from her grandfather. That was the kicker though, wasn’t it? She never felt he was ever in any kind of danger. But he had been and she’d had no clue.

“Do you want to talk about what happened at the bank?” Quentin asked, ignoring her rapid-fire questions that had nothing to do with the bank.

“What? No, I don’t want to talk about the bank. ” She bit the inside of her cheek as frustration and fear for her grandfather had her wanting to curse like a sailor.

Quentin sat quietly, the model of patience. Without looking at him, she knew he was watching her, trying to be mindful of her. He leaned forward. “All of the questions you just asked have to do with the bank.”

Annoyed, she glared at the ground and then back up at him. “Okay, I’ll ask something else. How long have you been my grandfather’s bodyguard?”

“That’s still a bank question.”

Grace folded her arms across her chest, slouching slightly in the lounge chair. “How’d you meet him?”

His face split in a wide grin, trying to make light of things, she assumed. “Bank question.”

They could stay there all day and play the question game, for all she cared. “What did you advise him on?”

“Bank.” His voiced raised an octave as he said it, making it sound like he was almost singing his answers now.

She wanted to strangle him, she realized. All she had to do was reach out, grab his throat with both hands, and squeeze. Apparently, he could play this game all day. “Quentin!”

His hands went up in surrender. “What? I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “You said you don’t want to talk about the bank, but anything to do with me and Christophe has everything to do with the bank.”

Already worn out, she capitulated. “Sounds like the only way you’re going to answer my questions are if we talk about the bank.” With a seated curtsy, she made a show of how the floor was all his. “Bank on.”

From the edge of the lounge chair, he leaned forward again and put his elbows on his knees, suddenly all business. “Where should we start? The jar? Christophe?”

“My grandfather, please,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Christophe wasn’t like other people. He was special. He had a little extra spark others don’t have. You could see it. You recognized it without realizing what it was you saw.” He paused for a moment, apparently waiting for a reaction.

Duh. Tell me something I don’t already know, she thought. A smart retort stuck behind her teeth, and Grace pressed her lips tightly together. Instead, she nodded.

“Christophe was Chosen.” Ah, a word she recognized since Limye had mentioned it. Quentin continued, “He couldn’t have been Chosen without that special spark. This spark allowed for his gift. All Chosen have a gift, an ability of some sort. Something no human can do.”

Strangely, Grace felt a little flutter of excitement in the depths of her chest. Maybe she wasn’t such a freak after all, or in the very least, not alone. The sudden elation quickly faded as her next realization gave her a slight kick to the gut…this gift her grandfather had was just another secret. She was beginning to feel like she didn’t really know him at all. More questions joined the million already rattling around, trying to form neat, orderly lines in her brain.

“You still with me?” Quentin asked. Maybe the rattling was making her green from motion sickness?

With a flick of her chin, she said, “Mm-hmm.”

“Each Chosen eventually passes down some form of their ability to their descendants.”

She couldn’t stifle the curiosity any longer. “So, this ‘ability,’” she began with air quotes, “is something my father can do then? What was his ability?”

A corner of Quentin’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “No, your father doesn’t have this gift.”

“If it passes down to descendants, then why didn’t he get it?”

“I said it was eventually passed down to another descendant. I didn’t say to all relatives. And it’s only passed on to one individual when they’re born Chosen.” He folded his hands together, as they hung from his knees, watching her.

She really was trying to keep up, but her logical side kept asking if he was lying, crazy, or some combination of the two. There was no way this spark resided in her. Boring was her middle name, and simple was her last. She was absolutely, positively nothing special.

“Well, if not passed to my father, then to who?” Please don’t say me, she prayed.

“Why you, of course,” he said with an impish grin. She wanted to smack that grin right off his smug face.

Of course, he would say it came to her. The only way this made sense was if her grandfather had told him about her freakishness. Just another item to add to the list of what she didn’t know about her grandpa. With a clear, precise sternness, she tried to deny having an ability. “I. Don’t. Have—”

“Yes, you do,” he said, sitting up straighter and placing his hands on his knees. “And no, he didn’t tell me what it was. He said you would share if you ever felt like you could.”

Relieved, her shoulders relaxed as she sat a little easier. “Why wasn’t my dad Chosen?”

“A Chosen doesn’t choose another Chosen. Richard wasn’t chosen. You were.”

A thought struck her. “When you say Chosen, it sounds like I’m being picked for something. What am I chosen for, exactly, and what was my grandfather’s ability?”

Quentin held a hand up to her. “I’m going to get to all of that, I promise. What Christophe could do was hear the emotions of others around him. He once told me it was like their inner psyche, their soul maybe, shared how they were feeling with him. And by the way, he knew what the other members of your family really felt about him,” he said, furrowing his brows into a straight line.

Profound relief washed over her. He knew how they were all along, which made leaving them forty-five percent of his estate even more baffling. Then she was dumbstruck. Christophe always told her she was special, not a freak at all. He said it because he knew on some level what it was like for her. Quentin was right; her gift was similar to his. She could feel the emotions of others, but she had to physically touch them with her hands. Secrets—her grandfather was full of them. Why didn’t he tell her? Maybe she wouldn’t have felt like such a freak if he’d told her. She was about to say as much when she heard the high-pitched music of the ring tone coming from her cell just inside the house on the table on the deck.

“We’re not done. I’ll be right back,” she said, as she ran to answer it.

Grace ran past the overstuffed chairs inside the double doors, trying not to slip on the wooden floors, and picked up her cell off the table in the foyer. It was her mom.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How are you doing?” The tone of her mother’s voice was soft. Her mom actually sounded like she cared—a smidgeon.

“Better. I’m at the manor. Swimming.” Not used to Laney being motherly, she kept her answer short.

“I guess you’ll be moving now,” her mother said abruptly, as if she was resolved, accepting the inevitable.

“I…I haven’t really thought about that yet.” Gosh, she’d only inherited the manor today and her mother already had her moving out.

“Well.” Her mother paused. “It’s something you should start thinking about.” Was she trying to push her out the door? Her nearly eighteen-year-old daughter had the means to take care of herself, so it was time to kick her to the curb even though she hadn’t graduated from high school yet? How nice for her mother, she could finally be rid of her. Grace didn’t want to fight tonight, so she bit her tongue. Hard.

“Um, okay. I’ll start thinking about it, but I gotta go. I have company. I’ll talk to you later.”

Grace pushed the End button, not giving her mother a chance to say good-bye or anything else. Then she put the phone down and went back to the pool.

Quentin was right where she left him, in the lounge chair facing hers, elbows propped on his knees. Traces of water no longer trickled down his skin and his hair was completely dry and fell haphazardly around his ears. After that phone call, she didn’t much feel like talking, but as she walked by Quentin she stifled a giggle with a fist over her mouth. A very noticeable Jockey was written on the waistband of his briefs. That six-letter word conjured up mental Jockey ads starring Quentin, which she had to work hard at forgetting.

In all seriousness, she sat back down in front of him. “Where were we?”

“We were talking about your ability and your grandfather’s,” he reminded her.

She didn’t want to talk about her anything, especially what she could do, and tried to lead him away from the subject. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with today at the bank.”

He held his hand up, palm facing her again. “I’m getting there.”

Grace didn’t want the long, drawn-out version. What she wanted was the quick-and-dirty one. For whatever reason, she knew she couldn’t persuade him to just get to the point, so she put on her most patient smile. “Get on with it then.” She lay back in her lounge chair, deciding that she might as well get comfortable.

Quentin didn’t seem so at ease with giving her “the talk” as he did before the phone call. He remained silent, his gaze touching on her but seeming unfocused, as if his attention were somewhere else. He rubbed his palms down the scruff on his face and reached for his glass of water on the ground next to him. Taking a quick sip, he put it back down, and cleared his throat a little.

“Quentin, you’re starting to worry me. Maybe I shouldn’t hear what you have to say right now?”

Motionless, he didn’t move for a few more seconds, and didn’t take his eyes from her. “At first, you’re going to think I’m loony. Then after a while, you’re going to think you’re loony. You’ll start to notice things, hear things—your eyes will begin to open. You’ll want to run and hide and wish you didn’t know the truth. ‘Ignorance is bliss’ will be your new theme song until you come to accept what and who you are. I wish I could save you from all that. I wish I could help you see the truth, and you could accept it with mere words.”

Nope, she wasn’t worried a little. She was completely scared out of her gourd. What a waste, she thought. He’s so incredibly hot, and apparently just as crazy.

“Quentin, you’re scaring me,” she admitted softly.

He sighed. “I know and I’m sorry. You have to know. All of it.”

Her eyes began to tear up a little without any real good reason, but she sat silently hoping that whatever else he had to say would ease her fears.

“Your grandfather was Nephilim. A Chosen Nephilim charged with protecting Pandora’s jar.” She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he held out a hand to stop her. “Please, let me finish. I promise you can ask or say anything when I’m done. I just need to get this out.”

She kept quiet and nodded her head.

“Let’s see if I can make this simple. Long ago, there was a group of restless angels that didn’t want to sit by and merely watch beautiful human women from afar any longer. Some fell in love with these women, while others just wanted a good time. The ones that fell in love stayed and married, and had children. The others had their fun, knocked up a ton of women, and became the first deadbeat dads in history.

“Years later, these same deadbeats began to notice the daughters and sons of their married brothers and thought they’d have some more fun. Well, their brothers weren’t going to have any of that and war almost broke out amongst them. After some negotiating and behind-closed-door agreements, the deadbeats agreed to stop trying to sleep with their brothers’ grown children. Still following?”

Not really, her head was spinning. “As best I can.”

“Good. Eventually, the deadbeat angels fell completely. They are now known as fallen angels, the Fallen. The other angels became Guardians. Not the same guardian angels people envision in heaven. The Guardians are charged with protecting their brothers’ children, the Nephilim.”

At this, Grace sat up in her chair, mouth poised to interject. She had something to say and he was either going to allow her to ask it, or she was going to butt in.

“Can it wait until I’m done?” he asked, playing schoolteacher to her student.

“No, it can’t. You just said these angels had children, which are Nephilim. But a few minutes ago you said my grandfather was Nephilim. Did I hear you right?”

His lips curved into a proud smile. “Yes, you did.”

“Are you seriously suggesting he was part angel?”

Quentin gave Grace a guarded look. “Actually, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

She snorted. “Now that we got that straightened out, please continue.” She knew she was being snide, but her head was starting to hurt. It was about to explode from all of the information being shoved into it.

Uncertainty played over his features. “You’re sure?”

Her lips tight, she flicked her chin at him to keep talking.

“Basically, since the angels divided, the Fallen want to harm the Guardians and the only way they can is by hurting the Nephilim. A Chosen, which is a special Nephilim, is charged with protecting something. In Christophe’s case, his bloodline has protected Pandora’s jar since her passing.” Grace quickly went through her mental Greek mythology Rolodex, trying to recall what she learned concerning Pandora. Remembering bits and pieces, she went back to listening to Quentin.

“When the jar was given to Pandora,” he continued, “it held evil inside. But there was one little good thing in it too—hope. Pandora got curious one night and opened it, releasing all the bad. When she realized what she’d done, she closed the lid, sealing hope inside before it was lost. The Fallen want that jar. If they destroy it, they not only destroy all Nephilim, but all of mankind as well. Hope will be lost.”

Grace tapped her foot anxiously against the end of the lounge chair. Simply sitting there and doing nothing but thinking wound her tighter. Her nerves were dangerously close to snapping. Close to being unable to handle any more, the edge of hysteria ran through her limbs. None of this was logical, she thought. He’s crazy. What did he just say? “Were you just talking about the bank?”

“Uh, yeah, is that okay?” She focused on watching his lips move as he spoke. “You’re even more special, Grace, because you’re a female Chosen. We’re going to have to be extra careful. We need to start your training as soon as possible so you’re ready for them if I’m ever not around.”

She jerked her body upright and swung her legs over the side of the lounge chair, almost touching Quentin’s. “Them who? Where exactly do you fit in with all of this, and what training?”

“The Fallen, Grace. I’m a Guardian—your Guardian, in fact. The training is a form of martial arts.” His tone grabbed her attention. It almost sounded as though he felt pity for her, and the thought that he felt sorry for her spiked her anger.

Screw this! She wasn’t the crazy one. “Let’s get this straight. Angels came down and copulated with a bunch of women and made Nephilim babies? So which side of the copulating were you on, the marrying side, or the deadbeat side?” Quentin opened his mouth to answer her, and she stopped him with a raised hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. So, some of the angels became Fallen and the remaining became Guardian. For whatever reason, some Nephilim are born Chosen to protect something. The Fallen are after the Nephilim so the Guardians protect them. My grandfather was a Nephilim who was Chosen and he protected Pandora’s jar, and for some stupid reason left it to me. Now I’m Chosen and supposed to protect the jar so the Fallen, who are now after me, don’t get it and destroy everyone breathing. Did I miss anything?”

Quentin stayed silent. He just held her gaze.

“This is all a joke, right? Where are the cameras? Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out from a bush and this little episode right here is going to be on Punk’d, right?”

“Grace, I’m sorry.” He laid a hand gently on her knee. “I told you it was going to sound crazy.” Geez, she thought. Crazy wasn’t the half of it.

Unable to sit still any longer, Grace shot to her feet. “I don’t think we should talk any more. In fact, you should probably go. I’m tired and feeling a little overloaded, and I might do something crazy myself and call someone to come and pick you up and put you in a straitjacket. And I really don’t want to do that.” Not sure what she was feeling more—anger, confusion, sadness, or worry—she did her best to remain strong as he got up.

“It’s going to be okay, Grace. I promise.” He turned away, and just like that, he was gone.

Watching him leave left another empty hole in her chest. The hole was dark and painful, making it difficult for her to breathe. She wanted nothing more than to go home and go to bed. Forget about everything he’d said and just sleep. And if she was really lucky, maybe even dream of faraway places without jars and Chosen and lying grandfathers and uncaring mothers.

If only.