I’m gullet-deep in a pain au chocolat when Cadence breezes in.
At the sight of me, she jolts like she’s just been electrocuted, and then her mouth twists into something that’s more grimace than smile. “You’re up.”
I swallow the pastry, lick the melted chocolate off my teeth, and give her my most disarming grin. “Good morning to you, too.”
A blush rises in her cheeks, and she hurries over to the coffee machine on the stainless-steel counter. “Espresso?”
“Hell, yeah,” I say.
She fiddles with the machine, keeping her gaze pinned to the little cup under the spout. “Papa’s in physical therapy with Jacqueline right now.”
Like I give two shits where her dad is at the moment. “Sleep well?”
“Not as well as you. Papa said you’d be tired, but I didn’t realize he meant out-for-over-twenty-four-hours tired.” Without making eye contact, she slides the cup in front of me on the island, then retraces her steps to make herself one, brow crinkled as though facing a puzzle instead of a one-buttoned machine.
“Wait. What?”
“You missed all of yesterday. It was a red-letter day, too. The sun broke through the fog for a full five hours.”
“Holy hell.” I didn’t even know it was possible to sleep that long.
“Sylvie—the doctor—said it was perfectly fine, so long as you showed signs of life today.” She slides her bottom lip between her teeth. I sense she’s nervous, but why? Because I slept so long she thought I was dead? Not likely. Because I saw her in her underwear last night . . . or, well, the night before? Possibly.
A thought suddenly occurs to me and makes my chest seize up.
What if she knows I saw her in the well? What if she thinks I’m some twisted deviate that gets obsessed over a girl he barely knows?
I mean, shit, I’ve only known her for three days. Or four, actually, though I’m not sure yesterday counts.
I’ve fallen for objects I wanted but never for a person before. Unlike Bastian. Shit, the girls he’s blubbered over. The nights he tossed and turned because he was trying to interpret a look or a conversation or a text from a girl. Now, I’m the one analyzing every facial twitch and mood swing, every spoken word and fleeting look.
Something’s appallingly wrong with me.
I need to get back to normal, aka arrogant, crafty, and apathetic. And I need things to get back to normal with Cadence, too.
“What’s up, Mademoiselle de Morel?”
She finally looks away from her cup. “Up?”
“You’re usually chattier.”
Her pupils tighten against their exquisite blue backgrounds.
“Did seeing me without my shirt get you so hot and bothered that being in my company now flusters you?”
The black pins expand, usurping the blue. “Get over yourself, Slate.” She sucks down her espresso in one quick shot.
“Ah. But can you get over me?”
Irritation brightens her cheeks. “You’re such a jerk.”
There we go. Welcome back, Slate. Welcome back, Cadence.
I take a mouthful of the hot liquid and let its bitter flavor coat my tongue. “Ah, but such a handsome one. Makes me harder to hate.”
“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes so hard I don’t think they’ll ever level back. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m really this conceited.” I put the cup back down and call a truce with a softer tone of voice. “Which piece should we go hunting down today?”
She sighs. “It has to show itself.”
I hold up my hand with the ring. “Not necessarily. I’ve got a detector, remember?”
She bites her bottom lip again, and again I’m transfixed by her white teeth denting the full red flesh. “I’ve got a couple classes today.”
“With all this magic shit happening, you’re really going to class?”
“If I drop everything, then that shows I’ve lost faith that we’ll succeed, which means the dark magic wins.” She lifts her chin to display confidence, yet her eyes glitter with fear.
“We’ve got the first piece, Cadence. There’s no reason we won’t get the others.”
She nods. Before I can think better of it, I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers are warm and soft. So soft. My mind blanks and then whirs back to life, her touch waking me quicker than caffeine.
Her fingers jerk out of mine, and then with a trembling hand, she snatches a croissant before striding back toward the foyer. “I’ll go grab my stuff.”
Operation getting things back to normal with Cadence is a fail. The hand-holding probably did it.
I eat another two pastries and scoop up some ham. As I wash it all down with a glass of pulpy orange juice, Cadence trundles back in, silver jacket zipped up to her chin and slouchy hat wedged over her ears.
My heart holds still, and goose bumps rise. And not the good sort. The bad sort. The sort that use to pebble my skin when I’d hear Vincent pound down the creaky corridor toward my bedroom.
Cadence’s red lips part just like the siren’s, but no sound comes out. They part wider. This time, I catch my name, loud as a zinging bullet, followed by, “Are you okay?”
I stand up slowly, my joints stiff and my skin slick with the memory of the chilled well water. I tunnel my fingers through my hair, hoping my hand isn’t shaking. I need to kick this PTSD before it sets in any deeper. I focus on the end of my mission, on the cloud of black gore and the shine of the leaf.
The cursed piece wasn’t successful; I was.
I was.
Curling my fingers, I amble toward Cadence. “I’ll get my coat.”
I don’t remember where I put it but assume the house elf stashed it in the foyer closet. I pull open the door and bingo. I tug it off the hanger and slide into it. Once I’ve buttoned it up, I stick my hands inside my gloves, my ringed finger feeling a lot less swollen.
As we make our way up the circles toward campus, I ask Cadence if I got it right, if her father did take her mother’s last name. I find it odd but that’s because society has brainwashed me to think a certain way. Why not take your wife’s last name? I think of my own last name. Or rather my two last names. Who am I? An Ardoin or a Roland? Both. Neither.
When we reach Fourth Kelc’h, we hit an expanse of snow-covered lawn tattooed with dirty footprints going every which way. Students scurry from one ivy-choked gray limestone building to another, books and binders in their arms or in heavy bags slung over their shoulders.
Cadence grins and turns into a tour guide. “So, this is where the campus buildings start.” She points out some faculty housing, a couple of amphitheaters, the cafeteria, a massive gym. All are outfitted with modern gadgets, but the stone walls and slate-tiled roofs are in tune with the ancient feel of the whole town.
Up on Fifth, the fog fades into vaporous webs. Far below, I spy the silver mirror of the lake on one side and the green slope of pines on the other.
Cadence gestures to the four buildings spaced evenly around the temple-turned-library. “Centuries ago, these were the founding families’ homes.”
I lift an eyebrow at the massive size of the structures. “Guess magic was profitable.”
She points to a long building with an even longer glassed-in promenade. “The Bisset Esplanade, center of physics and biology.” A square, limestone chateau is next. “The Mercier Humanities Center, the seat of history and social sciences.” Then a circular stone and glass edifice. “The Roland Amphitheater”—her eyes flick my way, then back to the building—“for business and engineering.”
I swallow but say nothing.
“And this,” she says proudly, “is the de Morel Beaux-Arts Edifice.” She leads me past an arch carved with the words ARZOÙ-KAER, which I imagine mean art.
“Snazzy,” I mutter, taking in the royal spread.
“What’s your class schedule, by the way? I could show you where you need to go.”
&nbs
p; “I didn’t come to attend school, princess.”
She frowns. “Then why did you come?”
“For my inheritance. ’Parently, my biological parents left me a trust, and put your daddy in charge of it.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Rainier’s taking his sweet time signing it over. I think he’s using it as a motivator.” I rub my hands together, feeling the Bloodstone under my glove. “He forgets I literally can’t leave this place before the Quatrefoil is united.”
Cadence blinks up at me. “So you won’t stay and study after?”
“Not planning on it.”
“Oh.” Her mouth puckers as though she’s truly disappointed.
Probably no one’s ever turned down studying in her family’s grand old school. “But who knows. If I survive, I might reconsider.”
Her disappointment veers to another emotion, one that makes me want to kick myself for reminding her of our perilous hunt. “Can you tell me more about this building?”
In increments, her fear subsides, and the light in her eyes returns. And then her mouth moves a mile a minute as she leads me through the palatial art department, telling me about the symbolism for the tiny human faces, flower stalks, and mythological creatures etched into the pillars that hold up the impossibly high domed ceiling adorned with plump cherubs surfing on clouds. We walk past corridors dotted with wooden doors running off in two directions, and a double, wide stone staircase twisting upward to the heavens . . . or more likely, to the next level.
The main hall’s lined with centuries’ worth of art: massive paintings in gilt frames, a strip of vellum with characters that range from hieroglyphs to biblical font to typewriter letters, glossy marble busts of men with curled hair, polished statues of everything from the human form to the abstract, suits of armors complete with massive broadswords and shields. There are cases full of masquerade masks, six-faced clocks, gaudy costume jewelry, old playbills and posters, and even . . .
I raise an eyebrow. “Magic wands?”
She smiles at the mess of sticks in the glass case. “No. According to lore, magic of the elements—the magic of Brume—doesn’t require a wand. These are said to be pieces of kindling that never lit when ten Brumian women were supposed to be burned at the stake for witchcraft.”
I take a closer look and, sure enough, the sticks look charred at the ends. “So these sticks are hundreds of years old?”
She nods, face aglow. “And the craziest part about this witch hunt is that it took place four centuries after the diwallers supposedly destroyed magic. Yet the fire wouldn’t burn.”
I smile. That’s right. It’s history that gets her hot and bothered, not the sight of my bare chest. “I take it the women survived?”
She shakes her head, smile dimming. “No. They ended up being hanged.”
The fact that I even slightly believe the tale shows how much this town has derailed my life. “Bastard witch hunters.”
Her cell dings, and she checks it. “I need to get to the Bisset building.” Then she looks up at me, pulling her bottom lip back into her mouth as though debating something. “But I want to show you something before I leave.”
She leads me farther down the hall, to a glassed-in gazebo-like alcove, where, on a pedestal, stands a terracotta statue of a scowling giant wearing nothing but a one-shouldered toga and an ancient-looking helmet, the kind with a crest of plumes. He’s holding a round shield and a sword as long as my body. Despite being made of clay, he looks about to leap out and smash skulls.
It’s fucking creepy. And pretty damn cool.
Cadence gestures to it with pride. “Maman made this. Her war god.”
“Ares,” I murmur. I wasn’t a good student, but some things did stick, like mythology. We had to memorize gods along with their symbols, lineage, the whole shebang. Ares was one of the unpopular ones, because he represented brutality and ruin. Which is probably why I remember him best.
Cadence lifts an eyebrow. “Mythology enthusiast?”
“God of War enthusiast.” I can’t get over how realistic the statue is. “This is really amazing.”
The doors all along the corridor start to open, and students pour out. Suddenly, we’re in the middle of a crowd. Several people ogle me as they walk past.
I get it. I’m new here, and here is small. But still, it’s grating. One guy, who’s like forty, is just standing in the middle of the hallway, gawking at me. Everything about him is faded and pale. From his pasty skin to his dull, dust-colored hair to his colorless lips. He’s like one of those frumpy professor types, his clothes all askew, his tie almost completely undone, his shirt untucked, and his cardigan badly buttoned.
Dude looks like shit, yet he’s eyeing me like I’m the turd here.
I’m about to go up to him and ask what his problem is, but all of a sudden, pain wrenches my muscles and fire streaks through my veins.
What the hell?
My shoulder muscles spasm and bunch, and it hits me that I forgot to take the pain pills this morning. And yesterday, since I was passed out. Or maybe it’s the shot the doc administered. When’s my next one supposed to be again?
As I rack my brain, Cadence says, “I really have to go, but I’ll see you later?” She sounds hopeful, and it makes my pain take a giant leap back.
Before she can get very far, two girls, who look familiar, approach us.
The one with the super short hair says, “Hey, Cadence, I’ve been meaning to ask . . .”
A fresh wave of pain slams into me. I can see the girl’s mouth move but can’t hear anything. It’s like I’m underwater again. As I force myself to take even breaths, I focus on a freckle on the second girl’s chin. The hallway blurs, but not that brown dot. I feel like if I can just keep that in my central vision, I won’t faint in fucking agony.
A hand touches my forearm—Chin-freckle’s—and I stiffen. I want to fling her off, but a bolt of electricity makes me cramp up. I breathe hard, as though oxygen could somehow lessen the effect of my battle wounds. I even shut my eyes.
And then poof!
The pain’s gone. I lick the sweat off my top lip and crack open my lids. Even though I don’t miss it, I wonder where it went. Did my breathing just defeat it?
“Great. I’ll email you the rest of the deets,” Pixie-hair says, then spears her arm through Chin-freckle’s.
They turn in perfect synchronicity, their narrow hips swaying.
Suddenly, Pixie-hair flips back around. “Oh. And, Cadence, you’re welcome to bring your boyfriend.”
Cadence’s hands fumble off her crossbody bag’s strap, and her cheeks burn as pink as the terracotta statue at her back. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she mumbles.
Chin-freckle leans over to whisper something in her friend’s ear. The girl with the short hair smiles and bobs her head. And then Chin-freckle winks at me.
“Bye, Slate.” She wiggles her fingers before turning back around.
What the hell just happened? I’m about to ask Cadence who they were when she grunts.
“Birthday party. Adrien will hate it.”
I rub the back of my neck, but my fingers collide with my Band-Aid, and I wince. Which reminds me of the agony I was in a minute ago. Could another piece be nearby? But if it is, how come it’s gone? Shouldn’t it still be killing me?
“Adrien’s birthday’s coming up?” I ask, so as not to worry Cadence in case it is another piece. As soon as she leaves I’ll walk around the hall and see if my ring lights up.
“Yeah. Next week. If you hadn’t been so busy checking out Jasmine, you might’ve caught on.”
I frown. Jasmine?
Cadence backs up. Stops. Her lips part as though she’s about to say something, but then she shakes her head and strides away, abandoning me with the oversized warlord.
“Women,” I tell him, shaking my head before pulling off my glove and walking up and down the hallway he guards.
The red oval glints from the sunshine pouring thro
ugh the gazebo but doesn’t light up, and my body doesn’t feel like it’s being quartered again. Pain killers. That’s what I need before my next flareup. And a shirt that doesn’t have blood smears on the collar. No one can see them with my coat on, but without it, I’ll be Brume’s grand attraction now that it’s no longer the well.
26
Cadence
I sit through two classes. Nothing sinks into my brain, which is too busy dissecting what happened in the hallway earlier. I write Jasmine’s name and drag my pen through it, slicing neatly through the paper. If I were a witch, I bet this would hex Charlotte’s bestie somehow.
Who fondles random men’s arms?
Also, Charlotte thought Slate was my boyfriend, so Jasmine must’ve assumed the same.
Who touches another girl’s boyfriend?
Also . . . again . . . and this is really the most perturbing part, why do I care?
The bell rings, and the pen I’ve been wringing the ink out of falls from my fingers. I bend over, pick it up, and fling it inside my bag where it rolls between my laptop and astronomy notebook.
Slate isn’t your boyfriend, Cadence, I remind myself because myself somehow thinks she has a right to be jealous. Slate’s not even your friend. He’s just your fellow Quatrefoil gatherer. A pompous stranger who looted your family crypt. There’s no reason in the galaxy—certainly, not his great abs or fearsome scars—why you should be attracted to him. Plus, he’s the guy who broke your New Year’s tradition because he didn’t want to kiss you.
You don’t like him.
Not one bit.
This isn’t my first inner monologue, but it’s definitely my lengthiest, which should probably worry me, but considering the events happening around Brume, I decide talking to myself is not all that concerning. What is concerning is that I’m more worried Slate might like Jasmine than I am about surviving the Quatrefoil.
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 20