He studies me a moment before nodding. “I believe I do.” Without taking his eyes off me, he says, “Sylvie, will you excuse us, please?”
She frowns but recedes into the crowd like a smudge of grape juice.
“You must be Rémy Roland.” He holds out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.
I cross my arms and ignore the gesture. “Actually, it’s Slate Ardoin.”
“Ah. Slate.” His eyes spark in amusement. “Well, regardless of what you call yourself, you’re a Roland.”
“How the fuck,” I growl, “do you know who I am when I never knew?” My emphasis on the word fuck gets partygoers glancing our way in spite of my low tone.
One of his eyes twitches. “Let’s talk somewhere private, shall we?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, my voice mocking, “let’s.”
He spins his chair around and leads me through the monstrous living room—or maybe it’s an actual ballroom . . . wouldn’t put it past this man to have a ballroom in his house. With me hot on his wheels, he maneuvers his chair into the foyer, past the split staircase, past the coat-check ladies, and into a glass elevator adorned with the same intertwined M and small d as his wax seal. Inside, he reaches over to press 1, and then we’re gliding upward at the speed of a dozing slug.
Just like downstairs, the first floor looks like a florist shop puked up Christmas decorations. Bastian would love it. Although, dieu sait pourquoi, the kid actually has a preference for light-up plastic reindeer and waving Santas.
I follow Rainier into what must be his study. I can’t get over how incongruous this house is. From the outside, the manor resembles a medieval castle; from the inside, it looks like some modern catalogue spread. The brushed cement walls are lined with sleek wooden shelves holding up row upon row of books illuminated by recessed lighting. No rug covers the veined marble floor that’s polished to a reflective shine. Rainier’s desk is specially made to be at his height. It’s immaculate, the only items on the pristine kidney-shaped glass are a framed photo I can’t see the front of, a pricey Baccarat paperweight, and crystal ashtray in the shape of a four-leaf clover. What is it with this town and shamrocks?
Rainier parks behind the desk, then tents his fingers together. He’s got two distinguished streaks of gray at his temples that shine silver in the dimmed glow of the spotlights entrenched in the smooth, white ceiling. “I’m so pleased you’ve come to study with us.”
“Cut the bullshit, de Morel. How the hell do you know who I am, and how did you find me?”
He taps his index fingers to his lips. “I’m not sure how much research you’ve done on your family tree since my letter, but since you’re here, let me enlighten you. The Roland name goes all the way back to the early centuries when the wilds of Brume went by the name Brocéliande. You might have heard about the forest in Arthurian tales. Merlin and Viviene—”
“I don’t give two shits about Merlin.”
“Of course you don’t.” He says it like it’s a major disappointment and exhales before continuing. “Anyway, your parents were a part of the ancient Roland bloodline. They were respected in this town. I knew them well. But when they died, you . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. We couldn’t find you.”
“Toddlers are pocket-sized, but come on . . .” I wait half a beat for him to clarify. When he doesn’t, I glare harder. “Are you saying I wandered away and into the system? That I toddled my way to social services?”
“No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “Your parents lost their lives in a fire. You were there as well. To be completely honest, I thought you’d perished along with them.”
I rub the patch of puckered skin that resembles dripping wax along the inside of my left arm. I can’t remember ever not having it. Did I get it here? In Brume? My childhood was so violent that it never occurred to me that I got it by accident. I always thought it was one of my foster parents who’d tried to use me as kindling.
“Doesn’t Brume have this thing called forensics? Didn’t they look for my bones? Or teeth? Or whatever the hell it is those people look for . . .”
“I’ll admit, the fire and aftermath were quite a mess.” He looks to the side. A tell that he’s lying, but about what? The fire?
“Okay, then how did I get to Paris?” I spent my first ten years in the capital before being kicked farther south.
“This village has a long history, Monsieur Roland—”
“Ardoin.”
He lets out a long breath. “Monsieur Ardoin, this village has a troubled past. Feuds between families. Secrets of betrayal and death. Someone probably thought you’d be safer away from it and kidnapped you.” He finally looks back at me. “I only found out that you were alive a few years ago.” Then he adds as if it’s a good thing: “Since then, I’ve had my people track you. You seemed safe, so I didn’t intervene.”
“A few years ago.” I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what safe means to you, but at no point was I safe. I had foster parents break my bones, other kids try to kill me. I scrounged like a rat most of my life.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “But here you are, alive and well. Safe.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says slowly. “Didn’t you ever wonder about Vincent?”
Vincent was my fourth foster father. The one who planted that steak knife in the fleshy part of my hand the night I told him not to involve Bastian in his drug runs. The old man used to rough me up, but the knife was something else. A week after the incident, the day I’d planned on running away with Bastian, Vincent didn’t come home. Just up and vanished.
I narrow my eyes. “You made him disappear?” He doesn’t answer me, which I suppose is answer enough. “Why didn’t you ever help in any other way? Why didn’t you reach out? Send a check? Something? Anything?”
Fuck, I sound desperate.
I am not a desperate person.
He shrugs. “It really wasn’t my place to get involved.”
The rage suddenly coursing through me is like liquid fire inside my veins. I ball my fists so my nails gouge my palms through the leather. “More like, it wasn’t convenient for you to get involved.”
“So young and yet already so jaded.”
I’m devoured by the savage urge to throw him out the floor-to-ceiling window, chair and all, but he’s the only one who can answer my questions. Questions that have been burning my gut long enough to give me an ulcer.
“So why did I grow up with the name Ardoin? Why did no one tell me about my parents? Why did social services act like I was a stray?”
“Because whoever hid you found it prudent to keep your existence a secret.” He runs a hand over the glass desk. “Your parents were very influential in Brume, and with great influence comes great enemies.”
I want to make a joke. Something about him copping lines from Spiderman, but a needle of ice pierces my chest. “Are you saying my parents were murdered?”
An emotion crosses Rainier’s face, making his jaw tick and his eyes darken. “Non. They perished in a fire.”
“But—”
“A fire. No foul play was involved. It’s as simple as that, Monsieur Ardoin.”
None of this is simple.
He moves toward the low row of metal filing cabinets that runs the length of the wall across from the bookshelves. Over it stretches a yellowed scroll of parchment encased in plexiglass. Drawings of triangles, black bugs, quartered human bodies, and strange plants are interspersed with cramped lines of script, burn marks, and ink smudges.
A drawer clanks shut, pulling me from my observation. And then Rainier is parking himself back behind his desk and slapping a file on it. My name—well, the name Roland, Rémy—graces a label glued on the tab.
“Enough of this. Let’s get down to the matter at hand—your studies. I’ve taken the liberty of enrolling you in a variety of classes to find out your strengths and shortcomings.”
�
��About your little university . . . j’en ai rien à branler, de Morel. I came here for answers. And if you won’t give them to me, I’m leaving Brume.”
His pupils seem to pulse with annoyance. “I summoned you for a reason.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You summoned me?”
“As one of the founding family members, you’re to be a part of the Quatrefoil Council meeting in two weeks.”
“Quatre-whatta Council?”
“Quatrefoil.” He gestures to the ashtray. “Surely you’ve noticed the shape is an integral part of Brumian history. It’s the symbol for the magic birthed here centuries ago.”
I snort.
“Whether you believe in magic or not, Monsieur Ardoin, understand that there is a Council, a very ancient and very real one, and it believes magic exists. Now that you are over eighteen, it is your duty and your birthright to claim your seat at the table.”
And Bastian thinks I’m drunk? What’s wrong with these people? But then I remember the ring that won’t come off.
I thumb it through the leather. “You can’t exclude me for twenty years and then suddenly expect me to contribute to your little Quattro-fucking Council.”
“Quatrefoil.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re right. I can’t expect you to contribute or to stick around.” He looks at me like I’m a cockroach. “But perhaps I can appeal to one of your baser senses, like greed. How about I promise that if you stay, I’ll make it worth your while?”
That pisses me off to no end. I cross my arms over my chest so I don’t punch him right in the throat. “I don’t need your money, since I have so much of my own.”
A conceited smile curves his lips. “Ah. Are you referring to that trust fund I mentioned in my letter?”
My biceps feel like stone.
He tsks. “You see, not only am I the trustee, but also the account is in the university bank. In order to access it, you need my permission. In order to get my permission, you need to attend the Council meeting. Since I pride myself on upholding traditions, that’s my single condition. After the meeting, I’ll grant you full and sole custody of your inheritance. So, now let’s go over the subjects I enrolled you in.”
There’s a knock on the door, three short bursts followed by a nasal voice. “Monsieur de Morel? I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but some of your guests were worried. Is everything all right?”
“All’s well, Jaqueline. I’ll be down in a minute.” He turns back to me. “Seems we’re out of time. You can check your classes online. And we have a world-class library on campus. If you’re grappling with questions about the Council or your heritage, look through the archives. Do you have any more questions for me?” He cruises toward the door.
I’ve never been conned. But here I am getting conned. By a middle-aged paraplegic who believes in fucking magic no less. I feel like my brain’s about to explode. I run my hands down my face, my leather gloves catching on my skin, the band of the ring bumping against my cheekbone.
I’m tempted to remove the glove, shove the gem in de Morel’s face, and ask him why his family heirloom is stuck to my finger. Would he even know? He’s not a mortician. It’s probably some weird substance from the corpse that’s doing it. Some body fluid that turns gummy like glue after death.
Now I want to vomit.
After swallowing back the rising bile, I burrow my hand inside my pocket, my fingers bumping against the brooch. Nah, I can’t show de Morel the ring. Not even to gloat about looting his family’s mausoleum. No doubt he’d call the police. Bastian would be gutted if I went back to jail. Especially since this time, I wouldn’t go to juvie.
Besides, if the damn thing’s valuable, then I certainly don’t want to give it back.
No. I’ll return to that tiny cave of a dorm room and lube it up with soap. And if that fails, I’ll buy some damn bolt cutters. But I’m keeping the stone.
The Baccarat paperweight on Rainier’s desk glints hard, and I’m itching to swipe it, but my pockets are already bulging.
On the landing, I tell Rainier, “I’ll take the stairs.”
He nods, his keen eyes scraping over my face as though trying to spot a resemblance to my parents. I don’t like his stare. I don’t like him. I jet down the grand staircase, ring-free hand on the wrought-iron railing wrapped in prickly silver garlands. In the ballroom, the party’s still in full swing, witches and warlocks and odd magical creatures swaying to the music, their chatter and laughter rising like helium.
I’ve officially lost my buzz, and with it, any will to be here.
Even though I now have to stay for two whole weeks.
Unless I can pawn the stone in Marseille.
Rainier didn’t say anything about sticking around. All he said was that I had to sit on the Council when the time comes.
Silver lining.
I’m out of here until then.
6
Cadence
I didn’t drink last night, not much anyway, and yet I feel like crap this morning. Doesn’t help that the fog lifting off the lake is so thick it reaches Fifth Kelc’h and billows over the temple library’s stained-glass cupola. Why am I hanging out in the stacks, sorting through books on January first at eleven o’clock in the morning with folk rock music blasting from my AirPods? Because Alma was sleeping, and I was bored.
And annoyed.
Did I really think Charlotte’s nonattendance at Christmas dinner meant she and Adrien had broken up? Well, they didn’t. They even left together last night. I shove the image away in time with the book I’m shelving—Anna Karenina. I probably damage the cover, but it’s not a first edition. Just another depressing Tolstoy love story.
I hate love stories, because they make me think there’s someone out there for me, someone I’m destined to meet and live with happily-ever-after. I mean, I share a house with a living, breathing example of someone who was robbed of his happily-ever-after.
Thinking about my father’s loss replaces my sullenness with gloom. I grapple to feel crabby again, because I don’t want the sorrow. Not on top of feeling tired.
Why did Alma have to snore so loudly? And why did she have to sit up in bed at four o’clock in the morning, swipe the tissue box from the nightstand, and toss Kleenexes around, chanting Happy New Year? She freaked me out so much that it took me a solid hour to fall back asleep while she just dropped against the mattress and rolled over like she hadn’t just sleep-shrieked. Not that my slumber was relaxing after that. I dreamed of that boy with the smiley eyes and unkempt black hair. I dreamed he was trying to steal my witch hat, and I was really not okay with it.
So. Weird.
I shiver as a gust of cold air permeates the thick fibers of the cream wool turtleneck I’ve paired with skinny jeans. Maybe my sweater screams librarian, but my stonewashed jeans don’t. Take that, Alma. When you finally pry your lazy ass out of bed, read my text, and climb up to Fifth to meet me so we can go to lunch, you’ll see I put some effort into my outfit.
Another burst of air snakes toward me. Central heating is spotty in the temple, but that has more to do with the space being so high-ceilinged and the Brumian temperatures being so frigid, than with the belt of heaters running along the circular walls.
As I slot a book in a curved shelving unit, a pat on the shoulder makes my heart spin in time with my body. Adrien’s mouth moves, but my music is so loud I don’t hear a thing.
I pop out my earbuds, then stash them inside my back pocket. “Hey. Sorry. What were you saying?” My mind, which has felt sluggish since my lids cracked open at seven-thirty, is whirring now.
“Do you hear that?” His hazel eyes are luminous in the pale light trickling from the multi-colored cupola.
If by that, he means my hammering heart, then yes, I hear it. It’s the only sound presently registering against my eardrums, but suddenly I hear a second one, a slow, rhythmic ticking, and the blood, which had risen to my cheeks at the sight of my unrequited crush, drains rig
ht out.
“Is that the—the . . .?” I sidestep him and rush toward the curved plexiglass guardrail that keeps students from stepping on the astronomical clock.
The giant, golden quatrefoil, which spans the entire clockface, shimmers as brightly as the hands adorning the two dials. Neither move, but then the dihuner doesn’t tell time; it tells astronomical information. Until now, though, it told nothing. It just sat there, looking pretty with its blue ombré lunar dial and clear-topaz encrusted celestial one. Now, it emits a steady tick . . . tick . . . tick.
“Mon dieu, it works,” I whisper in awe. “Adrien, it works!”
He’s already standing beside me, gaze on the recessed enameled face, fingers loosely gripping the thick edge of the guardrail.
The hand tipped with a crescent moon has gone from its regular place on the darkest part of the lunar dial to the whitest one.
“It’s reading the phases of the moon!” I laugh, but then I sober up, because, “How?”
There’s a strain around his mouth. Around his eyes, too. “Maybe the earthquake last night jumpstarted it.”
“Earthquake?”
“You didn’t feel the ground shake?”
“I thought it was the orchestra.” I breathe. Just breathe. “After all these years . . . I need to call Papa. He’ll want to see it.” I pat my pockets, but my phone’s on the book trolley. Never mind, I’ll call him later. Especially since he might still be sleeping. As my eyes wander over the shorter, star-tipped hand, I ask, “You had a good time last night?”
Adrien angles his body toward mine. “I did. You and your father really outdid yourselves.”
“I take zero credit. It was all Papa.”
He smiles, and the intensity of it melts my organs. And I mean, all of them. I turn into a gooey mess held together by cream wool and tight denim.
I nervously twirl the end of my ponytail around one finger. “So. What brings you to my hood on January 1st?”
More perfectly aligned white teeth appear between his curved lips. “Believe it or not, I came to take pictures of the clock. My alma matter wants me to give a speech to the freshmen about my thesis on Brumian history, and I thought illustrating it with some pictures would liven it up. Little do they know they’re about to get never-before-seen audio footage.” His hazel eyes are still on me, but they seem glazed over somehow. “I should contact Thierry. Let him know. Although I think he might still be visiting family in Dijon.”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 5