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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “A pigsty would’ve been one hell of an upgrade.”

  My spoon freezes as I realize how insensitive that was.

  He snatches a piece of hard cheese, then scoots his chair back. “Anyway, I haven’t slept in a few days, so I’m gonna go hit the sack.”

  I tilt my head up, guilt swarming me. “Slate . . . I didn’t mean . . . that wasn’t very nice of me.” I bite my bottom lip.

  “Don’t sweat it, princess.” Saluting me, he grabs his coat and heads toward the bar where he taps the varnished wood.

  He’s not seriously going to grab another drink? Hasn’t he had enough?

  My sight of him becomes obstructed by a pair of pressed trousers. I trail the legs up to an unbuttoned vest worn over a dress shirt and catch the tail end of Adrien’s sentence.

  “ . . . just wanted to check on you after the talk.”

  “Oh. Um. I’m okay. Shocked but okay.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I crane my neck to see beyond him. Slate’s no longer at the bar.

  Adrien looks over his shoulder. “Did Roland just up and leave you?”

  “He was tired.”

  “Still, that’s not very chivalrous of him. Especially after everything he set in motion . . .” Adrien dips his freshly shaven chin into his neck.

  I sigh. “I’m sure he regrets it more than anyone else. By the way”—I lean forward and whisper—“apparently he located one of the pieces. He’s not sure if it’s mine or his.”

  Adrien’s hazel eyes widen. “And he went to retrieve it?”

  “Not yet. Since we don’t know whose it is . . .”

  He sits in the chair Slate vacated. “Is it in water or on land?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Charlotte frowning . . . or rather scowling, and even though it shouldn’t procure me any pleasure, it sort of does. She might not understand this now, but Adrien and I have more in common than the two of them ever will.

  “It’s in the well.” I relish being the sole recipient of his attention.

  His pupils dilate as he absorbs the information. “If there’s water in the well, it’s his. If the well’s dry, I’d imagine it’s yours. I’d check with Rainier, though.” He’s silent for a beat. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

  “I know.” Excitement and dread are going head-to-head inside me.

  We’re going to bring magic back. Magic . . .

  He reaches over and covers my hand with his, and my heart migrates right into my fingers.

  Adrien Mercier is holding my hand.

  In public.

  “Cadence, I know this must all be very thrilling to you, but you need to remember that this isn’t a game.”

  I pull my hand away. “Maman’s dead, so I’m very much aware that this isn’t a game.”

  “Hey. Don’t get mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not. And don’t talk down to me. I may be younger than you, Adrien, but I’m not a child.”

  “I know you’re not a child. Would I let a kid teach my class?”

  I press my lips tight.

  His expression softens. “I’m just worried. Genuinely worried.”

  That unstaples my mouth.

  “I care about you, Cadence. I care what happens to you. You’re the closest thing to a sister I have.”

  Sister? My heart freefalls right into my boots. Silly . . . so silly, but I don’t want Adrien to see me like that. I bob my head, because what else am I supposed to do? Tell him he’s like family, too? He’s not.

  I pick pieces of cheese off my plate, stuffing them way too quickly into my cheeks. I must look like a hamster. Whatever. It’s not like Adrien sees me as a woman anyway. As far as I’m concerned, rodent is a step above sister.

  “Do you want to join us?” He tips his head toward Charlotte’s table.

  I’d rather jump in the well and get cursed by a magical leaf.

  “I need to get home, but thanks,” I add courteously, because that’s how Papa raised me.

  As Nolwenn passes by the table, I touch her sleeve. “Nolwenn, can I get the check?”

  She smiles down at me. “It’s already been taken care of.” When I frown, she adds, “That boy . . . Marseille. He covered it. Left some extra in case you wanted something more to eat and drink. Do you want anything else? A crêpe, maybe? I’m good at those.”

  Slate paid for my meal? How . . . unexpected.

  “Nothing else, thank you.” I drain my tea and get up.

  Adrien watches me zip up my coat. “You no longer have to replace me tomorrow, by the way.”

  The zipper whispers shut as I tug it all the way up, bumping the underside of my chin.

  “Still need to go to class if I want to graduate someday,” I say before arrowing toward the door. When I burst onto the cold street, my rapid breaths coalesce into a thick white cloud.

  I study the well, then stride over to it and peer into the darkness beyond the grate. I can’t tell what the bottom looks like, so I shine my phone, but the beam gets lost in the endless stretch of velvety black. I forage for a coin inside my pocket, find a heavy two-euro one. Hoping it doesn’t activate any curses, I drop it in, then hold my breath as it tumbles.

  And tumbles.

  I’m still holding my breath when the coin connects with something and generates a distinctive splash.

  Water.

  I jump back, because if there’s water, then it’s Slate’s piece. And if it’s Slate’s piece, then the leaf might not be too happy to be disturbed by someone who isn’t meant to go after it.

  Something sloshes. The blood in my veins?

  I hear it again, and this time, I know it’s not my blood, because it’s accompanied by successive slaps, like waves against rocks. The water’s either rising or something’s moving around down below.

  I stumble backward, then whirl around, slipping and going down so hard I think my kneecap cracks. I shove back up onto my feet, and even though my leg is screaming, I run like I’ve never run before. And I don’t stop until I reach our front door even though I topple over twice more on the way.

  When I get home, my palms are bleeding. I lock our door, smearing blood over the frame and metal deadbolt. “Papa!”

  What have I done what have I done what have I done?

  A door snicks open.

  “Cadence?” my father yells, the rubber tires of his wheelchair squealing on the first floor landing. “What is it?”

  My entire body shakes as I take the stairs two at a time.

  “Ma chérie, what is it?”

  Gulping down air, I tell him everything that’s happened. It takes me several attempts to get all the words out, and God only knows how he understands any of my crazed rambling above my heavy panting.

  He latches onto my palms, his complexion white as toothpaste. “Did you touch it?”

  I shake my head, my ponytail flogging my cheeks, strands sticking to my skin that’s coated in a mixture of sweat and tears.

  I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. “Is it . . . is it . . . is it coming for me?”

  “Non, mon amour. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.” He tugs on my arm until I fall into his lap. And then he hugs me and kisses my forehead. “Ma Cadence. Shh. You’re safe.”

  I scrub my eyes with my sleeve. “What was it?”

  He sighs. “The Quatrefoil only knows.” But I sense, from the way the muscles in his arms have hardened, that he has some theories and that none of them are going to be comforting.

  “Is it a monster?”

  He pushes hair off my damp face. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than the leaf trying to scare you away.”

  Is he telling me the truth? Do I even want to know the truth before sleeping? I swallow, my throat aching as violently as my knees. “Can I sleep in your room tonight, Papa?”

  “Bien sûr, ma chérie.” He glances toward the front door, which looks like the entrance to a crime s
cene.

  “You promise it’s not coming for me?”

  “I promise. It’s not how the pieces work. They only protect themselves. They don’t chase you.”

  I breathe in deeply, but it mustn’t be deep enough because my lungs are still tight after my hot shower, and my pulse still gallops when I dive under Papa’s bed covers and drag them all the way to my nose.

  15

  Slate

  I reach across the bed for Cadence, wanting to feel the heat of her soft skin underneath my fingertips. It’s only when my hand brushes against empty spun-cotton sheets and flops over the edge of the puny mattress that I wake up and realize she’s not here. That she never was.

  I inhale deeply. Her smell is everywhere . . . on the sheets, on the goose-down pillow. Powdery and fresh, with a hint of something floral and fruity. It takes over my entire freaking mind. Shit. Now I need a cold shower.

  Grabbing a towel and the soap, I shuffle out of my bedroom and down the weakly lit hallway that’s lined with three more numbered doors to the one that bears the sign TOILETTES HOMMES.

  As the old plumbing creaks to life, I step under the stinging spray and pop the top off the soap Cadence gave me. A flash of her half-open mouth flares behind my lids. Damn sheets. Sniffing them all night must’ve locked Rainier’s daughter inside my brain the same way the Bloodstone sealed her mother’s ring to my finger. I stare at the stone, which is the same shade as Cadence’s lips, and grumble insults at it under my breath.

  Because I can’t get her mouth out of my stupid head, I spin the hot water knob off until icy needles batter my chest, then grit my teeth to avoid squealing like a baby as my skin brightens and burns. Sluggishly, my mind finally clears. Only then do I spin the hot water knob back as far as it will go. It takes forever to heat up. I scrub my skin hard with the soap, the thick white lather streaming down my legs and around my feet. I notice that one of my toes is purple, the same shade as my finger. Brume isn’t good to my extremities.

  When I step out of the old enamel stall, I almost regret not air-drying, because the towel I’ve wrapped around my waist smells like Cadence. Not that air-drying would have been an option considering I’m no longer alone.

  A guy’s brushing his teeth, while another one’s standing at the urinals. I miss my gargantuan bathroom back in Marseille, possibly more than I miss my brother and cactus, not necessarily in that order.

  The guys and I nod to each other in that stiff way one uses when half-naked and among strangers.

  The redhead spits toothpaste into the sink. “You’re new to the university?”

  Will I ever attend classes? Who the hell knows. I look at my reflection and see the lump on my forehead, feel the throbbing in my toe and finger. Right now, I just need to survive until the middle of the month.

  And to think I haven’t gotten to the perilous bit yet.

  I shrug as I finger-comb my black mop. “Guess so.”

  “Cool.” The guy bobs his head and wipes his face with a hand towel.

  “You should take Mademoiselle Claire’s class,” the blond at the urinal says.

  “What does she teach?” I ask.

  “Astronomy.” Carrot-top grins. “But that’s not the reason Liron takes her class.”

  “We all got our vices, Paul. At least, mine’s legal.” Liron’s voice resonates against the grimy tiles.

  “But you got to admit, my vice has the best ass in Brume. And lips. God, her lips.” I can tell he’s picturing them on his body. Dude needs to get laid.

  Liron zips himself up. “Your vice is also related to the dean, Paul.”

  I freeze with my fingers shoved halfway through my hair. “Are you talking about Cadence de Morel?”

  Carrot-top’s ears go red. “Um . . . yeah?”

  Rage barrels through me, and before I can even think, I shove Paul against the scummy wall.

  “Hey!” Liron shouts. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  I check myself and peel my hands off Paul’s flushed skin. “Cadence is a human being. Not a piece of ass with great lips. Show her some goddamn respect,” I say, before limping out of the bathroom and toward door number three. Sure, I’m a giant hypocrite, but Cadence doesn’t deserve to be talked about like Grade A meat.

  There’s an envelope taped to my door. The last envelope I received sent me to Brume. Logic tells me this can’t be worse, but my stomach still tilts. I slide a finger under the flap, pull out the paper, and scoff. A welcome and reminder to confirm my class schedule online. Yeah. Whatever. I ball up the paper and chuck it into the wastebasket on the other side of the bed. Three points.

  I don’t know if I’m going to need a scuba suit or a miner’s helmet for the well, but considering I own neither, I dress in black jeans, a white button-down, and my scuffed boots. My plan for the morning is to head back to the square to get a better look at what I might be facing, and then stop by de Morel’s manor to squeeze every last ounce of knowledge from the old man’s brain and confirm if it is, in fact, my piece.

  I punch my arms through the sleeves of my coat. In the dim light, the Bloodstone looks black as a bullet wound. I’m still studying the ring when I open my door and feel a fist knock against my pec.

  I look at the owner of the fist and can’t help smiling.

  Cadence jumps and trips. I reach out and catch her arm. Her puffy sleeve is cool under my touch and dispenses a whiff of her scent. I groan without meaning to.

  Get it together, Slate.

  Her brows fly up under her pearl-gray beanie, and the furry pompom on top flutters. “Your finger!” She sounds almost panicked as she gazes to the hand still cinched around her bicep.

  I release her. “What?”

  “You groaned.”

  “I’m pretty sure I made no such sound.”

  Her eyebrows dip. “It was either you or the hinges on your door.”

  “Definitely the hinges.” I stretch out my digits. “The finger’s feeling loads better.” Not. But there’s no way I’m letting Cadence believe that moan came from me.

  A door slams shut down the hallway, then a key jingles.

  Cadence and I both turn. When I catch a glint of copper, my shoulder blades tighten. Cadence shoots the boy a smile.

  His steps falter. “Ca-cadence, good morning.”

  “Hi, Paul.”

  He looks from me to her and back again, freckles melting into his blush. He’s a dick, but at least, he’s a perceptive one, because he power-walks by us, muttering, “Don’t want to be late for class.”

  He glances back once; I glower. He almost stumbles down the stairs, steadying himself on the weathered banister.

  When we’re alone again, I check my Rolex for the time—7:30 a.m. “What brings you to my door at the crack of dawn, Mademoiselle de Morel?”

  She drags her front teeth over her perky bottom lip, and putain, I need another shower.

  “Last night, I threw a coin into the well, and it hit water.” She frees her lip, and it glistens. I must be sporting one hell of a blank stare, because she adds, “Which means it’s your piece.”

  I clear my throat. “Right. I assumed as much.”

  “Anyway, after I tossed my coin”—color leaches from her skin—“there was splashing.”

  I lean against my doorframe and cross my arms. “That’s usually what happens when something solid meets something liquid.”

  She regains a little color and shakes her head. “There was a lot of splashing. Like there was something down there.”

  My vertebrae bolt together until my spine feels more steel rod than flexible bone.

  “And then this morning, on my way over, I passed by the square, and it’s . . .” She swallows.

  I push off the doorframe, my pulse going from zero to a hundred. “Don’t leave me hanging. It’s what?”

  “Just . . . come.” She heads down the rickety stairs and opens the front door.

  What the hell am I in for? “If there’s a monster eel out there—”

>   One corner of her absurdly fascinating mouth curls up. “Here I thought you were brave.”

  The challenge in her voice combined with her half-smile injects something into my veins. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it courage, but something strong enough to make me lock my door and pound down the stairs.

  I grab the edge of the front door and draw it wider. “Smart mouth.”

  She levels me with a smile that cordons the blood off from my head and limbs.

  Her mouth moves, and it takes my starved brain a moment to make sense of her words. “Did you manage to sleep? You look . . . dazed.”

  I grip the collar of my coat, tightening it so no cold air seeps in. “I slept quite well actually. Had some real pleasant dreams.”

  “That’s good.”

  The sky’s black as pitch. Even so, people are up and about, rushing off to their workplace or heading to the university buildings for early classes. No one looks particularly spritely. My guess is half of them are still recovering from New Year’s Eve.

  “And you?”

  She shakes her head no.

  I’m imagining it was our imminent game of capture-the-cursed-leaves-before-Slate-croaks that kept her up. “What’s the deal with school starting back up so early here? Back in Marseille, classes are out until the middle of the month.”

  “Brume runs on a slightly different calendar than the rest of French schools. A lunar one. We start classes on the full moon.”

  “For all the werewolf students?” I stage-whisper.

  She lets out a cute snort. “Werewolves aren’t real.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She slows her pace a little, her gaze running over the ice crystallizing the wooden shutters of the stone houses. “There’s no mention of lycanthropy in the history books.”

  “And in books, we trust.”

  Instead of calling me up on my derision, Cadence becomes pensive.

  “So, why do classes start on the full moon?”

  Even though her mind seems a mile away—in the library meat-locker to be precise—she says, “Full moons are conducive to learning. It supposedly makes everything clearer, more powerful. Even spells.”

  “Is that in the university handbook?”

  “Just part of the local lore.” Her eyes lose focus for a second, and I imagine she’s thinking how everything she once considered lore is now up for reinterpretation.