Shaking her head, she sighs. “Just follow me.”
12
Cadence
“For someone so convinced about making their own luck, you’re awfully pessimistic,” I tell Slate as I lead him through the kitchen.
“Just being realistic.”
“We have fifteen days ahead of us.”
“Two weeks to find four magical leaves that might curse me to death before we even reunite them. Realistically speaking, I’d have better odds jumping off a plane with a faulty parachute and surviving than accomplishing this mission with the three of you.”
“Just because we aren’t deceitful thieves doesn’t mean we’re useless.”
He gives me the side-eye.
“You’re not going to die in fifteen days, Slate.” Hopefully, though, he is going to leave.
His head keeps swiveling from side to side as he takes in my house, probably mapping it out for a future heist. His gaze lingers on the light fixture over the dining room table, a sculptural piece made of bronze maple leaves interspersed with glass ones.
“Maman cast the bronze leaves. She was a sculptor. She also made that little tree on the living room table.”
Slate glides his attention back to me. “She had a lot of talent.”
I nod.
“Did you inherit it?”
“Ha. No. I’m a paint-by-number sort of girl.” As I stare at her work of art, I can’t help but ask the dreaded question, the one I’m sure Papa would never answer. At least, not truthfully. “Did she suffer a lot in the end?”
Slate is quiet for so long I start to suspect the worst. “No. The Bloodstone leaked such a high dose of poison into her veins, she went quickly.”
My heart squeezes. “I can’t even imagine how hard that whole period must’ve been for my father. It must kill him to see the ring out of hiding.”
Slate’s lips contort as though he’s biting back words.
I sigh. “Just say what you’re thinking.”
“He was going to dig it out himself, so it must not be that difficult.”
“Why do you think the worst of him?”
He stares down at me hard, as though he’s seeing my father instead of me. “Why don’t you ask him?”
I splay a hand on my waist, crimping the thick fabric. “I’m asking you.”
“I’d rather you hear it from him.”
Why is Slate suddenly being so tight-lipped?
“So. Towels? Sheets? 6-in-1 soap?”
Sensing I’d have an easier time shucking an oyster with my nails than getting Slate to open up about Papa, I whirl around and start toward the stairs that lead to our basement laundry room. “6-in-1?”
“You know, the manly sort—for hair, body, face, teeth, eyes, ears.”
I snort. “You’re a very strange boy, Slate.”
Again, he’s quiet. I check over my shoulder to make sure he didn’t take it the wrong way. Since when do I care how he takes it, though? He desecrated my mother’s grave. I shouldn’t care at all about how he takes anything. I miss a step and stumble. I fling my hands out to catch myself, but Slate is quicker. He cinches my bicep and steadies me.
My breathing quickens. “Thank you.”
I notice it was the hand with the ring that caught me. His finger is so bloated and purple, I’m surprised he can still bend it.
“Did the ring do that?”
A tiny groove appears between his black eyebrows. “Give me fast reflexes? No. I learned those to stay alive.”
Stay alive? Where did Slate live that he needed to develop survival skills? And how did he end up out of Brume? I decide to file this question for later. Or for Papa. Since he found Slate, he must know where Roland’s heir has been all these years.
“I meant, the bruise on your finger.”
“Oh.” He makes a fist that must hurt, because his smooth forehead crimps beneath the mess of corkscrew curls. “Trying to get it off did that.”
“Must be weird. Not being able to remove it.”
“You have no idea.”
I turn and stare at my feet so I don’t trip again. Next to the laundry room, there’s a medicine cabinet where we store a pharmacy’s worth of ointments, bandages, and pills. Although Papa hasn’t had an infection in some years, we’re ready for one. We’re ready for anything. I slide my finger down the line of pill packets until I find a painkiller that isn’t sold over the counter. I pick it up and hand it to Slate.
“Take one in the morning and one at night. It’ll help with the pain.”
He studies the packet, then my face, as though surprised I’m worried about how he could be feeling. I push a strand of hair behind my ear as I crouch in front of the shelf of toiletries and select a few bottles from my father’s stash before closing the medicine cabinet and walking over to our teal-tiled laundry room. I grab an empty plastic basket off a shelf, toss the bottles inside, then open a cupboard and snatch two fluffy white towels.
“Do you need a duvet and a pillow?” I ask, sorting through the neat piles of sheets and pillowcases for ones not intended for Dad’s medicalized bed.
“Yeah. If you got any extras.”
I push up on tiptoe to reach the top shelf, but my fingers don’t even skim its underside. I turn to look for the stepstool when the tip of my nose bumps into Slate’s chin. I whirl back toward the shelf, heartrate picking up speed. He extends his arm and plucks a folded duvet off the shelf with ease. My pulse strikes my neck faster when he doesn’t step back. He still needs a pillow after all, so there’s no reason for him to move.
As he lowers the feathery comforter, his gaze drops to mine. “Can I take this one?”
I slide my palms against my jeans to rid them of the sudden moisture. Without even looking at what he’s clutching, I nod. And then I swallow because his eyes are still on mine, and he’s standing so close that the fragrance of dark berries and cloves wafting off his skin overtakes the scent of talc and detergent surrounding us.
“I’m sorry about your mother’s grave, Cadence.”
I inhale sharply, his apology sweeping over my mind like a hand through steam. Suddenly, instead of his dark eyes and dark hair, I see her.
And I shudder.
Slate backs up and drops the duvet inside the laundry basket propped on the ironing board.
“A pillow. You forgot a pillow.” My lucidity surprises me. Then again, I’d rather concentrate on a real bed than on Maman’s death bed.
He nods. I back away this time so our bodies don’t collide. He reaches for a pillow and chucks it on top of his load.
“Slate, why did you”—my throat clenches—“vandalize my family’s crypt?”
Keeping his gaze fastened to the narrow hallway, he heaves the basket up. “I was angry with your dad.”
“For bringing you back to Brume?”
He slides me a look before he utters a dry, “No,” and steps out of the teal-tiled room.
I close the cupboard and turn off the lights. He’s already halfway up the stairs.
“Slate, what did he do to you?”
He pauses on the landing, his broad frame scraping the kitchen doorway. His back is to me, shoulder blades pinching together underneath his tailored coat. “I’d rather he tells you, Cadence. But if he doesn’t, come find me.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll probably be nursing my oblivion-bound soul at the tavern. Unless something else is open?”
“Probably not tonight.”
He nods. “Are you going back out?”
“I don’t plan to.” I sense he wants company, but mine?
As we emerge into the foyer, his boots’ thick soles squelch against the white marble, and the Bloodstone catches the light from the heavy crystal chandelier, scattering scarlet tinsels over the glass protecting Gauguin’s sketch, a sketch my father bought my mother for their first anniversary.
I’m still studying it when the front door bangs shut behind Slate, making the frame vibrate.
I cross my arms and clutch my elbo
ws. “Papa?”
“In the living room.”
I go to him.
He’s sitting beside the window, watching the misty lake glazed in moonlight. “It froze over once.”
I approach him and look out.
“Your maman insisted we buy ice-skates even though neither of us had ever skated before. I spent more time sprawled on my backside than I did upright. Amandine was a natural, though. She managed pirouettes after an hour.” His eyes shimmer, and I think he’s seeing her, vibrant and full of life. Alive. And it makes me think of her tomb, but not in anger. Slate’s apology abated some of that. So did the whole idea of magic. I need to call the custodian and ask him to put the lid back over her grave. I don’t want Papa to see the dried husk of silk and bones she’s become. “She was so graceful.”
“I wish I remembered her.”
“I wish you did too.”
A tear curves down his cheek, and that tear terrifies me because I’ve never seen my father cry. He’s my rock. Rocks don’t weep.
“Papa, why does Slate hate us so much?”
He rubs his fingers across his cheek before looking up at me. “He doesn’t hate us. He just hates me.”
“Why?”
Darkness blunts the shimmer in his gaze. “He thinks I left him in foster care because I didn’t care.”
“Foster care?” I don’t know much about the system but imagine children don’t always end up in happy homes. “He didn’t grow up with any relatives?”
“He has none.”
Right. His bloodline ends with him. For some reason, the fact that Slate was an orphan hadn’t clicked when Papa mentioned it was game over if Slate perished.
“Why didn’t you take him in after his parents died?”
“I only found out he was alive a few years ago.”
“How come?”
“Someone smuggled him out of Brume. Most likely because they thought he’d be safer away from this place.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “Why does Slate blame you then?”
“Because when I found out where he ended up, I didn’t go get him. I left him in the system. I thought it better for him to grow up before he was brought back to Brume. I wanted you kids to be ready once we set the Quatrefoil gathering in motion.”
A web of fear spreads through me, sticky and cold. “And you told him all of this?”
“I did.”
I try to put myself in Slate’s shoes. Would I be bitter?
Papa sighs. “I probably should’ve done background checks on the families he lived with. Had him placed with better people.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Papa looks at the flames licking the blackened logs, filling the living room with the crackling scent of winter. “Because I’m not perfect.”
I think he must be seeing the fire that devoured Slate’s parents, because his expression is troubled.
He returns his gaze to me. “I might have failed him, but I won’t fail you, Cadence. I’ll be there every step of the way.”
I have no doubt he will. “I don’t want you to get hurt again though.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Could one be careful around magic? It seemed so unpredictable. A Bloodstone that poisons the wearer? Metal leaves that can hide themselves and curse people?
“You think magic could heal your legs?” I’m grasping to feel something other than dread.
“Yes.” Papa’s certainty shoos off my fear.
Fantasy and reality are about to collide, and however terrified, a part of me, the one that spent her childhood dreaming Brume’s books of lore held some truth, reels with excitement.
I wonder how the others are feeling. The others being Gaëlle and Adrien, because I can’t imagine Slate will feel anything other than anxiety until the ring comes off his finger.
13
Slate
If I didn’t know any better, I might say Brume was a charming place with its twinkling holiday decorations and cast-iron street lights.
A magical place.
Ha. That makes me chuckle.
“Happy Fucking New Year,” I shout to no one in particular as I reach Second Kelc’h.
One guy yells, “Ta gueule!” the charming French way of saying shut the hell up, but a couple others hoot and wish me a Happy Fucking New Year right back.
I hitch the plastic laundry basket up under my armpit and hang on with one hand while I scrabble in my coat pocket for my phone with the other. Pain lances from my middle finger all the way up to my elbow as I grip the basket.
When I finally have the phone in my palm, I tap Bastian’s contact info with my thumb and wait for him to answer.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Why the hell do you assume something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re calling me, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we talked.”
What the actual fuck? “You told me to call.”
“Yeah. And you’re doing what I asked. Hence, something’s wrong.”
Bastian knows me like no one else does. “Just wanted to check up on Spike.”
Unlike last night, the town square isn’t cluttered with witches and wizards. There are people, but the drunken crowds are gone. The villagers must be playing it safe since tomorrow’s a workday.
“Spike’s living it up. Yesterday, they had a sale on cute little succulents, so I got some. Should’ve seen him ring in the new year with all these juicy babes. I think he just might be falling for the Mexican Snowball. She’s got it going on, if you know what I mean.” Bastian can’t keep the grin out of his voice.
This is why I want him to have everything when I die. “You’re such a dweeb.”
As I enter the code to my new front door, glowering at the quatrefoil stamped above it, I let him know I probably won’t be back in Marseille before his classes start.
He nearly weeps with joy. “Aw, man, Slate. I’m so glad you’re going to study there. You’ll see, you’ve got the brains for it. You can start a new life. A legit life. No more dangerous coups. No more wondering if you’ll live to be twenty-one.”
Yeah.
Right.
“Anyway, Bastian. Stay safe, and don’t do anything I would do.”
A snort comes from his end right before I hang up and toss the phone in the laundry basket, where it slides between the layers of fluffy linens that smell sweet and powdery like the girl who gave them to me. I inhale, and it eases some of the tension along my spine.
I climb up the rickety stairs, unlock door number three, and shoulder it open, which sends the brass number rocking. The odor of dusty wood and mildew hits me full force, as does one of the beams crossing the elf-high ceilings.
“Bordel de merde!” I rub my throbbing forehead and swear at the beam as though it came at me on purpose.
Just what I need . . . a good concussion. Because my day hasn’t been shitty enough.
When the black spots in front of my vision clear, I drop the basket, shrug out of my coat, and make up the small mattress with military precision, then scrub my hands over my face and take a deep breath. I haven’t slept in two days, but before I crash I’ve got a few things to do. First, I call Philippe, my . . . uh . . . lawyer and financial advisor. I tell him my last wishes. He’s a bit perplexed and possibly high, but I’m a good client, so he gets right on it. Next, I slip back into my coat and gloves, wrap my scarf around my neck, and grab last night’s loot.
A sour bubble of guilt expands in my stomach as I descend the steps to First Kelc’h and crunch along the frozen snow toward the de Morel crypt, using the flashlight on my phone to guide my steps. An owl hoots somewhere, and black wings flap so close to my head I duck. My blood pressure soars, thumping like the wings on the bat? Crow? Vampire?
“Creepy-ass town,” I grumble as I reach the crypt.
Everything’s exactly like I left it: the open iron door, the smashed wooden coffins, the bones strewn about like toothpicks, the sa
rcophagus lid discarded like a forgotten sock, the bottle resting in a pool of wine that resembles dark blood.
What a fucking mess I made.
My boots thud over the packed dirt as I inch over to the sarcophagus. I imagine Cadence coming in here. Imagine her looking down on her mother and seeing nothing but rotting fabric and skin and bones. My lungs squeeze tight.
“I’m sorry. Your daughter should’ve never seen you like this,” I tell Amandine.
She leers at me with her toothy grin and hollow eyes, seemingly pleased I might die because I stole her ring.
I upend my pockets and dump it all back inside the coffin. I don’t want any of this tainted shit, priceless or not. Brume lures you in like a tasty lollipop, and it’s only when you see the blood dripping onto your shoes that you realize you’re licking your own heart speared onto a stick.
I shut that eerie thought down and grab the lid of the sarcophagus. At first, I can barely get it to move. When I do, the damn thing slips, and the edge slams down on my foot. My boots are steel-toed, but it still hurts like a motherfucker.
I howl and hop around the crypt. “Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck!”
Amandine’s grin seems to get wider.
I grip the stone lip of the sarcophagus and wriggle my toes, testing if anything broke besides my sanity. The digits move, which I take as a good sign.
I get back to trying to seal her shut, wiping the sweat off my brow and grunting like a pig. Finally, the lid slides back into place.
I toss bones back into the other coffins and piece together lids like I’m working a jigsaw puzzle. When everything’s sort of fixed, I pick up the wine bottle and limp out into the fresh night air, banging the heavy door shut behind me.
My actions don’t make me feel better, but they do make me feel slightly less monstrous.
A thin skin of ice has formed over the snow. My feet punch holes into it, each step sounding like the crunch of breakfast cereal. I focus on the sound, hoping to numb my mind of any real thought. Or should I say, any thought that this is actually real. It’s such a nightmare, almost worse than when I lived with Vincent. Except this time, no one’s waking me up with an earful of insults and a sharp crack across the cheek. I almost miss the guy, and he was a pitiful human being.
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 11