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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  The address is not in the center of town but on the edge of First Kelc’h, near the forest. It takes a good twenty minutes to walk there from the university dorms.

  At the end of a long path, a stone house with a steeply pitched roof and red shutters materializes through the mist. It’s nowhere near as large and pretentious as the Manoir de Morel, bigger than a cottage but no castle. Something straight out of a fairytale with its jumbled ivy crawling up the walls and lace curtains peeking from behind nine-paned windows. All that’s missing are the seven dwarves.

  It’s charming, that’s what it is. Not my style at all. I like clean, modern lines, bay windows, and city-life right outside my door, so I don’t know why seeing the damn place makes my chest hurt and my throat feel raw. Like this pile of gray stones is some piece of me that I lost and have now found. Complete and utter bullshit. I was too young when my parents died to have a connection to this place.

  Bastian would love it, though. It’s perfect for a romantic like him. Yeah, he’d go full hog with a wife and 2.5 kids, a bichon frisé, and rows of tulips planted on either side of the front door. Even Spike might like it. It faces south, so if I put him in the front window, he’d get to sun his prickly ass all day.

  If the mist ever clears up, that is.

  There’s really something wrong with me. There’s no way I’d move to Dismalville. Why am I even entertaining the thought?

  A miniature version of the house sits at the end of the drive. Voices drift from beyond it, so I go around and find my crew standing—for the most part—in a loose circle amidst a wide expanse of unsullied snow. A mass of evergreens stretches far and wide, corralling the backyard like a fortified wall.

  Rainier eyes me from atop his souped-up snowmobile. “Slate’s here.” He doesn’t utter the word finally, but it’s there. On his mind.

  Asshat.

  “Let the games begin,” I bellow with great solemnity as I stroll over to the huge X of sticks laid out between my crew.

  “It’s not a game.” Adrien’s firmly aligned lips barely shift around his answer.

  No shit, Prof.

  Cadence’s eyebrows knit together, her hands cupped over her mouth like she’s either holding in a scream or trying to warm them up. Although Gaëlle’s back is to me, I notice she’s shaking, the frizzy ends of her long curls wobbling against the back of her coat. A length of rope is coiled at her feet.

  I crunch through the snow to stand between Cadence and Adrien.

  Cadence lowers her hands from her mouth, which looks redder than usual. Maybe it’s in contrast to how white her skin is at the present moment.

  “Hey.” She doesn’t look at me as she greets me. She’s wholly focused on pulling something out of her coat pocket—a saltshaker filled with soot-colored grains. “I brought you this. We’re hoping it’ll trap the ghost.”

  When she hands it over, our fingers bump, and a zing goes up my arm. She yanks her hand back, then stuffs it into her pocket and shifts away from me, adding a good three feet of distance between us.

  “I’ve heard of seasoning stuff to trap in the juices but wasn’t aware it also worked on ghosts,” I say to lighten up the grim mood of the assembled folks.

  Especially Cadence’s.

  When she showed me her mother’s statue this morning, I thought everything was good between us once again. That she either wasn’t so worried about me being an infatuated deviant or that she actually hadn’t figured that bit out after all. But then she got all weird about Jocelyn or Julia or Jeannine, and now she’s blatantly ignoring me.

  I don’t know what’s up. As per usual.

  I shoot my gaze toward Gaëlle. “If the ghost’s your ex, why are we chez moi? Why not in the cemetery?”

  “We were just establishing that,” Adrien mutters between clenched teeth.

  “No, we weren’t. We were establishing a plan.” Rainier stares pointedly at the giant X. “Why his bones are here isn’t important to getting the piece—”

  “It is if you want my help getting it. I worked with Matthias. He was a friend. What everyone said happened always felt wrong. He wasn’t the type to have up and left his family like that.” Adrien pins Gaëlle with a furious glare. “Why is he buried here? What did you two do to him?”

  “It was an accident . . .” Gaëlle’s voice is a near whisper.

  Whoa. Did Gaëlle kill a man? I feel my eyebrows shoot up to the top of my forehead. I glance over at Cadence, but she’s steadfastly studying the snow at her feet.

  “What did you do to him?” Adrien repeats, zero empathy in his voice.

  Rainier barks, “Matthias was cursed,” as though this explains why Gaëlle offed her baby-daddy.

  Adrien’s fury morphs into bafflement. “What? How?”

  “He accidentally touched your mother’s piece of the Quatrefoil back when we were hunting it down.” Rainier grips the armrest of his pimped-up snowmobile so tightly his knuckles strain his leather gloves. “That’s the reason your mother took her life, Adrien. Didn’t you read her parting note? She couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  Adrien’s mother committed suicide? Forget Dismalville; this town makes purgatory sound like a fun destination.

  “Cursed, how?” Adrien mutters.

  “He lost his mind. Hurt his own mother. Hurt Gaëlle. Even tried to hurt his own children.”

  “He came at my belly with a knife. Said the twins were monsters. Said that he was told to kill them.” Gaëlle’s voice is as slight and light as the flurries of snow dancing around the unmarked grave.

  Cadence gasps. “Oh, Gaëlle . . .”

  “Neither Nolwenn nor Juda know that he’s dead, and we’d like keep it this way.” Rainier stares around the circle. “They’re old. They do not need to have their hearts broken. It was hard enough for them to see their son when he wasn’t himself.”

  Cadence’s lips part again, or maybe they never quite closed.

  I turn to Rainier. “And you chose to bury him on my land why?”

  “Because it’s private property.” Rainier’s gaze slides to the thick mist rolling toward the dark evergreens. “Not to mention, uninhabited and out of the way.”

  Gaëlle falls to her knees in the snow, tears dripping into her yellow scarf. “When his mind was clear, he was so kind. So caring.” She touches the wooden cross she laid out as though reaching through the layers of snow and earth toward her dead husband. “When he came at me with the knife, my maternal instinct took over. I didn’t think. I just swung. I was making pie, and the rolling pin was right there . . . and it . . .”

  Wait. A rolling pin?

  “It . . . it happened so fast. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Be quiet! A voice stabs my eardrums.

  Gaëlle scrambles to her feet, eyes wild. “But it’s true, Matthias! I never meant—”

  I said be quiet! A man materializes out of thin air, seemingly solid except for his wispy edges.

  My bones bolt together, pain radiating from the ring. Holy shit. I’ve seen this dude before, in the art building. He’s the unkempt scholar who looked like he was living his worst life. Now that he’s right in front of me, I realize that he’s not just some pasty, shabby man, he’s seriously messed up. His skull’s caved in at one temple, one of his cheeks looks like cottage cheese, his lip is split and oozing blood, and his glazed eyes are saucers of hatred. Maybe in the past, he was borderline decent-looking, but with bloody stumps for teeth and skin the color of week-old foie gras, it’s hard to give a real assessment.

  “He’s here, Papa,” Cadence whispers to Rainier.

  Ah. That’s right. De Morel can’t see what we can. I tend to forget he’s not a descendent of the diwallers since he speaks about them as though they were his people.

  The already frigid, humid air takes a nosedive. Our breaths fog in front of us. Only Matthias doesn’t have a puff of white leaking from his lips.

  “Remember, Gaëlle. Remember what to do.” Rainier’s gaze flits around, as though trying to g
limpse the ghost standing by the ramshackle shed.

  You hurt me. You sent me away. Matthias moves closer to Gaëlle. His voice is no longer sharp and serrated but soft and sad. Why, chaton? Why did you do this to me? To us?

  “I’m so sorry.” Gaëlle’s normally dewy-brown face has turned ashen above her yellow scarf.

  Matthias stands inches from her, his bruised and broken skull tilted to the side. You stole my child. My Romain. And then the twins . . . I’ll never see them grow up.

  “You tried to kill them,” she croaks. “And me. You tried to kill me, Matthias.”

  You’re rewriting history to make yourself look like the martyr.

  “No,” she screeches. “Liar!”

  “What is he saying?” Rainier asks Cadence who stands rigid as a lamppost next to him.

  She whispers the words her father can’t hear.

  His eyes slam into Gaëlle. “He’s trying to get to you. Don’t give in to the guilt. He deserved what he got.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Gaëlle steps back, her boots crunching over one of the sticks.

  The ghost looks at Rainier, then back at his executioner. What did you tell them? What did you tell them about me?

  “Please, Matthias . . .” She takes two more steps back and raises her palms.

  Her dead husband begins to sob, long howls that sound like the mistral when it blows through Marseille.

  Is it me or has the wind picked up? I pull my coat collar tighter around my neck, eyeballs stinging from the violent chill.

  The ghost runs his hands down the sides of his face, his fingers dipping into his cheeks until one body part becomes barely distinguishable from the other. And then he pulls his hands through his neck, chest, and away from his body again. Did you ever even love me?

  As though to hear Matthias, Rainier leans forward a little. Any more, and he risks keeling over into the snow, right at Matthias’s feet. Considering Cadence’s old man was hexed once, he better keep his ass glued to the seat.

  “Of course I loved you.” Gaëlle’s tone is fierce.

  Matthias lunges at her. Then join me, chaton.

  “Now!” Cadence yells, and Gaëlle steps to the side.

  Matthias lands on the X of sticks.

  Adrien and Cadence pour the contents of their saltshakers over the snow. It takes me a half-second to remember the dispenser Cadence gave me. As they draw a circle with the spice blend, I grab my pot, unscrew the lid, and upturn it, the smell of garlic and the bite of pepper tickling my nose.

  Surprise fills Matthias’s empty eyes. Gaëlle grabs the rope. I’m not sure what she’s going to do with it, not having been privy to their little specter powwow.

  Matthias throws his head back and laughs. Before anyone can even react, he’s out of the circle. Gaëlle instinctively lifts her arms and ends up poking her hands right through Matthias’s middle. He shoves her to the ground and locks his hands around her neck, just above her scarf. Unlike on his own body, his fingers don’t sink through his wife’s flesh.

  I leap forward to tackle him, but just as I’m about to make contact, a strong set of hands grips me by the shoulder.

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Adrien’s fingers dig harder than necessary into my clavicle. “Don’t touch him.”

  Right. Shit. I rub the back of my neck, awakening the wound beneath the giant plaster.

  Gaëlle thrashes about in the snow, gasping for air, trying to truss up her husband with the rope. Unfortunately, the coarse cord goes right through his body.

  Cadence throws what looks like a copper spoon full of holes at Matthias, hitting him square in the back of the head. He fizzes and pops like a broken electrical wire before disappearing. Gaëlle lets out a whimper of relief.

  I shrug off Adrien’s grip. “What the hell was that thing?”

  “An electromagnetic shield. Sharp thinking, Cadence,” Adrien says.

  Pink tinges her cheeks. “It was Papa’s idea.”

  I study the thing now sitting in the snow beside Gaëlle’s leg. “An electromagnetic shield? It looks like a tea strainer.”

  “It is a tea strainer,” Cadence says. “But that’s not why it works. It’s the material from which it’s made. Copper blocks radio frequencies and electromagnetic radiation.”

  Pride curls Rainier’s lips. Is he pleased to have outsmarted a ghost, or that his daughter’s so well versed in corrosive metal and zombiesque apparitions? And what the hell do radio frequencies and electromagnetic radiation have to do with ghosts anyway?

  Still on the ground, Gaëlle wipes her wet cheeks.

  “It’s only temporary. He’ll be back. The copper disrupts the electromagnetic waves he uses to appear but won’t keep him away.” Adrien wears his usual know-it-all air.

  My eyes go to Cadence’s. For once, she doesn’t seem all that flummoxed or impressed.

  “Gaëlle hasn’t defeated the curse yet, though, right?” I ask, which is a dumb question since no shiny leaf has sprung out of the ghost.

  Adrien gestures to the sticks in the snow that formed the X. “Leading him to his bones was supposed to trap him long enough for Gaëlle to bind him.”

  Rainier lets out a long sigh. “I fear we have to dig him up for this to work.”

  Silence settles over the white clearing. Matching looks of horror bloom across my partners’ faces. I, on the other hand, am not overly bothered. Won’t be the first time I disturb the dead this past week. Not that it did me much good the first time around.

  “The ground’s frozen, Papa,” says Cadence. “There’s no way we can dig through it.”

  “Guess we’ll have to un-freeze it.” I remove one glove and pull my phone out. The goose egg ring emits light like a blood-soaked disco-ball.

  Gaëlle sits up, rubbing her neck. There’s a nasty necklace of bruises developing below her jaw. “His body . . . it’s not buried deep.” She glances up at us, a haunted look on her face. “I-I only dug a couple feet down.”

  Pulling up a link, I tap the screen of my cell. “Says here to try a charcoal fire and then boiling water to soften the dirt.”

  Rainier gestures to the shed at the end of the drive. “There might still be bags of charcoal in there. If they stayed dry, maybe they’ll work. There’ll be shovels, too.” He digs around a leather pocket snapped into the seat of the snowmobile. “Here, Roland.” He hands over a shiny set of keys. “I’ve been meaning to give these to you, but between the ring and groac’h, well . . . I forgot.”

  I scoff because de Morel doesn’t strike me as someone who forgets anything. After all, it’s his legs that are cursed, not his mind. “You sure you were going to mention it to me?”

  He frowns so hard vertical and horizontal lines appear on his forehead. “It’s not fit for living at the moment. No heat, no water, no electricity. But it’s in your list of assets. The papers are all in order. Once we’ve taken care of the Quatrefoil, I’ll get your whole inheritance together.”

  “Right. You said you’d do it two days ago.”

  “I’ve been busy, Slate.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. But, hey, I get it. The Quatrefoil comes first.”

  “If you want to live, it does.”

  “Convenient that my life’s tied—”

  “Slate, come on . . .” Cadence’s soft voice snatches my attention off her old man. “Save this conversation for later, okay? Matthias will be back any moment.”

  The keys’ serrated edges bite into my palm as I turn and trudge through the snow toward the shed. I sense a presence behind me. I look over my shoulder to make sure it isn’t the ghost. When I see it’s Cadence, the knots lining my shoulders loosen.

  “Can you please give Papa a break?”

  I stash my phone back into my pocket and grab my glove before I add frostbite to my list of grievances. “You’ve seen my dorm room.”

  “It’s warm, clean, and has a bed.”

  “Pfff. He’s really rolled out the red carpet. Some of the bedrooms in my old foster homes were better.” Not t
rue. I just feel like whining. And I want her to take my side.

  A flash of pain crosses her pale-blue eyes. I almost feel bad, but when she raises a compassionate smile I decide I don’t feel excessively bad. I want to ask her what happened back in the art building when she nods to my fist.

  “You’ll need the key.”

  I unwrap my fingers, grab the clunkiest one, and jam it into the lock of the wide red door. Unfortunately, the door opens outward, so I have to yank on it, then shut it several times to clear the thick layer of snow before I can worm my way inside. Cadence slips in behind me, cell phone up, flashlight beaming.

  It smells like dust and mildew and gasoline. Garden tools hang from pegs all along one wall. An old lawnmower stands upright near the back window. Folded up lawn chairs covered in cobwebs lean against a wrought-iron table piled with a bucket of clothespins, a watering can, and a striped green hose. Two vintage bicycles with flattened tires and crooked spokes hang from large ceiling hooks. A dusty toddler’s car seat sits in a corner beside two stacked buckets, a shovel, and an industrial-sized bag of coal. A tiny, one-eyed teddy bear is propped up in the car seat. He smiles at me, and it flicks my heart, because I imagine he was mine.

  Someone once loved me enough to buy me a happy bear.

  Cadence touches my forearm. I jerk because I forgot I wasn’t alone. She snatches her hand back, her cheeks coloring. Or at least, they look like they’re darkening. Hard to tell in the obscurity.

  I shake off my daze and walk over to the buckets and shovel.

  “Let me help.” Cadence latches onto the icy bucket handles and the splintered wooden shaft of the shovel.

  I allow her to pry them out of my fingers, sensing she’s trying to make up for the dorm-room-foster-care comment. This time, when our hands brush, a grimace doesn’t mar her face. I wrap my arms around the bag of charcoal and duck-step out the door but I don’t bother locking it because I plan on exploring after we’re done with the ghost shit. I’m about to ask Cadence if she wants to tag along on my stroll down memory lane when I think I spot Matthias, but it’s just a piece of fog drifting off from the ever-present wall of mist choking this damn town.