Shattered Grace (Fallen from Grace)

by K Anne Raines

  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 tig
ht, 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?”