Adrien smiles, getting a kick out of my needle-phobia. Son of a bitch. I glare at him, but that just intensifies his grin.
Two shots, fine. But six? No way. Not when there wasn’t even a fucking dog to begin with. Unless magical mermaids have rabies. Maybe if I don’t get the shots, I’ll sprout scales. I rub my arms, which tingle. I check for scales . . . just in case. When I find none, I heave out a sigh and relax my shoulders.
I look over at Cadence, and our eyes meet, but the contact is brief. She dips her chin into her neck and concentrates on her hoodie’s ties, wrapping them around her finger, unwrapping them, wrapping them again. She’s not radiating anger anymore, but she’s also not radiating empathy or warmth.
As I put on my shirt and do up a few buttons, Doc gives me a prescription for antibiotics and instructions to visit her office in three days for a follow-up rabies shot.
She clicks her satchel closed, then puts on a khaki parka fit for Antarctica. “Rainier, will you see me out?”
Nodding, Rainier motors himself out of the living room. I return my gaze to Cadence, hoping to catch her eye, but she’s observing Gaëlle, who’s twisted around, watching the doctor and Rainier exit. A moment later, the front door snicks shut and then the wheelchair’s rubber tires squeak back into the room.
Rainier parks himself in the doorway and removes the birch box from the wheelchair’s pocket. Part of me wants to open the lead-lined box to look at the piece I retrieved from the mermaid’s guts, but it’s too risky. Besides, I can still see it in my mind, its rounded triangular shape, its smooth golden sheen. I can still feel it in my hand, lighter than I expected and warm like the ring.
I curl my fingers, the thick gold band strangling my still bruised digit.
Rainier tips his head toward the first floor. “Slate, come upstairs to my office. We need to put it away in the safe.”
I frown. “And you need my help with that?”
“I can’t exactly handle the piece myself.”
I feel my eyebrows rise. “We’re taking it out of the box?”
“Best way to ensure no one steals it.”
Cadence’s red lips pop open. “Who do you think might steal it, Papa?”
Rainier exchanges a weighted look with Gaëlle.
Cadence eyes them. “What are you two not telling us?”
“A lot of people in this town believe the Quatrefoil is real,” Rainier says.
“I know that, Papa. Nolwenn mentioned she believed in magic, but you’re not worried she might take it, are you?”
“She was watching us tonight,” I toss in. I’d racked it up to being a busybody, but combined with her scrutiny of my ring, it’s starting to feel like something else. “She was also very intrigued by my ring.” I rub my palms over my legs.
“Nolwenn believes in the magic of the Quatrefoil and the Bloodstone”—Rainier drums his fingers against the box—“but she also believes in the curses, so she won’t take the risk of stealing a leaf.”
“Why are you putting it in the safe, then?” Cadence asks.
“Mainly, so we don’t misplace it.”
My fingers cramp around my knees. “Misplace it? Yeah. Please avoid misplacing it, de Morel.”
Adrien stands. “I should go. I’ve got classes to prepare. And then attend,” he adds with a tired smile. “If there are any disturbances”—he looks at Gaëlle and Rainier, at me, and finally at Cadence—“my cell phone is on.”
“You’re seriously worried about prepping your classes?” I say, not just because it’s my life on the line, but because it’s everyone’s life on the line.
“You may not care about school, Slate, but four hundred students depend on Adrien.” Of course Cadence misinterprets what I’m saying. She really has it in for me tonight.
Women are confusing, but Cadence de Morel takes that to a whole new level. I’m starting to question whether she actually hugged me or if I imagined the entire thing.
Small trenches appear on Rainier’s forehead. At least, I’m not the only one confused by her mercurial attitude.
“Slate?” He taps the box.
My cue to leave. I get up and follow him to the glass elevator.
As we trek across the marble foyer, he asks, “How do you feel?”
“Like I was attacked by a bull shark, and it won.”
His lips, that have been tight all night, curve a little. I didn’t even know the old man was capable of smiling. It’s a sight. Makes him look almost approachable.
He rolls himself inside the lift, and I follow him in. As the glass box rises, I catch a glimpse of Adrien and Cadence walking out of the living room. He has one arm slung around her shoulders, and although her arms are crossed and her shoulders hunched, annoyance makes me fist my fingers.
Gaëlle’s trailing after them, wrapping her yellow scarf around her neck.
“I wish I could’ve prepared her better for all of this.” I’m guessing Rainier means his daughter and not his girlfriend.
Wait? Is she his girlfriend or was that just Cadence’s speculation?
Rainier sighs. “Adrien said I should’ve been honest with her sooner, but I wanted to spare her as long as I could.”
Because this is the slowest elevator built by mankind, I can still see them. Adrien winds his second arm around her back and pulls her into his chest just as the glass box jerks to a stop. I almost faceplant against the window that’s fogged up from my heavy breathing.
“You don’t have any designs on my daughter, do you?”
“Why?” I turn around slowly. “Have you promised her hand to Mercier?”
All traces of Rainier’s smile vanish. “You didn’t answer my question, Roland.”
“The minute this ring’s off my finger, I’ll be on a train out of here.”
“Without my daughter.” I’m not sure if it’s a question or a warning, but his eyes have become a truly frightful shade of blue.
“Well, I’m not planning on kidnapping her.”
He narrows his eyes; I narrow mine.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m beat, so point the way to the safe.”
We head into his office, the site of our first confrontation. De Morel wheels himself to one of the filing units. He touches something on the side of the unit, and the entire front of it swings open and reveals a heavy safe.
“Are they all decoys?” I gesture to the other four units surrounding the one he just opened.
“No. Just this one.”
He punches the keypad, not even trying to hide it from my line of sight. I’m guessing there’s nothing in that safe worth stealing. Still, I memorize the numbers—three, two, six, one, eight, four.
The door clangs open. “Here.” Rainier pops the lid on the birch box.
For a second, we both stare at the leaf, at the smooth gold shape of it. Everything that happened in the well flashes behind my eyes—fake-Cadence who looked so real, the wisps of blood and cloud of black gore, the stinging cold, the bitter darkness. I grit my teeth and snap out of it. No way am I getting PTSD because of magic. Not happening.
My fingers close roughly over the disc, and the ring ignites. “Where do you want it?”
“Top shelf. Behind the stacks of bills.”
I all but chuck the leaf inside, wiping my hands on my jeans to get rid of the clinging heat. I’m so agitated I don’t even try to swipe some bills, which honestly, would be damn easy. They’re just sitting there for the taking. Pfff. Probably on purpose. Probably some kind of test.
“How will we know it’s mine once all four are in there?”
“There are four shelves, Roland.” Rainier points to the safe. “Besides, it won’t matter anymore. As soon as the Quatrefoil comes together, the leaves won’t be cursing anyone. They’ll be funneling magic back inside the four of you . . . and the world.”
Not entirely reassured, I back up so that he can close the safe. “When am I getting my inheritance again, de Morel?”
His hand slips as he’s pushing the
safe shut, and it slams with a loud thud. The timeworn scroll on the wall shudders from the impact.
“After the new moon, I’ll sign it over to you.”
“Might not serve me much by then.”
Rainier concentrates on closing the fake filing cabinet.
“Look, it’s not like I need it right now, but if the others aren’t successful”—I palm the back of my neck but wince when my fingers hit my huge-ass Band-Aid. I tow my hand back down—“I want all of it to go to someone . . . a friend.”
Rainier angles his wheelchair toward me. “I’ll draw up the papers tomorrow.”
I have to admit I’m a little surprised he’s being so agreeable about this. Maybe I’ve somehow proved my worth.
“Good night, Roland.”
I nod and head for the door.
“And Cadence is off limits. Don’t make me regret allowing you to spend the night.”
I look over my shoulder and salute him, my index and middle fingers bumping into the lump on my forehead. “You got it, old man.”
He shoots me a glare on par with the water fairy’s once she realized I wasn’t under her charm. As I take the stairs toward my borrowed bedroom on the second floor, I yawn long and hard. Even if I was going to seduce Cadence, I wouldn’t pick tonight. I’m way too beat, broken, and bruised.
I push my bedroom door open, then kick it closed, my fingers working the buttons on my shirt. On my way to the bathroom, I fling the soiled white material over the back of the armchair, then start on my jeans. I open the bathroom door, and a shriek rids me of several decibels of hearing.
Shit. I forgot this was a shared space.
24
Cadence
“Get out!” I yell at Slate, who’s just standing there, eyes planted on the towel I whipped off the chrome rack and wedged around my body at record speed.
Thankfully, I was still wearing a bra and my underwear when he barged into the bathroom, and thankfully, neither were particularly revealing.
According to Alma, I should be wearing thongs and pushups at all times—the key to being sexy is feeling sexy. Even though I own some nice lingerie, I don’t see the point of wearing it, since no one can actually see them underneath my layers of wintry clothing.
“Don’t the doors lock?” He asks this as though it’s somehow my fault.
“I don’t usually have to share my bathroom.”
The shower’s running, and steam curls over the edge of the glass door.
“Can you leave?”
“I can.” He doesn’t, though. He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms.
I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of so much skin and muscle. I saw his chest earlier when he was getting stitched up, and its definition had made my stomach dip. I’d known Slate was well-built but hadn’t realized just how well-built until tonight. I also hadn’t realized how many scars he had—fresh and old ones.
So many old ones.
This really isn’t the moment to ogle a guy. Especially one who cares about another girl. I fling my gaze to the long oval mirror over my marble sink top. In the foggy glass, I catch the corners of Slate’s lips tipping up, accentuating the camber of his eyes.
“Mademoiselle de Morel, were you just checking me out?”
My cheeks redden. “No.”
“I don’t mind being objectified.”
Oh. My. God. I glower now, and not through the mirror this time.
His smile grows as he says, “If looks could kill . . .”
He’d be dead.
The same thought must occur to him because he shudders, losing both his smile and his proud bearing.
My arms loosen a little around the towel. Not enough for it to fall off, but enough for it to stop compressing all of my organs.
He starts to turn but stops. “Can I ask you something?”
Warily, I acquiesce.
“Were you mad at me earlier, or did I misinterpret your silent treatment?”
My cheeks prickle, and I don’t have to look in the mirror to know they’re pinkening. Again. Maybe they never stopped. I lower my gaze to the floor, to the mess of soiled towels balled up in one corner, and then farther, to the blackened toe of his left foot. I noticed it earlier, but now feels like the appropriate time to bring it up.
“What did the groac’h do to your foot?”
“That wasn’t her. That was all me.” I feel his gaze on my face. “I dropped something heavy on it.”
“Is it broken?”
“My toe or the—”
“Your toe.”
“Might be. Most of me feels broken.” He gestures to his body.
I see bruises but also flexing muscles, pebbling skin, and corded tendons. “Brume hasn’t been kind to you, huh?” My voice sounds so husky I pray he blames it on the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been riding since the piece showed up.
“It’s been . . . challenging, but not all bad.”
“What part wasn’t bad?”
For a long time, he’s quiet. So quiet I raise my gaze back to his.
“The cheese and chouchen last night were nice.” He tilts his head to the side, and a black corkscrew slides across his forehead. “So, am I delusional, or were you angry with me?”
Over the water needling the marble, I let out a long sigh. “I wasn’t angry with you.”
He frowns, clearly dubious.
I want to pin my earlier bout of jealousy on something else, someone else, but curiosity is a cruel, crafty thing. “You mentioned you saw a girl in the well. Who was she?”
His black eyebrows almost collide over his nose, and his stance changes: his shoulders roll back, and his arms tense, the tendons straining. He looks like the terracotta statue my mother made of a Greek god when she was studying at the university. Even though I’ve asked Papa for it, asked him to display it in our outsized foyer, he refuses to remove it from where it sits in the college’s art department.
“Why do you ask?” His words are quiet but tense.
“I guess I’m trying to get to know you, and since this person is obviously important to you, it made me curious.” And wildly jealous.
Logically, I leave that part out.
His eyes take on the same shade as the bottomless pit he miraculously climbed out of alive. “She’s someone I don’t know very well but whom I inexplicably feel strongly about.”
“Does she live in Marseille?”
“No.”
“Did you meet her in one of your foster homes?”
“No.”
For someone so glib, he’s not giving me much to go on. “You should tell her that you like her. Maybe she feels the same.” He narrows his eyes, and I shrug. “What do you have to lose?”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches me. “I’ll think about it.”
I tighten the towel.
Finally, he nods to the glassed-in shower stall. “Better get in before you run out of hot water. Nothing worse than freezing water.” He unbinds his arms from their firm knot. “Knock three times when you’re done, okay?”
The hard click of the door shutting resonates around me. I don’t think he’ll come back in, but I walk over and twist the lock. As I toss the towel and my undergarments off, my heart pounds as hard as the running water.
I’m attracted to Adrien. Not to Slate.
Adrien, who’s gentle and compassionate.
Who still cajoles me as though I were a little girl.
Unlike Slate, who seems to see me as a woman.
His comment about me being a teen librarian comes back to me, and I loofah my skin until it’s as red as my flushed face.
No one sees me as a grown-up.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll heed Alma’s mantra and wear sexy underwear. Before going to bed, I text her an apology and knock three times on Slate’s side of the bathroom.
25
Slate
The three knocks come. By the time I peel myself off the bed, the bathroom is empty and Cadence’s side of t
he Jack and Jill is closed. I’m both relieved and a little disappointed. Mostly relieved, though. I don’t want to lie to her. If she asks me one more time about the girl in the well, I might just cave. Which would surely be a bad idea. On par with sticking the de Morel heirloom on my finger.
I inhale the sweet, crisp steam that smells of Cadence. I was dead tired a second ago, and now all of me is awake. Damn soap.
After brushing my teeth with a gifted toothbrush, I flick off the lights and stare at the door opposite mine, tempted to knock. Or just to barge in and ask her point-blank why she cares so much whom I pictured in the well.
Wait. Could she be jealous?
I remember the googly eyes she made at Adrien back at the tavern and their hug earlier. Nah. I’m totally delusional. There’s no way Cadence is jealous. She’s hung up on Professor Prickhead.
If I’m totally honest with myself, Adrien isn’t all bad.
But I don’t like him on principle. On several principles.
Back in the bedroom, I slide under the duvet. It’s thick but lightweight, so it doesn’t rest uncomfortably on my sores and scratches. My head sinks into the pillow and within seconds I’m out like a dead man.
When I wake up, the sky outside the windows is steely gray. The clock on the nightstand reads 8:00. Shit. Did I only get four hours of sleep? I yank the duvet over my face, but it’s too late. I’m up. My body is so stiff it creaks. Pain in my jaw radiates up through my ear to the top of my skull. There’s blood on the pillow. The industrial-sized Band-Aid is soaked through, despite the zipper of stiches underneath.
On the bright side, my toe’s feeling better.
I knock on the bathroom door.
When there’s no answer, I let myself in and wash up. The room still smells faintly of Cadence and her girly soap. My temperature goes up as I remember the glimpse I got of her last night. The pale, smooth surface of her stomach. The soft curve of her hips. The black cotton of her bra, straining to hold in her breasts.
Putain. I’ve got to get myself together.
I look like Frankenstein’s monster with all the stitches and cuts and lumps. I change my bandages, put on yesterday’s clothes, and head downstairs for something to eat. When I get to the kitchen, I see the magical house elves have been at it again; a large platter of fresh croissants, pains au chocolat, and buttered tartines coated in chunky strawberry jam sits on the island, along with a butcher board laden with cheeses and paper-thin cold-cuts. So this is what life is like for the de Morels . . .
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 19