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