Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Hello, Rainier,” my best friend singsongs, leaning over to kiss my father’s cheeks, her tamed curls falling around her face like a sheet of copper.

  “Your coat, Papa.” I hold up the thick navy cashmere.

  As he maneuvers his arms through the sleeves, he looks up at me, and his brow pleats. “You look different, ma Cadence. Beautiful as always but different.”

  “It’s the hair.” Alma grins. “I have two words for you, Cadence. Gor. Geous.”

  “That’s actually one word.”

  “Not the way I say it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Gloves are in the pockets, Papa.”

  He digs them out while I slide mine on. Brume has two seasons: summer and winter. Sadly, they’re nowhere near equal. We get blue skies and piping hot air for two months—if we’re lucky, three. The rest of the year, we’re swallowed by a marrow-congealing fog that makes the air feel raw and icy.

  The only person in the entire town who doesn’t seem affected by the frigid temperatures is Alma. I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten frostbite on her legs, considering her closet consists of miniskirts and doll-sized dresses.

  Like tonight. “Nice skirt. Very Christmassy.”

  She pats her scarlet mini, which she’s paired with sheer stockings a shade darker. “Right?”

  As he wheels himself out of the house, Papa’s cricket ringtone chirps. He picks up, then proceeds to talk in muted, cryptic one-word answers. Sometimes, I think he may be having an affair, but is it an affair if there’s no wife to cheat on?

  I’ve been motherless since I was a week shy of my first birthday, and although I regret Maman passed away, I don’t miss her. You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.

  Alma hangs back with me as I lock up.

  “Your ladybits are going to end up freezing and falling off one of these days,” I tell her.

  She blinks her whiskey-colored eyes at me, and then she wrenches her neck back and releases a bark of laughter that echoes against every old stone in Brume.

  “I can’t believe the word ladybits just came out of your mouth, Cadence de Morel.”

  I smile as we walk away from the manor. In seconds, the thick fog, that’s densest at the bottom of the hilly town, curls off the lake and swallows my home.

  When we reach the cobbled road that winds through Brume like swirled frosting, I grip the handles of Papa’s motorized chair. Even though he doesn’t really need my help maneuvering, I worry about him skidding on black ice or getting stuck in a patch of deep snow.

  “You should ask the mayor to build you a ramp, Rainier. They could add one along the stairs.” Alma gestures to one of the staircases cut right into the flank of Brume, which facilitates access to the different kelc’hs, or circles.

  Unoriginal people have streets, Brumians have circles.

  “It’d be way too steep,” I say.

  Besides, when Papa absolutely needs to be on campus, someone from the fire brigade drives him there with an electric utility vehicle—the only car allowed in our pedestrian town.

  Alma’s eyes light up. “Ooh. Imagine how fun it’d be to slide down.”

  “Imagine how dangerous.”

  “Forever the party pooper.”

  “You mean, forever the conscientious adult?” I volley back.

  Papa shakes his head at us but lets out a brief chuckle.

  “I’m still going to suggest adding a ramp to our dear old mayor over dinner tonight.”

  I snort. “Can’t wait to hear you build your case.”

  “It’ll be good for tourism.”

  “How?” I challenge her.

  She raises her hands and draws them apart, creating an imaginary sign. “Slide down Merlin’s Hat. What do you think, Rainier?”

  “I think our town’s touristic enough as is, Alma chérie, but I admire your enthusiasm.”

  “I see where Cadence gets her party-pooping from.” She pouts, but it’s brief and fleeting like all of Alma’s reactions.

  Soon, she’s rambling on about something else, while I’m stuck glancing at the pale façade of Town Hall that stands out like a ghost amidst the soupy fog. Four years ago, we had Christmas dinner there, in the Merciers’ private apartment on the top floor. Crisped capon with chestnuts and glazed carrots. I can still recall the taste of that meal, the feel of Camille’s arms around my shoulders, the powdery floral scent at the base of her neck.

  Perhaps that’s why I never missed Maman . . . because I had Camille Mercier.

  Now, the town cemetery has both.

  Two college kids run past us, laughing as one takes a spill on a patch of ice. He gets up and shakes the wet snow off the back of his coat.

  “You okay, son?” Papa asks as he maneuvers his chair around the ice.

  The boy—I think his name is Patrice—looks stunned by my father’s concern, but then he spots the wheelchair, and recognition makes his brows level out. “Oui, Monsieur de Morel. Merci.”

  “Be careful. We wouldn’t want you starting the second semester in one of these.” Papa tips his head to the chair.

  “I’ll be more careful.”

  Alma wiggles her fingers. “Bye, Patrice.”

  I can’t believe I was right about his name. Unlike Alma, my brain isn’t hotwired to remember the finer details about people. Quiz me on history, though, and I’ll knock your winter boots off.

  “’Night, ladies, Monsieur de Morel.” Patrice pats his coat one last time before following his friend into one of Brume’s oldest establishments, La Taverne de Quartefeuille.

  The old inn, turned restaurant centuries ago, slumps on the edge of the square housing the Puits Fleuri—a well built during the Middle Ages and rumored to grant wishes to coin throwers. Do I believe this? No. But I like legends and have read Istor Breou, an old tome on the history of Brumian magic, from crumbly cover to crumbly cover more times than I care to admit.

  My boot catches on a slick cobble, and I grip the wheelchair tighter to avoid faceplanting. Alma elbows me after I’ve regained my balance. I think she’s about to offer to replace me at the helm but nope. She nods to two guys leaning against the well, sipping from hammered copper mugs. It takes me a minute to make out who they are—Paul and Liron.

  Liron is Alma’s ex. They met over the summer when they both worked as counselors for the university’s summer camps, then dated until October, after which they amicably parted ways. They still hook up from time to time, but that has more to do with pickings being slim around these parts than ardent attraction.

  “Liron was telling me that Paul wants to ask you out.” She says this in a stage-whisper which I pray doesn’t carry to the boys.

  “Who wants to ask Cadence out?” Papa’s legs might not work, but his ears work way too well.

  “No one, Papa.”

  “Paul Martinol.”

  I shoot Alma a pointed glare, which just makes her smile brighten. I swear, she lives for embarrassing me.

  Papa stares poor Paul down, making red blotches appear on his skin. Like me, he’s a blusher. He might be worse than I am, actually. Or maybe it just looks more acute, because his hair is red and his skin’s bathed in freckles.

  “Not interested,” I say to both Alma and Papa.

  My heart’s set on someone else.

  Someone completely unattainable and completely uninterested.

  Someone whose house we reach a couple minutes later up on Third Kelc’h.

  Adrien Mercier.

  Camille’s son swings open his front door, golden hair slicked back, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. After flashing us a wide smile and chanting Joyeux Noël, he seizes Papa’s chair and hoists it up the two front steps, muscles bunching inside his long forearms.

  “Charlotte couldn’t make it I see,” she tells Adrien, waggling her brows at me. “What a shame.”

  “If you weren’t my best, and only, friend,” I hiss, “I’d toss you into my family’s crypt.”

  “Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d l
ove it. I’d get to hang out with Viviene.”

  “Who’s dead.”

  “Not according to the rumor mill. Her ghost’s been spotted all over Brume.”

  “By drunks and tour guides.”

  Supposedly, I descend from the legendary enchantress who trapped Merlin in a cave under a rock in the neighboring forest of Broceliande. Alma’s convinced I also descend from Merlin, but Viviene was reputed to have had many lovers, so who really knows?

  “Here.” Adrien reaches for my silver puffer jacket, and his fingers graze mine. “Let me get that.”

  Cheeks blazing, I murmur a rapid-fire merci and streak into the living room where Papa and Adrien’s father, Geoffrey Keene, are exchanging niceties even though they never have anything nice to say about one another.

  Both Geoffrey and Papa married into Brume’s founding families. Where Geoffrey kept his own last name, my father took my mother’s, something which Geoffrey rails him about at least once a year. In my opinion, I find Papa’s gesture generous. Maman wanted me to carry her maiden name, and Papa wanted to make sure no one ever forgot I was his baby girl.

  But the root of their hatred runs deeper than taunts about family names. My father’s loathed the Mayor of Brume since he tried to seduce Maman, despite both of them being married.

  “Bonsoir, Cadence.” Geoffrey’s eyes, which are the same mosaic of brown and green as his son’s, stroke up my body, taking in the skinny black pants I’ve paired with a sleeveless, chunky turtleneck. I don’t think he’s looking at my outfit as much as the curves around my hips and chest.

  “I made some vin chaud,” Adrien announces. “Can I get you all a glass?”

  “Yum.” Alma settles on the leather couch. “Bring it on, Professor M.”

  “Your parents couldn’t make it back for the holidays?” Geoffrey asks Alma.

  “Oh, you know my parents, Monsieur Keene. They’re not big on holidays.” She scoops up a handful of cashews from the low table and chomps on them while I go help Adrien ladle the mulled wine into mugs.

  Both Alma’s parents were professors here at the university. They had Alma late in life, and then, two years ago, they left her under the care of my father and moved to an island off India’s coast where they teach English to underprivileged children.

  I lean my hip into Adrien’s kitchen counter. “Thanks for having us tonight.”

  He looks away from his saucepan of wine and smiles, which makes his already square jaw look more chiseled. “You think that on my first Christmas back, I wouldn’t try to reinstate the tradition?”

  My gaze strays to the oil portrait of the woman who’d made the holiday so special, who’d made every day special. How did no one spot her depression beneath her smiles? Sure, Adrien had been away at Cambridge, but Geoffrey was here. Papa was here. I was here. How did we all miss the signs? The memory of Papa explaining she wasn’t coming back still rattles me, even after four years.

  “Thanks for letting me bring Alma,” I say, returning my attention to the boy Camille left behind.

  The boy who’s like her in so many ways—wonderful, smart, kind.

  He hands me a mug. “Alma’s welcome anytime.” He grabs two more and tips his head to the living room.

  Unlike his father, his eyes don’t stray down my body. They stay perched on my face. I really wish he’d look lower, notice my new curves, notice I’m no longer the little pigtailed girl he considered like a sister.

  He has a girlfriend, I remind myself as I walk ahead of him. And he’s six years older. Still, disappointment bloats inside me.

  As I plop down next to Alma, I take a big, frustrated swill of the spicy wine. It’s delicious, so I take another, then lick my lips to catch any fugitive droplets. I’m about to compliment Adrien on having brewed the best beverage I’ve ever tasted when I catch him staring at my mouth.

  His eyes flick up to mine, then away, and he leans back in the sofa, one hand smoothing his hair. He asks Papa something I don’t hear because I’m too busy wondering if I imagined him watching my mouth.

  And did it mean anything?

  3

  Slate

  To celebrate the last day of the year, I book myself a seat on the TGV, France’s bullet-train.

  Direction: bumblefuck Brume.

  As we roll past the lush French countryside, I thumb through webpages about the quaint old town, a tourist’s wet dream—a perfectly preserved medieval village built on a hill, around an ancient temple, now the college library, housing the oldest astronomical clock known to mankind. Cobbled streets lined with half-timbered houses and gray limestone ripple in concentric circles around the temple all the way down to the Lac de Nimueh on one side and the Forêt de Brocéliande on the other.

  The cemetery at the bottom of the hill is famous. That fairy or witch or whatever from the Arthurian legends is said to be buried in de Morel’s family crypt. As for the sorcerer Merlin, he’s supposedly trapped for eternity in the forest, Viviene having tricked him into entering some cave which she then blocked with a heavy Carnac stone. Crafty woman.

  I have to admit it’s smart to add fictional characters to your family tree. Maybe I’ll buy a patch of land, stick a few menhirs on it, and declare it the resting place of my long-lost great-great-great-great-great uncles, Obélix and Astérix. Bet I could make a pretty penny off unsuspecting tourists.

  I tap my finger on my phone’s screen, setting this business venture aside to focus on my destination and the rare and valuable items I’m bound to find there. I mean, there’s the clock, but considering it’s the size of a spaceship, I can’t exactly stuff it inside my bespoke jacket pocket.

  An alert for a new email from Bastian pops up. I click on it, then scan his in-depth research into local lore and odd tales. Some shit about Brume being the birthplace of magic. More shit about how they celebrate this magical history in costume throughout the year. And then . . . the blowfly on top of the pile of steaming manure . . . the stories of cursed artifacts. I find myself chuckling as I read. I mean, come on. How gullible are people?

  My laughter attracts the eye of a woman seated across the aisle. She bites her bottom lip, denting the soft flesh. She’s got nice ice on her ears, each diamond larger than my pinky nails, but I’m not in the mood to relieve her of her itch or her earrings.

  I turn toward the window for the remainder of the trip, concentrating on my festering hatred toward this Professor Rainier de Morel. How he ignored me until it suited his purpose. It’s not something I can easily forgive. It’s not something I want to forgive.

  And again, how the fuck did he know where I lived? Possibly, that annoys me more than anything because it means he’s been tracking me, and I like to be tracked as much as I enjoy getting stabbed in the hand with a steak knife.

  Distractedly, I finger the wound, a pale strip that resembles a zipper because of my less than adroit needlework. Not that my tools—gin, nylon fishing line, and a rusted needle—had been ideal for stitching skin. I roll my fingers, which pushes out the white scar. Bastian says I’m lucky my tendon wasn’t damaged, lucky I still have use of my thumb.

  I don’t believe in luck.

  I still have a tendon, because I fought to save it.

  Fought to save myself from the shitty hand I was dealt.

  The moment I arrive in Brume, there’s no doubt the place lives up to its name. A steely gray mist blankets the entire hill, and icy fingers of cold slip under the collar of my wool coat. As I walk from the train station to the fortified entrance of town, I can’t help but snort at its quaintness. Bastian’s research said this place was sometimes called Merlin’s Hat, but in my opinion, the streetlights winding upward look more like candles on a stacked birthday cake than stars on a wizard’s hat.

  Noise leads me up a set of uneven stone stairs, to a road crawling with people dressed in witch hats and black sorcerer robes. Some tote stuffed black cats, others sport fake beards or press-on warts. Garlands of evergreen boughs and mistletoe adorn façades, and candles
sit in frosty windows. A vendor ladles spiced wine from a large cauldron in the middle of what I assume is the town square considering it’s square and animated.

  There’s laughter and dancing, but nothing like the debauchery I’m used to. Nothing like Marseille, with clubs pounding bass out into the street, restaurants heaving with happy drunks, motorbikes screeching down passageways. Here, there are no cars, no motorcycles, no fireworks. No neon lights or club music. Only geeks and old geezers waving around LED-activated wands.

  I squeeze through the hordes of villagers, shoulders tightening from the crush of bodies. I usually enjoy crowds, enjoy working them. Since I’m not working, the contact of so many limbs sets my teeth on edge.

  Once I’m free of the throng, I drop my gaze to my map application, following the directions to the dormitories. When I pass the last of the shops, the winding road clears of people but swarms with shadows. A furry black creature streaks across the street, inches from my boots. No wonder people think this town has wicked origins; it looks like something out of a Grimms’ fairytale.

  The cold humidity pricks my skin as I finally step beneath an illuminated, rectangular bronze panel strung up on a chain between two houses. The words THIRD KELC’H glint as it swings and clanks. How the hell do the people living nearby stand the grating noise? I would’ve clipped the thing down and melted it.

  Huh.

  Maybe I could clip it. Could be worth something if it’s an original. I snap a pic, then go back to studying my map and stroll past narrow houses made of gray stone and damp timber that lean against each other like love-starved kids.

  Though it looks nothing like any campus I’ve ever seen, the dorms and faculty housing are supposed to start on this circle. I find the address Rainier de Morel indicated in his letter, a three-story townhouse with a large four-leaf clover stamped over the entrance. I tap in the security code, climb up a set of creaky stairs, and unlock the door marked with a brass 3.

  The room beyond is cramped and squat. Who the hell lives here usually? Elves? The walls and floor are weathered wood, and so is the bed frame, claw-footed nightstand, three-drawer dresser, and armoire covered by a speckled mirror. A window made of square panes looks out onto the shiny road peeking from beneath the dense fog. No ensuite bathroom, no dusty art on the walls, no knick-knacks on the dresser. I chuck my bag on the bare mattress.