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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Yeah. He’s staying Professor Prickhead.

  “Does this mean the challenges will be similar?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But at least, now we know it’s a possibility. And we can prepare.” Adrien rubs his jaw, swollen and blue from my punch.

  I clear my throat and motion to the bruise that’s forming. “Sorry about that.”

  “Hurts a heck of a lot. I’m actually surprised you didn’t dislocate my jaw.”

  “I was off my game. Believe me, if I hadn’t been distracted, you’d be in the hospital right now, crying like a baby.”

  He smiles. “Guess I should thank the groac’h you saw in there.”

  “Grow-whatta?”

  “Groac’h. Shapeshifting water sprite.”

  A sprite? I touched a fucking fairy? “Better thank her before I get my hands on a harpoon gun.” My tone is lighter, like my mood, like the sky.

  Adrien breathes out a short chuckle. We both stare out at the misty water for a moment.

  Then he says, “I remember your parents. I remember you.”

  I twist my neck back fast enough to get whiplash. “You do?”

  “Yeah. I have this one memory of Eugenia carrying you in this kangaroo pouch thing, and your big, bald head was sticking out. I remember thinking it looked like an ostrich egg.” He gives me a mocking smile. Like it’s hilarious for him to remember me bald and tiny and helpless.

  “Fuck you, Mercier.” Super Douche. Professor Prickhead.

  His smile widens. “We were all at some party. I don’t know for what. I don’t even remember where it was. The only reason I remember you in that carrier is because your mother was wearing it when she gave me a gift: an illustrated book on the history of Brume. I loved that book. I think that’s what whet my appetite for my studies.”

  A needle of pain pierces my chest. I hate to be petty, but it galls me that Professor here got something meaningful from my parents when all I got was a crappy stay in foster care.

  “You look like Eugenia. She had the same curly hair.”

  As a Bloodstone-sized lump forms in my throat, Adrien’s phone dings. He pulls it out, the color draining from his face as he reads the message.

  “What?” I step forward. “What is it?”

  He runs a hand through his hair, before standing. “Gaëlle just talked to Rainier. We have until sunup tomorrow morning to get the piece.”

  Snow and gravel crunch under his spiffy boots as he makes his way to the door.

  I haven’t moved. “I thought we had until the new moon to gather the pieces.”

  He opens the little door. “As a whole, we do. But apparently, once the diwaller touches his or her leaf, it only remains visible for twenty-four hours. Then it disappears.”

  I still don’t move.

  “But we know how to get this one. It’ll be fine, Roland.”

  When I still don’t step away from the rampart, he drags the door wider. “I know you don’t trust me, but I never make promises I can’t keep.”

  “You’re not the one diving into the well.”

  “I’ll be the one standing beside it, holding the rope tied to your waist to haul you back up.” He shoots me a smile that seems genuine. “You’re not alone, Slate.”

  I think it’s the first time he’s used my name. It feels like an olive branch for some reason and unbolts my limbs.

  As we step back into the whorl of stone streets, I say, “What if the fairy grow-ass-shit—

  “Groac’h.”

  “Yeah. What if this groac’h saws off the rope?”

  “I’ll jump in.”

  I doubt he’d sacrifice himself for me, but the sentiment is heartwarming. I rethink his nickname a second time. “Is the library open at this time?”

  “If it’s not, Cadence has the keys.”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “Oh. I can text her. Tell her to meet us.”

  As we head toward the temple at the top of the hill, it starts to snow.

  If the water fairy doesn’t kill me, this fucking weather will.

  20

  Cadence

  I can’t shake the chill in my bones, maybe because it’s composed of so many layers—the thing in the well that made me think Papa was drowning, Nolwenn’s allusion to Pandora, Alma’s insinuation about an affair. Not having slept doesn’t help. Even though I’m dying for a thermos of scorching coffee, I don’t dare bring any liquids into the archival room for fear of spillage. Especially now. We can’t afford to ruin any documents.

  I’m only on the tenth page of Istor Breou—I’m not as fluent in Breton as Adrien, plus I’m jotting down everything and anything that sounds remotely linked to dark magic—when the glass door beeps open. It’s Adrien, and he isn’t alone. He kept his promise, which shouldn’t surprise me. The man’s never broken one before.

  They approach the laminated white table over which I’ve spread out my research—Istor Breou and other books I got from the library mentioning fantastical aquatic monsters. I’m hoping there could be some applicable truths inside works of fantasy fiction.

  Adrien examines the mess of papers and open books. “Find anything interesting?”

  “The giant Pacific octopus has three hearts, nine brains, and blue blood.”

  Slate, who stands behind Adrien with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, snorts.

  Adrien blinks. “Why are you researching octopi?”

  “I’m researching all aquatic monsters. Especially shapeshifting ones.” I look at Slate again, at his mussed black hair dusted with melting snowflakes, at his thick lashes that shield guarded eyes. “I saw Papa, but I know that was personal to me. Was it my father you saw in there, Slate?”

  He stares at the cover of a Greek myth anthology. “No. But I also didn’t see a nine-brained octopus.”

  My lips quirk, which is a feat considering how stressed I feel.

  Adrien steps past me and lifts one of the books. “Good. You got Homer out.”

  “I was looking for a siren’s weaknesses. I didn’t know if we could use methods written in works of fiction—”

  “Maybe some of these aren’t fictional accounts,” Adrien says. “After all, the world did have magic.”

  Adrien’s comment stuns me into silence. After a beat, I say, “I keep forgetting that part.”

  “I don’t blame you.” He skims a page, then flips to the next one. “Magic was stripped from humans in 1350, so we should probably focus on works written before that time.”

  That pretty much excludes everything but Istor Breou, The Odyssey, and a couple translations of Asian myths.

  Adrien lifts my notepad. “Does Istor Breou mention a groac’h? Or something that lures men in by taking the shape of a person they love?”

  “I think love is a strong word,” Slate interjects.

  I wonder why he feels the need to make the distinction. “You seemed pretty desperate to fish out the person you saw.”

  He rubs his jaw. “Why does my benevolence surprise you, Mademoiselle de Morel? I might not have three hearts like your giant squid, but I do have one.”

  There he goes again, heaping derision over something that clearly scared him back in the town square. “Octopus, not squid.”

  “Bickering’s not going to help us get the piece,” Adrien says.

  “We’re not bickering,” I mutter, disliking how Adrien manages to make me feel like a rambunctious three-year-old.

  “Gaëlle found out from Rainier that I have twenty-four hours”—Slate peers down at his bulky gold wristwatch—“more like twenty-three now, to recover the piece.”

  Bile swishes in my stomach at the mention of Gaëlle and Papa in the same sentence. “What happens after that? Do you turn into a pumpkin?”

  Slate’s lopsided grin makes an appearance. “If turning into a pumpkin is a euphemism for dying, then yes, I turn into a pumpkin.”

  I suck in too much air and wheeze. “You’re kidding?”

  “Last of my bloodline
, remember.”

  “Any more rules I should be aware of?”

  “Why don’t you phone up your papa to find out?” There’s an edge of something in Slate’s tone—disgruntlement, hatred . . . a mix of both.

  “Maybe if we blindfolded you,” Adrien muses.

  “I’m not going in that well blind,” Slate says. “Did I mention I hate dark, tight spaces?”

  “Maybe earphones will help.” Adrien suggests. “I have some that sync with my phone so you can listen to music while swimming.”

  “I’ll take those.” Slate walks to the other side of the table and plucks a book up.

  I’m not too worried about how forcibly he flips through its pages, because it’s a glossy travel guide mentioning famous landmarks in Brittany.

  He stops thumbing through the pages and reads the section mentioning the Puits Fleuri. “It says there’s close to a meter deep of coins down there.”

  “I really don’t think now’s the time to devise a scheme to steal money, Slate.”

  He spears me with a look I wouldn’t even wish on Adrien’s girlfriend. “I was only pointing it out, Cadence, because unless the goddamn leaf is the size of a plate, I’m going to have to rake through all those coins to find it.”

  Oh.

  He drops his gaze back to the guidebook. “Your concern about my finances is touching, though.”

  Adrien glances at us and, although he doesn’t say anything, I sense his thoughts from the slant of his light-brown eyebrows.

  Harsh.

  He thinks I was harsh.

  “According to Rainier, the leaf will be about the size of your palm, Slate.”

  I bite my lip.

  Silence sets in after that, disrupted only by the sluggish ticking of the clock, scratching pen tips, and whirring air-conditioner.

  Adrien pushes back his chair. “I need to get to class, but I’ll meet you back here after lunch. If you two are still at it. You’re staying here with Slate, right?”

  I nod.

  He slides one hand over his hair to flatten his windblown locks. “Can you believe that, by tomorrow, we’ll have the first leaf?”

  Slate’s jaw tightens. Although he doesn’t say anything, the hard edges of his face speak volumes. He’s not his usual confident, happy-go-lucky self. He’s nervous.

  I am, too.

  One of Adrien’s eyes keeps twitching, a sure sign that he’s not as confident as he’s pretending to be. But is he anxious because Slate might die or because magic might be gone forever?

  Once Adrien closes the door, I study Slate’s sharp profile—his straight nose that dips a little at the tip, his scruffy jaw, his wild black curls. I can’t imagine him gone, which is weird, because yesterday I desired nothing more.

  Before I can look away, Slate turns and catches me staring. I wait for him to say something lewd or teasing, but he’s silent and grim, which makes my heart pinch. A current passes between us, charged with words and emotions that seem outrageously strong considering we’re both still such strangers to each other.

  Empathy.

  That’s what it is.

  I’m feeling empathetic, because he doesn’t deserve to die so young. Yes, the old adage says we must pay for our mistakes, but the cost of stealing a ring shouldn’t be his life.

  “Bronze daggers can apparently paralyze sirens.” It’s the only thing I’ve read that feels useful.

  “Any idea where I can purchase one of those?” He’s still looking at me, and I’m still looking at him.

  “Maybe Gaëlle carries one in her shop . . .”

  Saying her name makes my stomach contort. But no longer in irritation. Doesn’t my father deserve a second chance at happiness?

  Plus Alma was right . . . I do love Gaëlle.

  I sigh long and loud.

  So long and so loud that Slate asks, “Don’t think it’ll work?”

  “What?”

  “The bronze dagger.”

  “Oh. No. I do.”

  He frowns.

  Even though I don’t especially want to talk about it, I think that airing my problem—which really isn’t one—will take Slate’s mind off his—which truly is one. “My best friend insinuated that Gaëlle and Papa might be seeing each other, and it bothers me.”

  “Because Gaëlle’s married?”

  I shake my head. “Her husband left her last spring, when she was pregnant with twins.”

  “Bastard.”

  I chew on my bottom lip. “What if he left because she cheated on him with my father?”

  “Huh. Who knew Brume was so full of amorous intrigue?”

  I find myself smiling. “You make it sound like we’re living on the set of a Spanish soap opera.”

  He smiles, not with his lips . . . with his eyes. They curve and shine. “I wish. Then my greatest challenge would be figuring out how to get the girl instead of the malevolent leaf.”

  My humor disintegrates, and the weight of reality settles back atop my shoulders like the heavy soup pot over the well. “Oh, Slate . . .”

  “Remember what I told you the first day we met? That a person makes their own luck. Well, I still believe it. Besides a bronze dagger and a playlist, what else would you suggest I bring to face a shapeshifting water sprite?”

  “A mask and a flashlight.”

  “Hmm. Good thinking, Mademoiselle de Morel.”

  “An insulated dive suit and some fins. Oh, and an air tank. Or at least an air hose . . .” I scribble all these items down, a grocery list of sorts. “Have you ever scuba-dived?”

  “Nope, but since water’s my element, I’m probably part amphibian.” He stretches his fingers, as though checking if they’ve suddenly become webbed. “Adrien suggested tying me with rope in case I decide not to get out.”

  “That’s wise.”

  “He seems like a wise man.”

  “He is. We’re lucky to have him on the team.”

  Slate’s Adam’s apple jostles in his throat as though he didn’t appreciate me calling us a team. Trust really isn’t his forte.

  We both go back to reading after that, and the quiet that expands between us is surprisingly pleasant.

  In between a passage about an orchard that bloomed in the winter and saved Brume from famine and a blacksmith whose forge produced swords able to turn enemies into allies, I ask, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Slate looks up, and I blush. I’m not even sure why.

  “Or close friends?”

  “Why? You want their phone numbers in case I don’t make it out of the well?”

  A chill spreads over my heated cheeks, as though someone tampered with the fan’s speed in the vent overhead. “That wasn’t why I was asking.”

  “Then why were you asking?”

  I set my elbows on the table, twirling the pen between my fingers. “I saw Papa in there. If the well were my mission, then I’d want constant reminders that it’s not my father. Instead of playing music on those earphones, maybe hearing the voice of the person you’re seeing could help your focus. That’s why I was asking about girlfriends or friends. Maybe they could talk you through it.”

  His eyes darken as fast as the Brumian sky in winter. “No.” His tone is final, brooking no argument.

  No to girlfriends and friends? Or no about involving anyone else?

  “How about I talk you through it, then?”

  His lips purse as though I’ve just suggested slathering him in stinky Maroilles cheese to make the siren, or whatever’s in the well, flee.

  “I seem to have a talent for annoying you, which might help keep your brain sharp.”

  “Fine.”

  I’m so surprised he relented that the pen tumbles out of my fingers and rolls off the table. As I bend to scoop it up, I say, “Great.”

  But is it all that great that he finds me so annoying?

  21

  Slate

  Instructions come at me like bullets:

  “Don’t hold your breath, or you’ll die.”


  “Control your anxiety, so you don’t burn through the air supply, or you’ll die.”

  “Don’t ascend faster than the bubbles, or you’ll die.”

  “Remember what you’re seeing is a siren’s ruse, or you’ll die.”

  “Get the piece before morning, or you’ll die.”

  My gaze flits from Rainier to Gaëlle to Cadence to Adrien and back to Rainier again. I don’t know what kind of leadership seminar they all attended, but their motivational speech stinks. I’m giving them and their Brumian Come Out a Winner tutorial a zero out of five.

  “All right! I’ve got the gist: one wrong move, and I die.”

  The four of them blink at me, their faces drawn and pale. I spent the whole afternoon and evening with the motley Quatrefoil crew, preparing for this moment. We raided Gaëlle’s stock for any items that might kill a supernatural creature. I now own a bronze dagger, a silver hunting knife, and an iron pick, all strapped to my thigh. We hit the hardware store and bought rope and a headlamp. Adrien offered up his set of ultra-waterproof earphones. And then they threw me into three hours of intensive scuba-diving lessons with an angry, scar-faced ex-commander of the French Foreign Legion who made Vincent seem like a creampuff.

  Now that it’s after midnight and the square is quiet, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to get that damn piece.

  In other words, I’m so fucking not ready.

  I pound my feet on the cobbles to keep my circulation going. The ice is melting, and brown slush clings to my diving boots. We left the fins in the shop. Not even the short model would fit in the well. The floodlights are gone, as are the firefighters. Rainier told the brigade and other Brumian busybodies that I was a professional oil rig welder and that I was going to fix their beloved Puits Fleuri, but it might overflow again, so everyone was advised to clear the square and keep away until morning, or until Rainier gave the all-clear. De Morel’s command had them all skittering away faster than I can pick a pocket. I swear, the man is like royalty, esteemed and kowtowed to, more important than the mayor.

  Most of the windows in the buildings surrounding the square are dark. The only frosty panes of glass glowing are on the third floor of the tavern. A curtain twitches, and I spot Nolwenn’s bulbous hair and shining eyes.