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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Just to get a better sense of the person we’re working with. He seems like such a . . . wild boy.”

  “Didn’t Papa tell you about him?”

  “Your papa told me not to worry about anything. That he had everything handled. And between Romain, the twins, and the shop, when someone tells me not to concern myself with something, I don’t.” She rubs her cheek again, and I notice there’s still blood on it, but it mustn’t be hers because she has no cuts.

  “There’s some blood on your temple.”

  She wrinkles her nose and grabs a napkin, spits on it, then scours her skin. “Is it gone?”

  I nod but notice a yellowish-green mark has bloomed along her cheekbone. “You’re going to have one heck of a bruise.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. He hit me with the Bloodstone. That thing’s harder than a diamond.”

  Can Nolwenn hear us? Probably not over the whir of the juicer.

  Gaëlle unloops her yellow scarf. “I still can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

  “You’re telling me? I didn’t even know this was real.”

  Her lips press into a repentant smile. “I advised Rainier to tell you years ago.” She pours herself a mug of coffee and fishes a pain au chocolat from the basket.

  “I wish he had.” I take a thick croissant and plop it onto a plate, my stomach making as much noise as the thing in the well.

  I look through the window toward it, expecting to see Adrien and Slate still standing out there, but find only a lone fireman beside the massive pot. Even the bystanders have dispersed, probably heading back to bed or classes.

  “What did you mean by wild boy?”

  “Slate doesn’t strike me as someone who trusts easily, and for this to work, we’re going to have to rely on each other implicitly.”

  “It’ll probably take him time. I’ve known you and Adrien since I was born; we’re all strangers to him.”

  “We don’t have time,” she hisses.

  A chill envelops me, almost as violent as the one that rocketed up my spine last night after I tossed a coin inside the well, and I knock my knee into the table leg. The contact reawakens the plum-colored bruise.

  The velvet curtain hedging the entrance shifts, and I think it’s them. Hope it’s them. But it’s not.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God . . . it’s insane out there.” Alma pulls off her coat and mittens and trots over to us in thigh-high heeled boots that she’s paired with black leggings and a thick sweater with a slanted hem.

  Her outfit makes mine look so stiff and bland. Not that my sense of fashion is of great importance at the moment.

  She drops into the chair beside mine, pushing her strawberry-blonde curls back and filling a mug with coffee. “You think some underground pipe burst or is it because of global warming?”

  “Global warming?” Gaëlle asks.

  “You know”—Alma flaps a small packet of sugar, then tears the top, and pours it into her coffee—“ice caps melting and all?”

  “It’s a pipe,” I lie.

  Alma shakes her head. “Incroyable.”

  “How come you’re up so early?”

  “Class is in ninety minutes, and I thought you’d want to practice your lesson.”

  My . . .? Oh, right. I squeeze her hand for being so thoughtful. “Adrien ended up staying, so he’ll be teaching it.” Where was he anyway? “Didn’t you see him out there?”

  “Nope. Just a couple of hot firemen.” She looks past my shoulder and out the window. “I mean, did you see the size of that one?” She tips her head to the uniformed man guarding the well. “He’s a little old for me but perfect for you, Gaëlle.” Alma waggles her eyebrows.

  Gaëlle coughs, as though her bite of pain au chocolat went down the wrong pipe. “I have enough men in my life.”

  I don’t really know what happened with her ex-husband—is he even her ex? All I know is that he’s not a good man. I mean, who up and leaves a woman with his son from a previous marriage and twins on the way? Someone with zero morals.

  “But they’re all under the age of fifteen,” Alma points out.

  Gaëlle’s still clearing her airway, eyes so round I almost spring out of my chair. Instead, I grab a glass and fill it with water for her.

  She downs it in one long swallow. “Imagine . . . death-by-pastry-flake.” She shoots us a watery smile. “The ultimate embarrassment for my boys.”

  “You could put a spell on the next man,” one-track-minded Alma suggests.

  “What?” Gaëlle wheezes.

  “Mix up some eye of newt with a dragonfly heart and a tube of superglue to bind your next lover to you.” Alma winks to show she’s teasing, but knowing my friend’s passion for all that is mystical, I sense she’s only half-joking. “If only potions were real.”

  “Maybe they are.” Nolwenn sets down a carafe brimming with orange juice and a platter of creamy scrambled eggs she must’ve just fetched from the kitchen, because a ribbon of steam twirls off the top. “Maybe Gaëlle’s a real witch.”

  Alma smiles. But I don’t, because Nolwenn’s tone isn’t playful. It’s solemn, like she actually believes this could be true.

  I sit up a little straighter. “Do you believe in magic, Nolwenn?”

  As she pulls out a chair to join us, she arches an overplucked eyebrow. “Doesn’t everyone in Brume?”

  Gaëlle scoots out her chair as though the table were digging into her abdomen. “I’m no witch, Alma, but I believe in the power of the mind over our circumstances. Have you ever heard of la poudre de Perlimpinpin?”

  Alma pops an eyebrow up. “The miraculous cure for all ailments that was nothing more than dirt or oil or something?”

  Gaëlle nods slowly. “That’s right.”

  Nolwenn waves a hand. “I contest. What you sell is not snake oil. You use real ingredients in your potions and poultices. Sure, they don’t miraculously melt pounds or give eternal youth, but I’ve used your butterbur migraine aid, and it works. I no longer have to spend an entire day in a dark room with a belt tied around my skull.”

  Gaëlle’s complexion brightens from the compliment.

  “So, maybe you are a bit of a witch”—Nolwenn pours some milk into her coffee and stirs—“just like your ancestors.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the tavern is her spoon clinking against porcelain.

  She blows on the top, sending the sweet, charred steam into her daughter-in-law’s face. “Just like Cadence’s maternal ancestors. And Adrien’s.” She sets her brown gaze on mine. “And Marseille’s.”

  The knot in my stomach, which had begun to loosen, tightens anew.

  Alma frowns. “Marseille?”

  “The handsome boy with the black hair.”

  “You mean, Slate?” Alma asks.

  “Is that his name?” Nolwenn asks, sipping her coffee. “I couldn’t remember.”

  But I think that’s a lie. Nolwenn seems to know an awful lot. Does her knowledge of Brume bloodlines stem from serving alcohol that loosens tongues or from having witnessed the previous generation’s hunt?

  My gaze releases hers to trace the quatrefoil motif beneath my feet. Brume lore is everywhere. In every cobble and tile. In every stone and plank. In the earth and in the trees.

  “Some even believe that the symbol on my floor is based on a real artifact that, if found, could restore magic to Brume. To the entire world.”

  I whip my gaze back up to hers.

  “Wouldn’t that be so cool?” Alma chirps, sloshing orange juice into her glass.

  I force myself not to look over at Gaëlle when I ask, “Do you believe the Quatrefoil exists, Nolwenn?”

  A long swallow of coffee makes the older woman’s throat contract. “Yes. But I think it’s the source of all evil and should be left alone.”

  Panic flashes across Gaëlle’s features. Is she worried Nolwenn might try to stop us?

  In a tone too serious to be a joke, her mother-in-law adds, “Remember what happened to Pandora wh
en she opened her box.”

  Curses escaped and damned the world.

  The heavy velvet curtain shifts again, inviting in the icy morning and dragging away Nolwenn’s unsettling gaze.

  She sighs and rises. “Work beckons.” She puts a hand on Gaëlle’s shoulder. “The boys are all set for the day?”

  “Twins are at daycare, and Romain’s spending some extra time in the arms of Morpheus. I swear, that boy’s been sleeping thirteen-hour nights every night.”

  “He’s growing. Juda had to bang pots to get Matthias out of bed when he was an adolescent.”

  The mention of Matthias has Gaëlle tugging on a long spiraling lock. “I should . . . should go.” She pushes her chair back brusquely and starts winding up her scarf. “Fill in Rainier. About the well.”

  Alma frowns as both Nolwenn and Gaëlle depart. “Well, that was . . . weird.”

  Understatement of the year. Then again, the year’s two days’ old.

  “Oh my God!” She slaps her palm over her mouth.

  “What?”

  “She’s having an affair with your dad!” Her exclamation is thankfully muffled by her palm.

  “What?” We were discussing magic and curses, and this is what came to her? “No.”

  Alma nods, lowering her hand and wrapping her fingers around her juice glass. “She so is. Seriously, she’s always coming over to your house. And did you see her face when Sylvie kissed your papa on New Year’s?”

  “Nothing romantic is going on between them,” I say, defensively now. I don’t want Alma spreading rumors of an affair.

  “Maybe that’s why her husband left. Maybe the twins are your half-brothers.”

  “Alma, stop!” I scrape my chair back so hard the wooden feet clack across the tiles.

  She shuts up. But then, because her lips are incapable of staying closed, she adds, “Why are you getting so annoyed? You love Gaëlle.”

  “I’m annoyed because it isn’t true.”

  “Are you sure? She didn’t even glance at that fireman . . .”

  “I can’t do this right now. Have this nonsensical conversation when there are so many real and important matters to worry about.” I get up and pluck my coat off the chair. “I’ll call you later.” I ram my arms through the sleeves, but one gets stuck. I wrench my hat out, then jam it on my head, stick my coat on, and stalk out of the tavern.

  I glare at the well, anger simmering beneath my skin. I’m so angry I want to knock over the giant soup pot. My father is not having an affair with a woman over a decade younger than him, and the twins aren’t my siblings. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Matthias was his friend.

  I stomp down the stairs to First Kelc’h. My feet carry me to the cemetery, to Maman before I remember I haven’t called the groundskeeper yet. I almost turn around, especially when I notice the door of our crypt is closed. I inch closer and push the door open a crack. I blink, press it wider. The stone lid’s been placed back on top of the sarcophagus, the other coffins all have lids, and the bottle of wine no longer litters the floor. Papa must’ve contacted the custodian himself.

  I’m so grateful because I couldn’t have stomached another glimpse of my mother. Plus, that he took care of this shows he thought of her. That he hasn’t replaced her with another woman. That he still loves her.

  I shake my head, trying to wring Alma’s words out of my mind, but they cling like the fog obscuring my view of the manor. I’m tempted to stomp over and check that all Gaëlle and Papa are doing is talking, but that would mean I’m harboring doubts.

  Besides, I have way more pressing matters to worry about.

  Like saving Slate.

  Where is he anyway?

  19

  Slate

  Adrien’s like a giant burr. He stopped trying to talk to me a while ago but hasn’t stopped trailing me.

  “Don’t you have a class to teach, Prof?”

  “Not for another hour and a half.”

  We go another fifteen minutes without talking. I don’t even know where I am on the hill. All I know is that I’m still in Brume, and I know this because I have a ring that won’t let me escape this freezing hole that’s turned me into the shittiest version of myself.

  I arrive in front of a set of vertiginous stairs. Unlike the staggered sets of stairs between each kelc’h, this particular set goes on for eternity. It leads directly down to the lake. The sun’s just coming up, so there’s enough light for me to make out the smoking waterline through a break in the cracked ramparts below.

  Gripping the icy metal rail, I start the descent, each step reverberating through my body like cymbals in a brass band. My boot slips on a patch of ice, and I almost go down.

  “Roland!” Professor Prickhead jogs two steps below me and readies his hands to catch me like I’m an octogenarian with a bad hip. “Careful, there.”

  I can’t even imagine what I must look like for him to do that.

  My head aches. My toe smarts. My fingers throb. My knuckles sting. And my elbow . . . I clench my jaw.

  What really hurts, though, is my pride.

  “Just leave me alone,” I grumble.

  “Can’t. I promised the others I would stick with you.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, all right?”

  “Look, we need to discuss what happened back there. And I can’t let you go off on your own half-cocked—”

  “Thanks for the concern, Prof, but I’m not going off half-cocked. I was on my way to the lake.” A lie. I had no damn clue this led downward, although maybe water calls to my blood, what with it being my element and all. I can’t fucking believe I have an element. “I need to think and seeing the water helps.”

  “Okay. Okay. If you really want to see the lake, I’ve got a better idea.” He points to a painted wooden door set into the stone wall back at the top of the stairs.

  I would go down the trillion steps just to spite Adrien. I want to go down them to spite him. But there’s a real possibility that, in my current state, I’ll keel over and split my head open. Wherever that door leads seems like a safer option.

  “Fine,” I mutter, trudging back up the three steps I’ve already taken.

  The door opens onto a garden terrace. Instead of flowers and shrubs, scraggly sticks poke out of windblown mounds of snow. A dirty path of footprints leads to three green benches that face out over the edge of the ramparts and onto the fog-cloaked lake.

  Though it’s a water view, it’s nothing like the one from my apartment. There, everything is drenched in color, from the cerulean of the sea to the ochre wash of the buildings to the glowing halo of the sun. Here, it’s all in grayscale—a placid steel pool, ashen sky, cottony smog, leaden fortifications. Even so, staring down at what I can see of the liquid expanse makes me feel more at home than I’ve felt since stepping foot in this fucked-up town.

  Adrien tugs at his wool overcoat and settles on the first bench. I stay standing, knees locked and arms crossed.

  He pats the lacquered wood. “Have a seat, Roland.”

  “I’m good.” I’m not; I’m just not sure my joints can fold. My body feels stiff and achy, the tinman in need of an oiling. And by that, I mean I need a drink. And yes, I know it’s eight in the morning, but my life sucks that hard.

  Adrien lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t look too hot.”

  I snort.

  “Which is normal.” He brushes his fingers over the tweed leg of his pants. “You saw someone you care about—a lot—in the well. You thought they were drowning.”

  Someone I care about a lot? An insane laugh bubbles out of me, and I bite down on it, shoving it back. I care about Bastian. About my cactus and my bank account. How the hell did Cadence de Morel scale the ladder of my stunted emotional hierarchy? The memory of her panicked face under the ice makes my whole body seize up like I’ve been tased.

  “I’d be a mess too if I’d given in to my urge to look down.”

  But he didn’t, because he’s not weak like me.

 
“Who did you see?” Adrien asks.

  I narrow my eyes. Like I’d tell him. “Does it matter?”

  “No. I guess not.” He cuts his gaze to the water. Despite the wind lifting his hair into a rooster comb, he manages to still seem elegant. Poised. Serene.

  Is that why Cadence likes him so much? Because he’s so composed and grounded?

  He looks back at me. “What was it like? Did you feel like you weren’t yourself? Like you were acting out of character?”

  “It was fucking terrifying. I really believed she—” I swallow thickly, cutting myself off before I slip and admit who she was. “I felt like I was . . . drunk. Like the world was tipping, and everything but the person in the well was out of focus. I suppose that was the magic.” I squeeze the wet sleeve of my pea coat, frigid water still dripping out. My hand and wrist don’t feel cold, but I sense that’s a side-effect of the ring that’s still radiating heat. “How did you know what was happening back at the well? That I was seeing . . . someone in there?”

  “Because that’s what happened last time. Well, not a person; a thing. A coveted thing. It was in the lake, not the well, but Gaëlle’s father and my mother both saw something they really wanted bob atop the lake.” Adrien’s mouth twists. “It was Gaëlle’s father, Pierre, who went into the water, hooked onto a rope to reel him in. Pierre understood he was facing dark magic, fought it, and got the piece, but because that piece wasn’t his to get, he died. Drowned on dry land. Apparently, it was gruesome. My father still gets agitated when he remembers. And that’s saying something considering he couldn’t even see what they’d seen.”

  Sounds like Adrien’s life isn’t a hundred percent perfect, and that makes him somewhat more likeable, like he might not deserve his new nickname even though it’s quite catchy.

  Every inch of me hurts. Even my nose hairs are sore. “I wish it was a thing this time, too.” I shift my weight to lean against the low wall of the terrace and wince as my elbow bumps the stone. The elbow Adrien slammed his fist into.