Grace of Day - BK 4 of the Grace Series

by S. L. Naeole

  I smiled as Robert slowly pushed up a sleeve on my arm, folding up the end to tighten it and keep it in place. “This is different,” I said.

  “While I love seeing you in your usual bedtime ensemble, I’ve had a desire to see you in one of my shirts again for quite some time now. Actually, since the first time you wore my shirt.”

  I flushed as I remembered his face just a couple of months ago when I’d surprised him, daring to entice him while so many seraphim were under the same roof just meters away.

  “No, Grace,” he said, a sly mile creeping across his face. “That wasn’t the first time you wore my shirt. Remember?”

  My eyes widened, and I nodded in understanding. No, that wasn’t the first time. The first time had been when we’d met, when I had tried to run away from my problems—from him. He had leant me a shirt, a silky, smooth shirt that felt unlike anything I had ever worn before.

  “Whatever happened to that shirt?” I asked.

  “It’s right here,” he answered, walking over to the closet and pulling it out, the gunmetal colored fabric bringing back a flood of memories. I walked over to him and looked at it, and then at him.

  Without taking my eyes off of him, I slipped the shirt he had just placed on me, off. I grabbed the other shirt, pulling it off of its hanger and then sliding it over me, relishing the look on his face with each action.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he breathed before he reached for me, his kiss a tempest of what he was feeling—what we were feeling.

  But suddenly he let go. His eyes glazing over with something other than the desire I had seen only seconds earlier. “What is it?”

  “Trouble,” he replied. “There’s trouble…lots of it…I’ve got to go.”

  And he began to walk away, but then stopped. He turned and his face was stricken, the torment there so palpable, it was my torment as well. “I can’t—I can’t leave you. I promised.”

  The blazing fire that had been lit beneath my heart did not cool; it did not waver as I stepped towards him and pressed my forehead to his. “You go. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Crushing me against him, Robert kissed me, imprinting his taste and feel onto my lips, a silent promise. “I’ll send Stacy here to be with you,” he said before releasing me.

  “Stacy?”

  “Yes. She is nearby—I can smell her. She has not let you out of her sight since finding you and at the moment, I do not trust anyone else to be with you while I am gone.”

  “Thank you,” I said before he kissed me once more, disappearing before either of us could grow used to the contact. “Thank you for that.”

  I love you, my Ianthe. I shall return to you to finish what I've started.

  I love you, my Angelo. I will be waiting.

  THE RING

  I slept, Stacy watching over nearby, while Robert was away. I hadn’t realized how tired I was, or how drained I was emotionally, until I closed my eyes and fell into a fitful sleep that was filled with dark images that did nothing to help free me of the guilt I felt over Mel’s death. There were consequences that had to be paid for what had happened.

  And when Stacy woke me, her cold hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me into consciousness, I knew that it was now. I rubbed my eyes to remove the haze of slumber and the stricken look on her face was one that acted more like a warning than anything else.

  “The police are here. They’re at the gate,” she said.

  “I’ve got to get dressed,” I mumbled, stumbling to the dresser and pulling open a drawer, grabbing the first pair of jeans that lay atop the folded pile inside. Without care, I slipped them on. I hurried into the bathroom and quickly pulled my hairbrush through my tangled mane.

  The sound of a buzzing within the house—the button that announced a visitor was at the gate—echoed through the hallway as I headed towards the front door. There, a box sat flush against the wall, and I pressed the largest button there, activating the antiquated speaker that crackled as I asked, “Who is it?”

  “Grace? It’s Dad. I’ve got the police with me—they want to ask you some questions. Open the gate.”

  I felt Stacy’s presence, and I turned to look at her. She nodded her head and my finger pushed on the red button that would swing the gates open, allowing this intrusion in.

  “I’ll be upstairs in Lark’s room,” Stacy told me. “If you need anything—if anything happens, you tell them you need to go upstairs for a minute and I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Thank you,” I mouthed as she disappeared before opening the door, waiting for the headlights to come flashing by.

  A police car followed Dad’s up the driveway, and both pulled up to the front door. Two uniformed officers stepped out of their vehicle slowly, as though they were timing themselves, waiting for a reaction from me, while Dad seemed to burst through the car, rushing towards me with far more concern than necessary—concern that fed my guilt.

  “Grace,” he said in a low tone, “you be honest with them, you hear me? Completely and fully honest with them.”

  There was a bulging of my eyes, and then a swallowing of understanding, a nod, and then Dad’s arm was around my shoulder, supportive, reassuring as the officers approached. They both appeared to be near Dad’s age, though one was obviously younger. His eyes took in the expansive foyer behind me, and the living room even further back, and I saw the appreciative look that crossed over his face before he straightened, masking his features quickly with a look of stony countenance.

  The other officer was far less impressed, and immediately launched into his questions, the tone in his voice, and the speed with which he ran down the list telling me that this had been rehearsed, even if only in his head.

  “Can you tell us why you left the hospital?” he bit out, without even bothering to explain why he needed to know.

  “Because I don’t like them,” I answered plainly.

  “You do realize that, given the nature of Mrs. Deovolente’s death, your disappearance makes you appear somehow involved.”

  I was already irritated with this line of questioning, and my tone didn’t betray that. “Of course I was somehow involved. I was the one in the driver’s seat. We were both in that accident together.”

  The officer didn’t miss a beat, and he countered with, “And yet you’re the only one to survive.”

  I knew this game. I knew it very well, and stepped into the role quite easily. “Because I was also the only one wearing my seatbelt.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why is that? Why were you there, on Bellegarde land alone with your teacher? And why did you not take off your seatbelt when she did?”

  “We were there because she asked me to drive there—I didn’t know it was part of Robert’s property. And she had her seatbelt off because she had turned around to talk to me. We were there, talking.”

  “Talking, huh?” The way he said that made my blood boil, the implication there unwarranted and meant purely to provoke a reaction—one that I was not going to give him. “And you use the name Robert as though you know the family. Do you?”

  “Of course,” I replied, the smug smile beginning to form on my lips. “This is his house. This is our house. He’s my husband.”

  Dad grabbed my arm, tugging me to the side before hissing into my ear, “I didn’t mean be that honest.”

  “I’m not going to lie about that. Not anymore,” I told him, yanking my arm away and returning my attention back to the officer. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “Yes. Where’s your husband right now, Mrs. Bellegarde?”

  “He’s out—he had to run a few errands.”

  “So, he helped you to leave the hospital, knowing that you had suffered some pretty extensive injuries, judging by the doctor’s report, and then left you to…’run a few errands’?”

  I felt my nostrils flaring in agitation, but I remained calm, my voice cool as I responded. “As you can see, I’m not as badly injured as originally thought, and I have a pretty high th
reshold for pain, just in case you’d like to take a look at my medical history and see all of the things I’ve been through in the past few years. Doctors make mistakes, and my husband knew that I’d rather recuperate at home than in some hospital room.”

  A flurry of notes was scribbled down as the officer nodded, obviously ticking off items on his mental checklist. When his pen stopped moving, his head rose and he looked at me with a rather ambiguous expression on his face. “The person who found you, the one who called the police, a Mr. Lemhay Fleuric—what is his relation to you and to your…husband?”

  “His name is Llehmai, and he’s a friend of my husband’s family. Why did you want to know?”

  The officer looked at his partner, and then back at me before replying, “Because he doesn’t exist. Not in our records, not in the state’s records, not in any records.”

  I knew this. Llehmai wouldn’t exist in any records because he wasn’t human. His life didn’t include mingling with humans the way that Lark and Robert did. But how do I explain that to the police?

  “He’s not from here,” was the only thing I could come up with.

  “We’ve gathered as much, but his arrival on the scene of your accident, given how remote the location was, is suspicious. We would like to speak to him—do you know of a way to contact him?”

  I looked at the officer and opened my mouth, wanting to tell him no, because I didn’t. I was almost certain that even if I did, he wouldn’t exactly feel up to speaking to me—or to the police—given what had transpired between us. There was also the issue of him not being there to help stop whatever it was that had happened to Mel and I—where had he gone? Why wasn’t he there? Had I upset him that much with my rejection?

  My pause seemed to give the officer what he wanted, and I kicked myself for not simply blurting out the truth when it was on the tip of my tongue. “Is he here?”

  “Why would he be here?”

  “Given your reaction when I brought him up, it seems quite likely that you two have something to hide, and considering how quickly you left the hospital and are now here alone, it only makes sense for me to ask. So—is he? Has he come here to meet you secretly?”

  Dad interjected then, his fatherly sensibilities taking over of his…well, sense. “Now see here—my daughter’s not that kind of girl.”

  “And just what kind of girl is that, Mr. Shelley?” the other officer asked, his voice sounding rather pinched and agitated compared to the one who stood directly in front of me, the one whose questions had not yet reached their end. “The kind who finds some reason to get married at eighteen?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with getting married at eighteen,” I said firmly. “Are you two married?”

  “That’s not any of your business,” the other officer, the one who seemed eager to step inside and inspect everything, replied.

  “Well neither is it any of yours what kind of girl I am,” I snapped.

  “Do you know how we can get in touch with this Mr. Fleuric?”

  My hair had fallen into my face, and I brushed it aside angrily. “No, I do not. I haven’t seen him since late yesterday afternoon. I do not remember him being there at the scene of the accident—I don’t remember much about the accident after it happened, but if you want to talk to me about that then I’d be more than happy to do so. But if you’re going to continue asking me about the person who got me help, as though he had something to do with this simply because he’s not in any of your records then I’m going to have to stop all of this questioning right here and ask you to leave.”

  The two officers looked at each other, and then the older one, the one who looked at me with such contempt I could feel it, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. It was the kind that zipped closed, and he held it up in front of me, dangling it as though it were some kind of prize.

  “Can you tell us who this belongs to?”

  My eyes focused on the object in the bag, the bright metal ring that sat inside familiar to me. “No. No I can’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was no hesitation in my nod; I did not recognize the ring.

  “That’s odd, because it looks remarkably like the one on your finger.”

  My ring? I looked down at my left hand, the two white gold bands gleaming in the foyer light, screaming their own accusation.

  “Mrs. Bellegarde? Where did you get your rings?”

  The sound of my attempt to answer, the squeak of a lie that would not be told, was all that I could manage to offer him.

  “Those are family heirlooms,” Dad broke in, a beaded line of perspiration forming on his forehead as his hand covered mine, effectively hiding the telltale glint that seemed to call out to the mirroring one in the officer’s grip.

  “Heirlooms? From whose family?” The officer’s eyebrow rose slightly, almost mockingly, and I felt a bubble of ire build within me as my mind filled with what I was certain was now running through his head: thoughts that were conspiratorial, dastardly, and above all else…true.

  “They’re from my husband and my mother’s family,” I said to him, my chin rising in stubbornness.

  “So your husband and your mother are related in some way?”

  There was an accusation there that stung, and I bit back the expletive, the unrestrained reaction that I felt warranted. Instead I nodded, and removed my hand from my father’s protection, holding up to the officer’s face with an iron determination. “The top ring, my husband gave to me when he proposed to me. You will not find another one like it because it was made especially for him.

  “The bottom one my father gave to me; it belonged to my mother and after she died, he saved it to give to me when I got married; it has been in her family for centuries. When I married Robert, he and my mother became related through me. If they look similar then it’s merely coincidental, but it’s a coincidence that I appreciate.

  “These two rings embrace each other, just as I would have wanted my mother to embrace my husband, but she’s not here to do that and so this is all I have. If you want to imply that there’s something wrong about that, that perhaps my relationship with my husband is something…suspicious, then you’re insulting not only me and my husband, but also my mother and I refuse to let you do that. I want you to leave; now.”

  A moment of silence followed, and the officer’s gaze flicked from my hand to my face—once, twice—before lowering his own, the bag dangling by his side as he struggled for something to say.

  Rather than wait for any response, I continued. “Now, if you want to ask me if I’ve ever seen that ring before, I can tell you no. If I may, could I ask where you found it?”

  Both officers turned to look at each other, the younger one shrugging his shoulders, obviously unsure of what to do. The one who stood in front of me brought his eyes back to mine and replied, “Inside of you.”

  My hand flew to the spot on my chest where the stitches had been, and I understood what it was that I had felt in the car. “Inside of me?”

  “Yes, inside of you. According to the doctor in the emergency room when you arrived, they could see it and pulled it out while you were unconscious. If this ring doesn’t belong to you, and it doesn’t belong to Mrs. Deovolente, then it stands to reason that it might belong to whoever hit your car. We need to speak to your husband to find out where he had your ring made—the jeweler might be able to tell us who this ring belongs to. Could you tell us where we may find him?”

  Of course I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him anything, and once again my pause was enough to embolden the officer, who stepped forward, a slight sneer on his lips beginning to form and chilling the anger inside of me.

  “Do you know where your husband is?”

  “He’s with his mother,” Dad replied, stepping in front of me and blocking off the officer’s approach. “They’ve been on the outs with each other for a while and are now trying to reconcile their differences.”

  “He’s. With. His. Mother.” Dou
bt made every word its own separate entity, but Dad wouldn’t let him to taint anything with it.

  “Yes. As you can probably guess, she wasn’t too thrilled with him marrying so soon, and to someone he hardly knows. I felt the same way, but I love my daughter and I don’t want to lose her, too. It’s pretty normal for a child and a parent to disagree—if you have a teenager, then you understand.”

  A light of recognition seemed to pass through the officer’s eyes, and I saw his hard features soften a bit in understanding. Dad had touched a nerve somewhere and dad knew it. He pounced.

  “My son-in-law is a good kid. I’d even say he’s a good man. If there is anything he can do to help you find who owns that ring, he will, but right now he’s trying to mend his relationship with his mother after realizing how close he came to losing someone else he loves. When he returns, I will have him go directly to the police station to give you the name of his jeweler.”

  This seemed to appease the officer, and he nodded. He tucked the ring into his pocket, and Dad reached out to shake his hand, patting the officer on the arm before sidling by him and shaking the younger officer’s hand as well. The officer’s nodded at me, but I refused to give them anything more than an icy stare, allowing daggers to fly at their backs when they turned around to head back to their car.

  Dad followed, walking behind them and watching as they drove off, their lights disappearing down the drive and beyond the iron gates and ironic angel statues that fronted the property. When he returned, Dad closed the door behind him and shook his head in disgust.

  “I haven’t done that in years. I’m surprised I wasn’t found out.”

  “Done what?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bag, the silver ring still contained within it. “This.”

  My jaw fell, nearly clipping the floor as I stared at it. “Are you…did you…DAD!!”

  “I’m not proud of it, and I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think that this might be useful in some way. And besides, when I left my family all those years ago, I never stopped being what I was. As much as I hate the idea of it, I am still an EP; I still have a loyalty to keeping their secret safe. It’s why I never told you that I knew what Robert and Ameila and Lark were; their secret is my duty to protect, even if I don’t want to.”