On her way out, Gaëlle stops by our table to ask if I can watch the twins sometime next week. She promised to take Romain into Rennes to buy him a new wardrobe. “Just doesn’t stop growing.” Her full lips curve with pride.
Romain might not be her biological son, but she loves him like he is. She levers her wavy, dark hair out from underneath her yellow scarf.
“We need to get going. Samson and Arthur are being watched by my neighbor’s teenage daughter. I trust her to keep them alive but that’s about it.”
“My brothers probably have their own social media accounts by now,” Romain says.
I laugh while Gaëlle shakes her head.
Once they’re gone, I have a chat with Alma about not leading Romain on. I wait for her to promise she won’t toy with his young heart before heading downstairs to the bathroom. When I notice Slate’s no longer sitting at the bar, I breathe a little easier. That is, until the door of the bathroom opens, and I come nose-to-Adam’s-apple with him.
He smells like winter nights by the fire—a mix of cider, coffee, and cloves. I wish he smelled like damp old socks.
“Looking for me?” He’s tugging on his gloves, his coat already on.
“Looking to avoid you,” I mutter as I step aside to let him pass down the cramped hallway that leads to the kitchen’s swinging door.
“Trust me, if I could get out of this place, I’d be gone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’d be more than happy to direct you to the train station.”
Even though the hallway’s dim, I catch his eyes flicking to one of his hands. The one with the lump. “Oh, I know how to get there.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
The kitchen door flaps open, and Nolwenn emerges clutching three plates. “Your crêpe’s in the pan, Cadence.” She slants Slate a look as he backs up to let her pass.
Ribbons of rosemary steam linger in her wake, clouding the dark outline of his body.
Once they clear, he presses away from the wall. “See you later.”
“Hope not.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, black eyes curving with amusement. He thinks I’m joking but I’m being deathly serious. I really hope he’ll leave, and I don’t mean the restaurant.
I mean Brume.
Even though he may have had roots in this town, he doesn’t belong here. He belongs to a big city where disregard for people and its customs is tolerated, even encouraged.
After lunch, Alma heads back to the dorms and I head home via the cemetery. Every first of the month, I go to our family crypt to talk to Maman. I don’t believe in spirits or ghosts or magic of any sort, so I’m aware that when I go “talk to her” I’m actually talking to myself, but I find solace in this little tradition. It allows me to vent about school and boys and growing up, and put some order inside my heart and mind.
A fresh layer of snow cocoons the frozen ground like a duvet cover drawn snugly over the graves. I pass the Mercier family mausoleum and decide to stop by. The hinges are oiled, so the door whispers open. Geoffrey Keene might be a creeper, but he keeps the Mercier mausoleum in pristine condition.
I pad over to Camille’s raised coffin. The etchings are still so recent they cause a shiver to slink down my spine. Although Papa was both a mother and father to me, Camille was the one I ran to when I had my first period. The one who bought me my first bra and took me to the gynecologist.
“I hope it’s warmer where you are.” I split open a packet of sugar and pour it atop her carved name and dates of life. It’s an old Brumian tradition—instead of flowers, we celebrate the dead with sugar to sweeten the afterlife. “Your son’s getting famous. I don’t know if he told you.” I suspect that, unlike me, he doesn’t hang out in cemeteries. “He was invited to speak about his thesis at Cambridge. What an honor, huh? You’d be very proud of him. Oh, and he’s dating some girl you probably wouldn’t approve of . . .” I let my voice trail off before I add something vicious.
Outside, the wind presses against the small, marble-slabbed building, howls.
“Some new guy arrived last night. He’s awful.” I push some flyaways off my icy cheeks. “He claims he’s Eugenia and Oscar Roland’s son. Which is crazy because he was supposed to have died in the fire, too.”
Something awful strikes me . . . something I remember from the one and only time I stopped by the Roland mausoleum: beneath Oscar and Eugenia’s names is Slate’s. Well, Rémy’s. If they really are one and the same, then I hope he hasn’t walked through the cemetery and spotted the inscription.
I push the macabre contemplation away and refocus on Camille. “I was reading Istor Breou again this morning, and it made me wish magic were real. Is it, Camille? Are there any truths in that book?”
Because if there is . . . oh, the spells I’d cast. I’d bring Adrien’s mother and mine back, give a pixie-haired girlfriend some warts, and make an infuriating thief vanish.
And this is why Humans were stripped of magic: we aren’t worthy.
“I miss you, Camille.” I run my fingertips over the quatrefoil and Loving Mother and Honorable Citizen of Brume engravings, tucking in the sugar crystals. “Why didn’t you tell us you were sad? Why did you resort to arsenic? Arsenic!”
Anger and grief cloud my vision. I scrape at my eyes and then, ruing the poison peddler, stalk back outside. A sprinkling of sun darts through the cloud cover and gilds the snow and old headstones, yet brings me no pleasure.
I pass by Viviene without so much as a glance in her direction, then round our mausoleum. The narrow door is agape. Is Papa here? Who else has the key to our crypt? The undertaker? Unlike the Merciers, ours is always kept locked. Papa says grief should be private.
“Hello?” I call out.
Except for the wind jostling the bare branches of the linden trees, there is no sound.
Could the earthquake have cracked the lock and blown open the door? I inch closer and squint into the darkness, then press my fingertips into the cold iron door. The hinges screech.
My heart freefalls into my boots, then vaults into my throat as the room comes into focus, and I see Maman . . . or what’s left of her. Stumbling backward, I fling my hand up to my mouth and bite down on my knuckles.
I try to rip the image of ochre silk and gray flesh from my eyes, but it’s seared into my retinas. Bile rises so fast that I just have time to clutch my shaky knees and lean over before vomit blazes up my throat.
Who’d do this? Who’d desecrate someone’s grave? And why?
A long while later, I pick up a handful of clean snow and scrub my mouth, then kick some over the mess I’ve made. And then I stare back toward the open doorway, wishing I were brave enough to tuck Maman back in her stone bed, but I’m not brave and probably not strong enough to lift the lid.
As I shut the door, my fingers shaking as hard as my heart, I catch a glint of something on the dusty floor. Is that—is that a bottle of wine? Did someone use our crypt to hang out and get drunk?
Anger blasts back inside of me, and I wheel around. And then I’m running home because I need to tell Papa.
He’ll fix this.
My father can fix anything.
9
Slate
Not even twenty-four hours have passed since I trampled the treads left behind by heeled boots and shiny loafers in the crusty snow, yet it feels like centuries. Like I’ve aged enough to have traveled through another ice-age and landed in the new dark ages.
Manoir de Morel looks just as dramatic and pretentious in daylight. Last night, thousands of sparkling holiday lights outlined the building. Today, filtered rays from the setting sun polish the old gray stones, making them glow a reddish-umber. The place looks like it’s lit by hellfire, and here I am, the asinine soul walking directly into it.
I reach the massive blue door adorned by a pattern of metal grommets forming a quatrefoil—that symbol is starting to feel as ominous as blood smeared on doors to prevent the wrath of God. Ever since I set foot in this
damn town, nothing has gone according to plan. From my teeny room to my conversation with Rainier de Morel to the fucking ring. Hell, even my flirtation with Cadence hasn’t been ideal. If we were in Marseille, we’d already have shared a five-course dinner, a bottle of fancy champagne, and most probably, body fluids. Instead I got freakish stories of warlocks and honed death stares.
The bell dings, echoing inside the manor.
A heavy-set middle-aged woman in navy scrubs opens the door. Her lipstick is knock-out red, and her dark hair is cut into one of those severe bobs that only movie stars and dominatrix wear. I’m pretty sure she’s not a movie star.
“Can I help you?” The disdain in her voice is evident.
Sure, my hair’s mussed and the bags under my eyes are as pronounced as the protuberance on my finger, but my clothes cost way more than the little diamond comet dangling in the crook of her flabby neck. “I’m here to see Rainier de Morel.”
She narrows her brown eyes at me, intensifying the crow’s feet bracketing them. “Is he expecting you?”
“Jacqueline?” Rainier’s voice calls from somewhere behind her. “Who is it?”
“Slate Ardoin,” I say.
Jacqueline repeats it even though Rainier is many things, but not hard of hearing.
A satisfied chuckle. And then, “Let him in.”
She frowns and calls over her shoulder, “But your exercises—”
“We’ll finish them later. Let him in.”
She purses her lips and ticks her head to the side.
We travel in the opposite direction of the grand room, through an open set of double doors, and into a humongous living room with black marble floors. Carbon-gray walls are sandwiched between white baseboards and crown moldings. There’s a peach granite fireplace wide enough to roast a horse on a spit, and angular furniture in various shades of eggshell. Everything’s shiny and spotless.
Guess no one snacks on madeleines in here . . .
Rainier sits in his wheelchair near the bay window, a stretchy green physical therapy band in his hands. Jacqueline relieves him of it before hustling out of the room, forgoing an offer of coffee or apéritif.
I round a glass coffee table as big as my bed back in Marseille and sink into the soft leather sectional. And keep sinking until the couch all but gulps me up. I shift, but it doesn’t help. It’s like a weird chapter in Alice in Wonderland—I’m feeling smaller and smaller with each movement I make.
This couch isn’t made for relaxing; it’s made for intimidating.
Damn. De Morel is good.
Now, Rainier rolls himself a little closer. Despite whatever exercise he was just doing, he’s perfectly put together—from the ironed crease of his khakis to the smooth fibers of his gray cashmere sweater to each gelled hair on his head.
He lifts the corners of his mouth up into what I suspect is supposed to resemble a smile, except there’s zero warmth to it. “How are you getting on here in Brume?”
“So well I can’t bring myself to leave. Insane, huh?”
He narrows his navy eyes. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He makes the word pleasure sound like a dirty smudge.
I recognize this for what it is: a typical dick-swinging contest, with Rainier and I taking our places, readying our stance.
I swing first.
Pulling the glove off my right hand, I reveal the scarlet stone on my middle finger by flipping him off with a flourish. I’m waiting to feel a rush, but I’m way too pissed off and agitated for any other sentiment. This ring has sapped me of even the most basic pleasures.
Rainier’s skin goes from snooty aristocratic alabaster to zombie gray to stomach-flu green, and his fingers grip the armrests of his wheelchair. “How did you get that?”
“Let’s just say I visited the family. Your family. It was supposed to be a short visit. The fuck ’em and leave ’em kind. Just long enough to swipe a few things and bruise your ego. But, well”—I raise my hand higher, middle finger still extended—“this little baby took a liking to me. And now it won’t let go.”
Rainier is still for a moment, not moving, not breathing, just staring me straight in the eye with a lethal glare. Then he rolls right up to me, his left wheel squeaking against the leather couch, his right wheel banging against the glass table. When he’s close enough that I can see the pores on his nose and the sweat beading around his lips, he shouts, “You bloody idiot!” Spittle lands on my chin and cheeks. “You goddamn witless fool!”
And then he’s maneuvering his chair like an angry drunk. Tries to go backward but bangs into the coffee table. Then the couch. Then both. The sleek, black bag hanging from his armrest gets half unsnapped, and the strap catches in the wheel. Rainier’s skin tone veers to an unflattering eggplant as he swears, using expressions that I imagine are Breton because I’ve never heard them.
Astonishingly, I get no joy from watching him wriggle like a worm in weeks-old bread. With Herculean effort, I push myself up from the soft leather sinkhole and make my way around the couch to yank on his chair and roll it back until he’s no longer stuck between furniture.
He doesn’t say anything, just snaps his bag in place, then pulls out a brown leather case. I’m silent as his trembling fingers go to work sliding out a Churchill, cutting it, and lighting it with a fancy torch lighter.
Once he’s puffed a few times, he rolls the cigar between his finger and thumb and bellows, “Jacqueline!”
Is he going to ask his physical therapist—or naughty nurse—to forcibly remove me? Not sure how that would work considering I outweigh her in both muscle mass and shrewdness. Unless she carries a hunting rifle . . . I wouldn’t put it past the people living so close to a magical forest to know their way around firearms.
She comes running so fast, her hair chops the air around her jaw like an axe. “What is it, Monsieur de Morel?”
“I won’t have time to exercise any more today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you certain? I don’t mind waiting.”
“I’m certain.” Even though he’s speaking to her, his glacial eyes are on me.
He takes a long drag of his cigar before puffing out donuts of smoke. Keys jangle, rubber squeaks on marble, and then the click of a door followed by a heavy bang. Minutes tick by in silence as thick as the pearl-gray cashmere throw draped over the back of the couch.
“You’ve ruined everything, Monsieur Roland.” Before I can answer, he puts a hand up. “I know. Ardoin.”
This time I sit on the arm of the couch. I don’t sink down. So my face is level with his when I say, “Besides a rank crypt, what the hell did I ruin?”
“Careful.” Rainier raises his cigar-free hand and brings his thumb and pinky within a millimeter of each other. “I’m this close to snapping.”
I snort. “Planning on running me over with that fancy wheelchair?”
The front door opens again, then slams shut, and I imagine Jacqueline forgot something, but the voice that accompanies the ruckus is not the old woman’s.
“Papa!” The scream is high-pitched and breathy. “Oh, Papa!” Cadence runs into the room, tripping over the corner of the beige rug, before launching herself into de Morel’s arms. Her body trembles beneath her silver puffer.
Papa?
No.
Fucking.
Way.
How did I not catch that?
Her face is sallow, her eyes as scarlet as her lips, and wet tracks shine on her cheeks.
An odd and violent rage flares inside my gut. I’ll fucking wreck whoever put her in this state. As fast as the thought fires across my brain, it snuffs out. What the hell’s wrong with me? She’s de Morel’s spawn. She neither deserves my pity nor my protection.
I owe the de Morels nothing.
“What is it, ma Cadence?” Rainier asks.
She peels her hands off from around his neck, then stands and paces between the marble and rug. “I went to see Maman today and—” Cadence’s voice splinters, and she pre
sses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “The door was open. And there was wine. And I—I saw . . . I saw her. My God, Papa.” She presses her knuckles against her mouth. “I saw her,” she whispers.
Rainier’s stare turns as sharp as the steak knife Vincent planted into my hand.
A gasp falls from Cadence’s mouth in time with her hand, which knocks against her thigh. “Slate? What are you doing here?”
I don’t answer.
Her breathing hitches suddenly, and she blurts out, “You did it.”
“It? You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on, Mademoiselle de Morel”—I grit out her hateful surname—“because I’ve done many things.”
“Last night, you were coming from the cemetery when I bumped into you.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother answering. “You’re the one who opened Maman’s grave?” Her voice is barely above a whisper now.
I become rigid, as though someone dumped a bucket of concrete over me.
The corpse in the sarcophagus was Cadence’s mother. The corpse I left in plain view.
Oh, fuck.
A tremor passes through Cadence as though she’s seeing her mother’s rotten body again, and fresh tears drip down her cheeks.
My stiff jaw hardens some more as the sweet taste of my vengeance turns unpalatably bitter.
To me, graves are just boxes full of bones. Not people. And certainly not people that meant anything to anyone. Last night when I was looting that crypt, the only thing on my mind was my fury at Rainier de Morel. Not once did I stop to consider how my actions would impact anyone else. Apart from Bastian, I don’t give a damn about anyone. Not even myself. Not really. But I think what if Bastian died? And what if someone defiled his grave?
I’d fucking rip their throat out, that’s what.
I’ve felt a lot of things in my life—anger, despair, jealousy, pride. The one emotion I’ve always seemed to lack is shame. It’s the reason I’ve been able to rise so high in my line of work. You can’t succeed at being bad if you’re concerned about being good. You just can’t. You have to put your conscience on hold.
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