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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  I’m about to tell Rainier we have spectators when he barks, “Roland!” He pats the pale wood box on his lap, the inside of which is lined with leaden sheeting. “When you come out, first thing you do, is put the leaf in here. No one else must touch it.”

  “Or they’ll die,” I add in an ominous voice.

  That doesn’t get a single laugh.

  Adrien steps forward and clips the rope to the weight belt around my wetsuit. “If your BCD doesn’t work like it should, and you can’t ascend on your own, just give this a yank. I’ll reel you in.”

  I test the buoyancy again, compressing the red button. My jacket fills up. I look for the little ball dangling at my back and yank it to free the air. Sergeant Suffering’s warning not to ascend too fast shrills in my mind, but getting the Bends is at the very bottom of my list of worries.

  Cadence holds up Adrien’s phone. “I’ll talk you through it. We don’t know how deep the connection will work, but I won’t stop talking.”

  Gaëlle huddles further into her yellow scarf, the whites of her eyes glittering. She clears her throat. “Good luck, Slate. And break a leg.”

  I stomp my feet again, and my bruised toe throbs. With my recent lucky streak, I might actually break a leg. Or two.

  This is the worst fix I’ve ever been in. And that includes the time when Tiny Tim found out I stole his lucky rabbit-foot keyring with the key to his storage unit.

  I look into the well.

  Before I put on this ridiculous seal suit, Adrien and I got the firefighters to help us lug the huge pot, remove the table, and snap off the grate. I’d been expecting to see Cadence or Bastian or even poor old Spike under the surface of the water, but there was nothing except an icy pool of darkness.

  Most of the ice has inexplicably melted, and the water line’s receded. It’s now a good two meters below the lip of the well. I sit on the edge, small air tank strapped to my back.

  I switch on the headlamp and adjust the diving mask that smells like chemical lemon. I shove the regulator between my lips, its edges scraping my gums, and suck in, hearing the ka-shoook of the nitrogen-enriched oxygen filling my hose.

  Putain. My heart is going a mile a minute.

  “I’ll ease you down,” Adrien says, unspooling the rope.

  There is no fucking way I am going to let him lower me into the eerie tunnel of gloom without keeping some sort of grip on the thing. I tilt forward to put one hand on either side of the interior of the well. Even through the diving gloves, the chill in the stone bites my fingers.

  I slide my ass off the ledge, and for a split-second, I’m in freefall. Then I feel a jerk as the belt tightens around my middle, and I’m dangling a foot above the slick surface of the water. My headlamp shines on the dips and dents in the stones, but its reach isn’t long enough to fill the encroaching blackness.

  Despite the arctic cold, sweat beads underneath my neoprene diving hood, and a crushing pain squeezes my chest. Bile rises in my throat, and I force it back down. There’s no way in hell I’m allowing a panic attack to set in. I’d rather die trying than die hyperventilating.

  Suddenly, Cadence’s voice is in my ears. “Adrien’s giving the rope slack. Once you’re in the water, adjust your buoyancy. You’re doing great, Slate.”

  Oh, yeah. Abso-fucking-lutely. I haven’t shit myself yet. That’s a win.

  I twist my neck, catching a sliver of Cadence’s moonlit face. The backdrop of twinkly lights makes her look like a goddess in a sky of stars, if goddesses wore slouchy knit caps with fuzzy pompoms.

  Lower and lower I go, first my feet enter the frigid water, then my legs, then my chest. When my head dips under, I instinctively start to hold my breath. Sergeant Suffering’s booming voice reels through my brain, “Breathe, you pussy, breathe!”

  I suck on my regulator as I whirl on the rope like a leg of lamb on a spit. Around me, layer upon layer of stones stretch down into the mucky channel.

  The in and out of air from the tank echoes behind Cadence’s steady voice. “So I was hesitating between a classic tale and a personal one.” She pauses. “Since I’m betting you want to hear the personal one . . .”

  Damn right.

  “ . . . I’m going with the classic tale.”

  Tease.

  “Have you ever heard of The Little Mermaid? I thought it fit the moment superbly.” I hear a smile in her voice, and it momentarily makes the entrenching obscurity less forbidding. “Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as—” Her words cut off. “—very, very deep. So deep indeed that—”

  Fizzing silence. Come on. Bluetooth, don’t leave me hanging.

  “There dwell the Sea King and his subj—”

  My heart jolts at the sound of her voice, then jolts again when the depth interrupts the broadcast. I long to hear Cadence’s story crackle back against my eardrums but don’t even get graced with static.

  Pressure builds in my ears, and I pinch my nose to release it. I keep going down, scanning the darkness for movement. Fear pounds so hard it’s probably creating a current.

  I look up and the beam of my headlight hits something. Something that moves around the length of taut rope anchoring me to the surface. My BCD seems to grow tighter, as though I’ve inflated it to maximum capacity even though I haven’t pressed the red button. I catch another flutter of movement and realize it’s just the slow, steady stream of bubbles I’m exhaling.

  Can’t believe I almost pissed myself over some bubbles.

  Come on . . . show yourself. Let’s be done with this.

  My feet bump against something hard. I jerk my head down. I’m at the bottom of the well, standing atop a shiny carpet of coins. I scan the water above me, but nothing circles the tight rope. I don’t know whether to be relieved or scared shitless. Is the Quatrefoil piece even still here, or was Rainier wrong?

  Maybe we had less than twenty-four hours to retrieve it.

  My already racing heart kicks up a few notches.

  I wait and wait. Time trickles by slower than my exhaled bubbles.

  Instead of being a sitting duck, might as well be a crouching one. I lower in slow motion onto my knees and sweep my gloved hands through the thousands of Euro coins and older Francs. The metal’s tarnished on most, the round faces tinged black and green. If the leaf is in here, it should be easy enough to locate, since it’ll be shinier and bigger than any of these coins.

  A shrill cry pierces the steady ka-shoook of my breathing, in time with the splash of a body dropping into water. I jerk to my feet and crank my neck, bumping the back of my head against the yoke valve. Skull smarting, I squint into the length of liquid black, spot a dark shape floundering in the dim circle of light.

  My muscles harden, my joints tighten, my palms tingle, and my heartbeat bounces between my ribs and air tank.

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  “I fell in! Help, oh God, I fell in!” Cadence’s voice erupts inside my ears. “Help!”

  Cadence?

  Cadence is in the well?

  How the hell did she fall in?

  Grab the rope, I think. It’s got to be easy enough for her to reach.

  “My boots. My coat! They’re so heavy, Slate.” My name combined with her yelps wrenches my heart. Merde. I press the button on the BCD and push off the mound of coins, rocketing upward. In the back of my mind, I hear Sergeant Suffering calling me an idiot and lots more Breton swear words.

  I’ve got to help her. I’ve got to—

  Wait. No. Her voice doesn’t carry this deep. Dark magic. That’s what this is. It’s trying to distract me from getting the piece. No freaking way will it fool me this time.

  I propel my body toward the curved wall and grip the rough edges of a stone, halting my brusque ascent, then rifle blindly for the little plastic ball fluttering at the back of my jacket. My feet and legs rise, buoying me up. I dig my fingertips into the scraggly space between the rocks, slashing my other hand thr
ough the water like a clock pendulum in search of the dump valve. The second my palm closes around it, I tug hard, releasing the air in one fell swoop.

  My feet and legs arch back down. The line tied around my waist dangles in the dark pit like a child’s skipping rope. I sink and sink. The stress is starting to take a toll on me. A headache blooms at my temples and stretches over my forehead. I’m hot in the dive suit. My mouth is dry.

  The darkness of the well suddenly seems darker. I look up and see Cadence floating downward. She’s in her fur-lined boots and fluffy silver jacket. Tendrils of her hair float around her face like kelp, her pompom flutters at the top of her knit hat.

  Every molecule inside me is urging me to take her into my arms and speed back up to the surface.

  It’s not her. It’s not her. It’s not her. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, grinding my teeth over the rubber mouthpiece.

  She sinks deeper, and her back bumps my shoulder, driving the soles of my feet against the pile of chucked human wishes. Her eyes are closed, and she’s pale as death, the outline of her lips tinged blue. I’m waiting for her to spring at me. For her to try to choke me or rip off my mask or anything a monster would do.

  I press myself against the side of the well as she lands on the mound of coins. One lone bubble escapes from her nostril.

  I step forward. She doesn’t move.

  What if it really is Cadence?

  It can’t be.

  The others were with her. They wouldn’t have let her dive in.

  Unless the dark magic somehow propelled her inside.

  Fuck.

  I pass my hand over my neoprene hood, trying to make up my mind.

  What if it’s really her?

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I can’t just let her die.

  Fumbling about with the tubes and gauges, I find the extra regulator hooked onto my jacket and shove it between her lips. She’s still unresponsive.

  Panic twists my gut and squeezes my lungs. Come on, Cadence. Don’t die. Please don’t die.

  I slide one arm under her knees and the other under her neck, and then, hugging her to me, I pump a little air into my BCD and scissor-kick to the top. As we inch higher, she leans closer, her head lolling against my chest, and lays her hand on the back of my neck.

  I close my eyes for a second, relieved she’s still alive. My ears pop, and then static bursts into my ears, and Cadence’s voice hits me loud and clear and strong. “She looked once more at the prince, hurled herself over the bulwarks into the sea, and felt her body dissolve into foam.”

  My eyes snap open and Cadence—the one in my arms—removes the regulator from her lips and asks, “Did you like my story?”

  Her story? Was I not hearing her through the earphones?

  “You’re my hero, you know?”

  Her words hit me square in the heart. No one’s ever called me their hero.

  “I told you I saw my father in the well, but it was you, Slate. You’re who I saw.”

  I blink at her. Never has Cadence looked this beautiful. Like a siren . . .

  Wait.

  Sirens aren’t good.

  “Won’t you kiss me?” Cadence says.

  Bubbles don’t stream out from her mouth. Because she isn’t human.

  I’m cradling a monster.

  I yank my arms down and away, but she doesn’t fall into the dark pit. She just hovers there in front of me, one hand locked on the back of my neck. Her throat’s so thin and breakable. I look for the flutter of a pulse, but her skin doesn’t vibrate.

  She isn’t real.

  “You let me go,” she murmurs. “Look at me.”

  I shut my eyes and reach for the dagger strapped to my thigh.

  Something sharp slashes the skin on the nape of my neck through the thick neoprene. I snap my eyes open and bounce away from her before she claws through a vital organ. Cold seeps into my skin, followed by warmth. The water between my mask and her face turns red.

  That’s when I’m jerked upward. What the hell?

  The rope . . . Adrien, no! I didn’t give the signal. If he pulls me up now, it’s over. I twist around and grip the taut cord, giving it a good yank. Instead of stopping, he reels me in even faster.

  Shit.

  The siren stares up at me, annoyance marring her borrowed face. She looks so much like real-Cadence again. Real-Cadence who’s now screeching into my earphones, “Slate? Can you hear me? Oh, God, Adrien, get him up. Get him back up . . .” In the background, I hear Rainier’s voice growl something. He’s probably telling Adrien not to listen to his daughter. “We can’t leave him in there, Papa!” Cadence’s cry lends me the strength for what I’m about to do.

  I raise the dagger and saw through the rope, back and forth, back and forth. The siren’s eyes light up, and her sternness dissolves into a look of pure bliss. She thinks I’m choosing her.

  The rope snaps. The frayed end rises in the water.

  Yelling pounds against my eardrums. Yelling and crying. Cadence cares about me, and fuck if I don’t feel like I’m flying rather than sinking.

  As my body drifts lower, the noise from above crackles, then buzzes, before vanishing completely.

  The water fairy’s ruby lips arch up and up, and her pale eyes blaze into mine, pupils wide and full of desire. “You came back for me, Slate.”

  I slide my fingers through the tendrils of hair waving around her porcelain face and anchor them to the back of her skull with my gloved hand. The ring burns hot and radiates into my veins, filling my body with exquisite warmth.

  Cadence parts her lips, and every cell in my body buoys as though my air tank’s hooked to my veins. She eases the regulator from my mouth and tilts her head in invitation.

  I tighten the fingers that span her skull and tug her head closer.

  And closer.

  Just before our lips connect, I thrust the dagger into her side, just beneath the ribs.

  Her scream nearly rips my eardrums.

  The water churns and the walls of the well shudder as if an earthquake has hit Brume. Fake-Cadence’s blue irises morph to blazing orange, and her pupils stretch to vertical slits. The creature lunges at me and screeches, revealing a mouth full of yellow, curved, needle-like teeth.

  I don’t expect its strength, and it must sense it because it takes advantage of my lapse of attention, cutting clean through the straps of my BCD with its sharpened nails. The jacket flaps open like stubby wings. The creature bellows out another scream before coming at me again, sending me farther and farther down the well. Sealing my lips to conserve my supply of air, I yank the dagger out and jab it in again. The thing’s jaw gapes, then clenches, then gapes again, like a piranha in a ski cap.

  It writhes, breaking my grip on the dagger.

  I shoot my hand back down to my thigh for my second weapon. My fingers close around the iron pick just as the siren shoves me into the mound of coins. My hand skitters off my weapon and bangs against the coins, which rise and float around us like glimmering snowflakes. My lungs squeeze as the creature flings itself down on me. I wring my body from side to side, expending precious energy and air, but what choice do I have? I refuse to be slurped down like fish food.

  I punch it, the ring making the inhuman thing’s face snap to the side, and it wails like a banshee, its orange eyes flaring with rage. As it lunges at me, I reach for the iron pick again. The siren’s teeth graze my jaw, setting my whole face aflame. I gasp, releasing my meek supply of oxygen. Icy water floods my throat. With one last burst of adrenaline, I snatch the pick and yank it out of the holster, then plunge it over and over into the monster’s neck, chest, waist.

  Its mouth pops in a soundless scream, or maybe I can’t hear it anymore. My vision dots, then darkens.

  I blink, my lids sluggish.

  A black, viscous cloud seeps into the water.

  Air. I need air. I wave my arms like a starfish until I feel something long and rubbery . . . a hose. I pray it’s the one connected
to my octopus and not to my depth gauge.

  Lungs on fire, I swing the hose in front of my face. I think I see something round and black attached to it. I bring it to my mouth and almost faint with relief when my teeth close around rubber and not hard plastic. I suck but swallow water, and my chest spasms.

  Choking, I scrabble to remember how to get air. The purge! My fingers graze the button in the middle of the regulator.

  The well turns gray then black. Did my headlamp go off?

  I press the purge button to clear my mouthpiece of water.

  Air . . . glorious air streaks into my lungs.

  I breathe in long and deep, lying on the mound of coins like a crack addict sprawled on a dirty couch.

  The black shadow sharpens, and I realize it’s the creature liquifying. Dark, gloppy bits curl and bloat like oil in a lava lamp.

  Something shines amidst the dirty sludge.

  Something gold and smooth, big as my palm.

  I reach up and rake through the gunk in slow motion.

  When I was a kid, I’d climb onto rooftops to hide from the terrible humans populating my world and stare up at the night sky to wish on its stars. I quickly understood that stars didn’t listen, so I stopped whispering to them.

  Tonight, as I lay at the bottom of the black well, and my gloved hand closes over the falling disk of gold, I feel like that kid again, the one who looked for light in the darkness, who believed that if he reached high enough, he could pluck the stars from the very sky.

  22

  Cadence

  My lids are bloated, and my eyes sting. Slate is dead.

  Gone.

  I saw his blood redden the water.

  I saw the frayed end of rope Adrien fished out.

  I saw the bubbles stop popping and foaming, and the surface slicken like oil.

  “We can’t . . . just leave him . . .” I hiccup around a sob.

  I stare at Adrien, who’s as white as the linens I lent Slate last night. Gaëlle and Papa, too, are uncharacteristically pale.

  “I’ll send someone in there tomorrow.” Papa swallows. “Around noon to be safe.”