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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  As we carry the tools back to where Adrien’s readying the area for a fire, I ask, “What exactly is the plan?”

  “According to Papa, a corpse’s bones can suck in a wandering spirit. As long as it’s the spirit’s bones.”

  Adrien takes the bag of coal from me, rips it open, and pours the black chunks onto the cleared, frozen ground.

  “ . . . bind him to his bones,” de Morel is telling Gaëlle.

  “The rope went right through him, Rainier.”

  De Morel frowns.

  “Maybe copper wire would work,” Adrien suggests. “There might be some in the house’s electrical wiring. I could go check.”

  Cadence sets down the bucket. “Wire will kick him away. It won’t bind him.”

  Adrien’s got the fire started now. It burns orange, spewing curls of lavender smoke into the bleached air. “Then how is she supposed to bind him?”

  “Maybe I don’t need rope or wire. Maybe the bones will magnetize his spirit.” Gaëlle sounds more hopeful than convinced.

  I don’t pitch in my two-cents because I know zilch about ghosts. Bastian might have some ideas—Goosebumps was his all-time favorite book series. If I remember correctly, some of the books had a spectral character or two. I got him the entire collection for his twelfth birthday, not new but not too yellowed and dog-eared either. I itch to call him up and ask him for advice but obviously can’t or he’ll be on the first train over, and I want to keep him as far away from this evil town as possible. Besides, I doubt the writer ever dealt with real ghosts, unless he visited Brume in the medieval ages. Or seventeen years ago. Shit. Will magic bring back more ghosts? They’re eerie, and this is coming from someone who has cohabitated with some creepy-ass people.

  Three hours go by, and Matthias is still a no-show. We’ve all morphed into popsicles, and the sky’s turned a deep gray. But on the upside, the dirt’s finally soft enough to dig into. Under the beam of the snowmobile’s headlights, Adrien and I take turns, and sure as shit, I’m the one with the shovel when we reach the body. I don’t even have to say anything. I just lift my eyes to the rest of the group when the edge of the metal hits that first bit of bone.

  They all watch as I scrape away the dirt with a spade. Whatever kind of cloth Gaëlle buried Matthias in is decayed to a greenish black in some places and completely disintegrated in others. The body’s mostly bone, except where the cloth sticks to it. Soil cradles the skull, and I observe that, like the ghost, most of its teeth have been knocked out.

  Note to self: never mess with a woman making pie.

  “I know you don’t think the rope will hold him, but I’d get it ready anyway, Gaëlle. Lay it out underneath the bones,” Rainier advises.

  “Oh. No.” She sways, going pastier than the ghost she’s supposed to fight. “Oh, I don’t think I can—”

  She turns and vomits into the snow. The air’s thankfully so cold it masks the stench.

  “Cadence, can you give me the rope?” After she hands it over, nose crinkled, I lift the rotten cloth, the bones rattling inside, and lay the rope underneath. All Gaëlle needs to do now is tie it into a pretty bow. “All done.” I dust my hands to rid them of frozen dirt and dead person.

  Cadence rubs Gaëlle’s back, whispering soothing words into her ear, while I dump a shovelful of fresh snow over Gaëlle’s half-digested lunch.

  The sky darkens some more, and the temperature plummets. I’m betting the North Pole feels tropical in comparison to Brume.

  Movement beside Rainier’s snowmobile catches my eye, and my heart kicks up a beat. I tighten my grip on the shovel as my blood burns and Matthias takes form.

  “Don’t move, Rainier. He’s right next to you,” I say, keeping my voice low. Hell, I don’t think screaming would make Matthias flit away, but I’m still not taking the risk. I want to get this over with.

  The ghost’s face is inches away from Rainier, his glassy eyes boring into Cadence’s daddy. Matthias clearly wasn’t a fan of de Morel. Never thought I’d have anything in common with a mad professor. Then again, I never thought I’d be stuck in a town fighting off monsters because of a ring.

  “Matthias,” Gaëlle croaks.

  The ghost turns his face toward the woman who slayed him.

  “I order you to leave me alone.” She’s not fooling anyone with her shaky voice, least of all the dead dude standing beside Rainier.

  The ghost’s split lips lift into a terrifying smile. You order me, chaton? You cut my life short. I intend to return the favor.

  He moves, the outline of his body curling and disassembling like smoke before repairing and tightening. Suddenly, he’s on her again, one palm clamped over her mouth and nose; the other wrapped around the back of her skull.

  She wriggles about, trapped in his hold, struggling to breathe. I will my feet to stay planted, because every single cell in my body wants to help. She’s suffocating, damn it.

  Finally, she wriggles enough that they both tumble into the shallow grave and crunch onto his bones. She rolls until she straddles him and his back is to the skeleton. His hands fall away from her body and his eyes pop outward as though he just saw a ghost.

  Ha. I fight off my smile because now’s not the moment. However spooked the ghost looks. Shit. I’m smiling. I rub my mouth until I realize I’m still wearing gloves that came in contact with bones. That quiets my mirth.

  “Bind him!” Adrien shouts.

  Gaëlle’s crying. Her fingers slip repeatedly as she kneels and attempts to knot the rope around the sack of his remains and his rigidified spectral form. “I can’t!”

  “You can!” Rainier barks.

  Just as she manages to loop the cord, the ghost vanishes.

  Shit! I’m really not smiling anymore. Did someone lob the tea strainer on him again?

  The cloth catches fire, and Gaëlle jolts back, burrowing in the corner of the grave, slapping her thighs which smoke with flames. In seconds, the flimsy burial fabric smolders out of existence, leaving behind the skeleton. The clingy bits of desiccated skin begin to weave together, and muscles reappear, rounding the corpse out until it resembles the man she buried.

  She claps her palm in front of her mouth and turns green as a seasick sailor. I’m expecting her to hurl all over her deceased hubby, but instead she screams. Could be because said-deceased-hubby bucks and wiggles like a worm.

  “Putain de bordel de merde,” I mutter, backing up a little, at the same time as Adrien yells, “He’s in the bones!”

  As though to demonstrate the professor is forever right, the corpse’s jaw widens and lets out a blood-curdling screech, Murderer!

  Gaëlle tries to scramble up the walls of the hole but keeps skidding on mushy snow and softened soil.

  “You must finish this, Gaëlle,” Rainier says. “Finish him, or he’ll forever haunt you.”

  And incidentally, I’ll croak.

  Gaëlle swallows, tears and snot running down her face.

  Cadence crouches at the edge of the hole and takes Gaëlle’s hand. “I believe in you. We all believe in you.”

  Gaëlle inhales a rickety breath, then wipes her face with the ends of her scarf and turns around, her hand slipping out of Cadence’s mittened one.

  Murderer! the corpse says again.

  “Quiet!” Gaëlle screams.

  You killed me in cold blood. The jaw flaps open and shut, clicking with each word.

  Eyes still glistening, she croaks, “I said, tais-toi!”

  You’re going to hell for your crime, chaton.

  “Stop talking, and don’t call me chaton! You lost that right the day you tried to murder our children.” Gaëlle unwinds the long scarf from her neck and launches herself on the writhing corpse. “You’re not real, so shut up. Just shut up!” She starts stuffing the yellow material into his mouth. All of it.

  Mmmmfff.

  “You’re . . . not . . . real,” she says between labored breaths. She shoves the last of her scarf between his broken teeth and releases one lo
ng, shrill cry that’s so full of pain and horror and regret that it makes my gut clench.

  The corpse stops moving.

  And then smoke wafts from his skin and envelops him and Gaëlle until their shapes are barely distinguishable in the thick grayness. A funnel of wind appears over the cloud and sucks up the smoke. Gaëlle crawls off her husband’s corpse, her long spirals whipping around. The wind rips apart Matthias’s skin, flesh, and bones, disintegrating the man until nothing remains but the moldy shroud and snake-like, curse-defeating scarf.

  When the wind stops blowing, the gold leaf twinkles atop the yellow yarn.

  She did it. She fucking did it.

  I let out a gigantic breath, feeling suddenly warmer.

  That’s two pieces.

  We’re halfway there. And we’ve still got twelve days.

  I might not die after all.

  28

  Cadence

  As Gaëlle’s leaf clinks into the box Papa brought, Slate picks up her scarf with the shovel.

  “Shouldn’t leave evidence at a crime scene.” His reasoning reminds me that he’s a man accustomed to infringing the law and not some happy-go-lucky kid with a mane of wild corkscrews.

  “We should set it on fire,” I suggest.

  “Gaëlle?” Papa slides the locked box back into one of the pockets of the snowmobile. “What would you like to do with the scarf?”

  “What Cadence said. Burn it.”

  Slate drops it back over the grimy shroud, and Adrien flicks a match.

  As I watch the flames devour the fibers, it dawns on me that Papa helped her bury Matthias, which makes him an accessory to murder. If anyone finds out . . .

  I can’t think like that. No one knows outside of the five of us. Gaëlle won’t talk since she has more to lose than he does. Adrien won’t either, since he’s almost family. And Slate . . . I study his sharp profile outlined by Matthias’s funeral pyre, watch him toast his hands over the flames. He hates Papa and blames him for everything bad that’s happened in his life, so he might just lord this over my father. I might need leverage to keep him quiet.

  Oh, God. I hate these thoughts. I try hard to beat them out of my mind as Adrien, Slate, and I bury the ashes under thick layers of soil and snow.

  Slate’s a part of this now. I have to trust him. There’s no other choice.

  “You okay?” he asks as I upturn a bucket of fresh snow.

  “It’s the first time I’ve seen someone die, so . . . not really.”

  “That wasn’t someone, Cadence. That was a ghost.”

  “Have you ever seen . . . a real person . . . die?”

  He nods. It’s a slow nod. A careful one.

  I swallow. “I know I didn’t kill him, but I feel like I did. Did you ever kill anyone?”

  His dark eyes take on a dangerous gleam. “No. But I’ve been close.”

  “Who?”

  His stubble-coated chin dips toward his neck. “Monsters. And not the magical kind.”

  The bucket swings from my numb fingers. In spite of my gloves, the air got to me. All of my joints feel distended and the inside of my ears ache.

  He pries the bucket from my hands. “You should get yourself home. Your lips are purple, and you have ice crystals on your lashes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  His attention wanders to the house. “Visit my past.”

  “But it’s night. And there’s no electricity.”

  He presses his lips together as though taking both factors under consideration. “I’ll use my phone’s flashlight.” And then he backs up, takes the shovel Adrien’s finished with and the second bucket, and crunches back toward the shed.

  “I’m sorry about what I said to you, Gaëlle. I didn’t know he tried to hurt you.” Guilt crinkles the outer corners of Adrien’s eyes. “I didn’t know he was cursed by my mother’s leaf—”

  I touch his sleeve. “It’s not your fault.”

  His red-rimmed eyes meet mine.

  “It’s not,” I repeat.

  “She’s right, Adrien.” I can’t see Gaëlle’s expression since I’m blinded by the snowmobile’s headlights, but I hear her sigh. “It wasn’t Camille’s fault either, and it devastates me to think she lived with so much guilt. That she died because of it.”

  “Why did Maman blame herself?” Adrien’s gaze sinks to the rectangular ochre patch next to his boots.

  It wouldn’t take a forensic specialist to guess foul play occurred in this deserted field. Thankfully, it’s private property. Plus, it’ll surely snow again soon.

  “Her piece caused a fire to spark on the pier. She was with Amandine, Rémy—I mean, Slate—and his parents when it started,” Papa says as Slate’s darkened figure emerges from the shed. “Camille picked up little Rémy and ran him to safety while Amandine tried to corral people. Eugenia went straight for the flames. And Oscar went after her.”

  Even though he’s steeped in night, I notice Slate flinch, and my heart tightens. I almost go to him, but what exactly am I going to do? Hug him like I did after he climbed out of the well? That had been awkward. Slate isn’t my friend. If he were, I wouldn’t be worried about him outing Papa to the police. Or am I just trying to distract myself from other confusing feelings?

  Slate bristles. “So, my parents ran into the fire instead of staying with their son.”

  “They thought they could fight the piece. They thought it might stop the fire. There were a lot of people on that pier.” Papa, too, sounds angry.

  “What about me?”

  “What about you, Slate?”

  “Camille cared, but not my own parents . . .”

  “They cared.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, about magic.”

  “They wanted to save you and Amandine and the whole of Brume.”

  No one says anything for a moment.

  “Was it also Camille who took me away from Brume?”

  “No. She just got you out of the fire; I don’t know who swiped you off that pier. All I know is that Matthias was also there. He was a teenager at the time. Full of enthusiasm and feelings of invulnerability as the young usually possess. He tried to go help your parents, and in doing so, touched the piece. Camille raced back into the flames and managed to get him out alive. She’d originally thought it was a miracle—he had so few burns and no obvious side effect of the curse.”

  I glance at Papa’s legs, his obvious side effect.

  “For years, we watched him, and he seemed unscathed by the curse, but then he held his father’s hand over the tavern’s grill. Nolwenn got scared and sent him away. Distance doesn’t completely annul the curse’s influence, but it lessens its hold.”

  “What?” I suck in too much cold air, and it burns as it travels into my lungs. “So, if you left Brume—”

  “Brume is my home, ma chérie.”

  “But if you left, could you walk again?”

  He grips one of his useless thighs with a gloved hand. “With a limp.”

  “Oh my God, Papa. Why have we stayed here?”

  “Because your mother is here, the Quatrefoil, my work, our friends. I might have an easier life someplace else, but easier doesn’t mean better.”

  His choice to stay confined to a wheelchair when he could regain the use of his legs baffles me.

  “I can see the wheels spinning in your brain, Cadence. Put the brakes on them, because we’re not leaving.”

  “But, Papa—”

  “Non,” he says firmly, sharply.

  I pinch my lips shut. I won’t fight now, in front of the others, but I might later.

  Papa returns his attention to Adrien. “Where was I?”

  “Nolwenn made Matthias leave,” Adrien supplies.

  “That’s right. I think he went to Sweden. There, he met someone, had Romain with that person, then returned after she . . . left him.”

  Oh, God. Does he think Matthias murdered Romain’s mother?

  “I hope that’s what happened.” He glances at Gaël
le.

  Her arms are crossed, and she’s staring at nothing.

  “His mind seemed whole again, and Romain didn’t seem scarred by an unpredictable father. He was actually a happy kid. Anyway, Gaëlle babysat him while Matthias took a teaching job at the university. There were no more strange incidents. At least none that we observed, and we were observing him. And then he and Gaëlle fell into a relationship, and the rest”—he lets out a whistling exhale—“well, you’re now aware of the rest.”

  “Death by rolling pin,” Slate mutters, though I think I’m the only one to hear.

  “He wasn’t fine. I should’ve seen it coming. He was always so obsessed with setting things on fire. He used the blowtorch on insects. Fire fascinated Romain, which made Matthias’s passion for burning things thrive. That scared me.” Gaëlle’s cheeks glitter with new tears. “I should’ve known . . . I should’ve known his mind wasn’t whole.”

  The frigid wind whistles through the tall, swaying evergreens, then brushes over the crusty snow and licks up the length of our bodies.

  “We should all get home now. The Quatrefoil only knows when the next piece will manifest.” Papa wears a tight smile, probably trying to defuse the tension.

  “I’ll walk back with you, Gaëlle,” Adrien offers.

  She nods. We arrived together on Papa’s snowmobile. Cars aren’t allowed in the heart of town, but the snowmobile is; Papa’s snowmobile, anyway. As soon as it roared down the street, Matthias poofed out of existence.

  Papa revs up the motor. “Are you ready to leave, ma chérie?”

  I bite my lip, glancing over at Slate.

  As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, Adrien says, “Slate can walk back with Gaëlle and me.”

  “Thanks, Prof, but I’m planning on hanging out here a while longer.”

  I stare between Papa and Slate a couple seconds before backing away from the snowmobile. “I’ll show him around his house and then walk home with him.”

  Papa’s mouth flattens. “No. It’s dark out and—”