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

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “I’m seventeen, Papa. And it’s Brume. Relatively safe.”

  “I don’t want you walking around Brume in the dark while the Quatrefoil isn’t whole.”

  “He’s right,” Adrien says. “Brume’s become dangerous with the Quatrefoil unearthed.”

  “You should listen to them, Cadence.” Slate’s voice rings through the darkness. “Besides, I’m only going to stay here a half-hour tops.”

  I notice Adrien and Gaëlle exchanging quick words, and then she’s walking toward the snowmobile and climbing on.

  “I’ll wait with them, Rainier,” Adrien says.

  Papa is slow to accept Adrien’s offer. “You walk her to the front door, all right, son?”

  Adrien nods. And then the snowmobile carves up the snow, creating a wake of flurries in its path. Hands stuffed in the pockets of my puffer jacket, I make my way toward Adrien and Slate. I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold. My teeth clatter and my muscles feel like bags of frozen peas.

  “Take her home, Prof.”

  “Hello, I’m right here. Besides, a few more minutes aren’t going to make me any colder.” I bring out my phone, pluck one shaking finger from my mitten and press on the flashlight app. As soon as it’s on, I stick my hand back into the damp wool and trudge over to the front of the house.

  I stamp my feet as I wait for Adrien and Slate to catch up. They’re talking. About what, I have no clue. Their voices are too low and the wind too loud and my eardrums too anesthetized.

  Slate’s already pulled out his keys. He chooses the correct key right away. Then again, the third key is his mailbox key, much too tiny for a house lock. The hinges groan as the front door swings inward, stretching a cobweb so thick and white it resembles one of the tavern’s lace curtains. I illuminate the foyer, shining my light on the flight of wooden steps that lead to the first floor.

  I only came once before with Papa to help set up the board that allows him to wheel himself into places unsuited for wheelchair access. While he showed the house to a man in a dark suit, gold bifocals, and a briefcase, I went to explore.

  “Over here is the living room and formal dining room.” I direct my phone toward the right. “Opposite that is the kitchen and breakfast room.”

  “I didn’t know you’d already come here.” Adrien energetically rubs his hands together to drive heat into his fingers, which are surely as numb as mine.

  “I came with Papa a few years ago. He was having the house reappraised.”

  “Reappraised? If it’s fully paid, then there’s no reason to have it reappraised.” Of course, Slate jumps to a conclusion that doesn’t paint Papa in the best light. “Unless he was trying to take out a loan. Or sell it.”

  “Maybe he was having it reinsured then. I don’t remember.”

  Besides a thicker layer of dust and more cobwebs, everything is still exactly the same—the painted walls still sky blue, the wooden furniture still whitewashed, the floorboards pale oak. I walk ahead of him into the living room, toward the granite chimney on which sit several framed pictures. Most have been washed out by the sunlight, but the happy couple smiling at the camera are still distinguishable. Eugenia, like her son, had a wild mane of black corkscrews, but her eyes were green. Slate got his father’s eyes and most of the man’s features.

  “Your mom used to make this apricot ice-cream from scratch in the summer,” Adrien says as Slate lifts one of the pictures from the mantel.

  “I forget that everyone knew them around here.” A nerve jumps next to his eye. Jealousy? Sadness?

  Adrien sighs. “Brume’s a small place, Slate. They were both well-loved professors.”

  “Both?”

  I raise a brow. “Hasn’t Papa told you anything about them?”

  “He hasn’t been very forthcoming with information. Keeps promising me a tell-all after we’re done assembling the Quatrefoil.”

  I nibble on my bottom lip, my gaze dipping to the ring tenting his glove.

  “Your mother taught math and your father, astronomy,” Adrien says. “Maman grew up with your father. Your mother was from the south. Spain, or maybe Portugal? My father knew them well, in case you’d like to talk to him. I’m sure he could tell you some stories.”

  I want to warn Slate to stay away from Geoffrey Keene but obviously can’t do that in front of his own son.

  “Amandine de Morel and Eugenia Roland were the most reputed beauties in Brume. My mother was always jealous.” Adrien smiles. “But she loved them both too much to truly dislike them.”

  “Your mother had nothing to envy ours, Adrien.” Yes, Eugenia was stunning, but Camille was distinguished and so very kind. “I wish they were all still here.”

  “But they’re not.” Slate replaces the frame on the chimney mantel so abruptly I check the glass for spider-cracks.

  He heads to the openwork bookcase that separates the living and dining rooms. It’s full of dusty tomes on galaxies and black holes. Even though the current astronomy professor is fascinating, I heard Oscar was quite the entertainer and teacher. His students called him bewitching. That was the term often associated with him. Then again, Brumians have such a fascination with magic they consider everything and everyone in this town magical. Little do they know they aren’t completely off the mark. Granted, no one is magical yet. But if we succeed . . . when we succeed . . .

  Adrien’s phone chirps. I imagine it’s Papa. “Hey, bébé.”

  Guess not.

  Something heavy falls onto my shoulders, and I jolt, almost dropping my phone.

  “Are you crazy?” I try to remove the coat Slate’s placed over me, but he hangs on to the lapels. The air inside the house is cold enough to turn mercury solid, so he can’t possibly be warm. “You’re going to freeze.”

  “And you’re going to knock all the enamel off your pretty teeth.”

  I start to pull the coat off, but he holds out his palms. “I promise I’m all right.”

  Before I can protest any more, he backs up into the foyer and then pivots toward the kitchen, illuminating his own way. I walk past Adrien, who’s still chatting with Charlotte, cross the breakfast nook with its round table and wicker chairs, then burst into the kitchen. Slate’s running his light over the sunny granite countertops and wooden cupboards painted a happy yellow.

  “They really liked bright colors,” he says.

  “Not your style?”

  A side of his mouth hooks up. “I’m more of a fifty-shades-of-gray man.”

  My jaw tingles with a blush that I try hard to suppress. Why can’t I be like Alma, who doesn’t even know what shame feels like? Besides, he was obviously talking about the color not the book. The fact that my mind went to the book is all kinds of deranged. I didn’t even read the book.

  I blame the cold and the ghost.

  I look away since he hasn’t, then backtrack to the foyer. “Want to see the bedrooms?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, Mademoiselle de Morel.”

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me doing it since I have my back to him.

  Since Adrien’s still on the phone, it’s just Slate and me traipsing around.

  “You should really put your coat back on.” I peel it off my shoulders and try to hand it back, but he moves off, his gaze scouring every inch of his parent’s bedroom, from the bare mattress to the carved headboard, to the wooden trunk at the base of the bed bearing the initials E.H.

  He lifts the lid, and dust puffs out. Coughing, he swats the air until it clears. Inside are neat stacks of yellowed linens hemmed with fancy embroideries.

  “Want to grab dinner after this?” I don’t know where that came from. Just popped out of my mouth while I was scrutinizing a black-and-white picture of the university.

  The lid of the trunk bangs shut. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  Heat flares anew through me. “Not a date. Just a friendly dinner.”

  He chuckles. “At the tavern?”

  “Or at my house. I’m sure the
re’s a hot meal waiting for us.”

  “I really need a house elf.”

  “House elf?” I spin around, and the beam of my phone scrapes across his throat and black button-down.

  “Nothing. And yes, I’d love to go out with you, Cadence, but let’s go to La Taverne. Not in the mood to dine by candlelight with your papa. Three’s a crowd.”

  “It’s not a date.”

  He smiles at me. “Uh-huh.”

  “You are so—”

  “Alluring?”

  “Don’t make me regret suggesting dinner.”

  He slings his arm around my shoulders and pivots me back toward the hallway. “I noticed one more door on this floor.”

  I know where it leads. “Why don’t you save it for another visit?”

  He grips the knob and twists it, and since his arm is still around my shoulders, when he comes to a stop, so do I. His phone’s light splashes over the navy crib with the planet mobile, the four hand-painted wooden letters sitting on a shelving unit full of colorful board books, and the purple-and-blue galaxy wallpaper that’s bloated on one wall from a recent leak.

  I crane my neck to look at him. Only his eyes move. The rest of him has turned solid. Even his lips, usually supple, are pressed into a firm line. I thread my fingers through the hand he’s set on my shoulder and squeeze. The gesture brings him back to life. The lines on his face soften first and then the rest of his body follows.

  “Is it weird that I’m jealous of this kid?” His voice is so scratchy it makes my heart churn.

  I shoot him a smile, which he doesn’t catch because he’s staring at the R, E, M, and Y on the bookshelf. I let him look his fill and then squeeze his hand again before releasing it. “Come on. Let’s go shower the ghost gunk off ourselves and get some food in our bellies.”

  His Adam’s apple jostles as he gazes around the bedroom one last time. “Are we talking shared bathing?”

  I duck out from underneath his arm. “You just never stop.”

  “There are two surefire ways to get a woman: wooing her and wearing her down. Since you keep objecting to being wooed, I’ve elected to wear you down.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I have so much to say about that, but first, when and how have you tried to woo me?”

  “I bought you dinner.”

  “You mean, after you called me a teenage librarian and left me sitting alone at a table?”

  “You looked like you’d rather have been sitting with someone else.” He’s asking me about Adrien and my unrequited crush. A question I obviously can’t answer when the man in question is standing a floor below us, tapping his powered-off phone against his thigh and staring up.

  “You two ready to go?”

  I nod slowly. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

  Still drumming his phone, he jets out of the house.

  I turn on Slate, my hands slipping onto my waist. “Okay . . . so let me spin that question around. Why would you hit on me when you’re into someone else?”

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest, creasing the black cotton. “I’m into someone else? Who am I into?”

  “The girl you saw in the well. I know you keep saying you don’t love her, but you obviously feel strongly about her if she’s the person who appeared.”

  A thick curl falls into his eyes.

  “Is she the type you woo or wear down?” I grit out.

  Could I sound any more jealous? And why am I bringing her up again? Right. Because I don’t want to be the other woman . . . the Brume fling. He said he wasn’t dating anyone, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t involved with her in some other way.

  “She’s the type you wear down.”

  Not that I liked being the wear-down type, but now I’m jealous of sharing that status with this other girl.

  “She’s a lot like you, actually.”

  Great.

  “She has these really intense blue eyes. So clear they look like glaciers, but ringed with this dark, deep ocean-blue.” His lips barely move as he adds, “I’d never seen eyes like hers. Well, until the groac’h in the well used them to lure me.”

  That’s not true. He’s seen them on me.

  His arms drop from their knot, and then he’s shoving one hand through his hair. “And here I thought you’d figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?”

  He lets out a long breath. “I saw you in that well, Cadence.”

  My breathing catches. My heart, too. All of my organ’s functions become suspended as Slate’s confession trickles through me. And then everything starts up at the same time, and my heart detonates, and I wheeze, and then once I’m done making strangled sounds, my jaw loosens and my lips part.

  “Me?” It comes out as a squeak. “But you said it was—that she wasn’t from—that . . .”

  I’m flooded with memories of how strange he acted the first time he looked into the well, and how angry he got when Adrien mentioned it resembled someone we had strong feelings for.

  I smack his chest.

  “Ouch. What was that for?” Slate rubs his pecs dramatically. I really didn’t hit him that hard.

  “That was for making me jealous.”

  “How is that my fault?”

  “You lied about who you saw in there.”

  “Well of course, I lied. I barely know you, Cadence. If I’d admitted it, you would’ve freaked.”

  Totally. “Want to know what freaks me out even more, though?”

  “Do tell, what freaks you out more than my heartfelt confession?”

  “How jealous I was of the siren and then of Jasmine.”

  “Who’s Jasmine?”

  Is he serious? He looks serious. “The girl who was all over you when I was showing you around the campus.”

  He’s still rubbing his chest. “Oh. Her. I don’t even remember whether she was a blonde or brunette.”

  Did I hit one of his bruises? Shoot, I probably did. “Did I hurt you?”

  A lopsided grin takes over. “Very much. I think I might need some medical attention, doctor.”

  I’m torn between the desire to strangle him and kiss him. “We should go. Adrien’s waiting.”

  “He’s fine.” He finally stops rubbing his chest. “He can wait.” He lays his hand on my jaw, tilts it up.

  My heartbeats are so loud and close together that they’re probably making all six layers of my clothing vibrate.

  The tip of his nose touches the tip of mine, and his breath warms my parted lips. The only boy I’ve ever kissed is Romain, and those kisses were always friendly and sweet. I don’t think kissing Slate will be friendly or sweet. I lick my lips in anticipation.

  “Can’t wait for our date.” He pulls back, releases my head but finds my hand in the folds of his coat, and tows me downstairs.

  Yep. I’m going to strangle him.

  Probably while kissing him.

  29

  Slate

  Keep it in check, dude. Keep it in check. I’m battling with myself. I want nothing more than to taste Cadence, tangle my fingers in her hair, and kiss her until she moans. But I don’t. Why?

  Because I’m a gentleman.

  Or a masochist.

  One of the two.

  Maybe both.

  She knows. She knows I saw her in the well and she didn’t run screaming. Already that’s a miracle. And she was jealous on top of it? Things are finally looking up for Slate Ardoin.

  Unless my confession shocked her into a lie. Or maybe, she’s just as messed up as I am and is falling too hard and too fast for someone she barely knows. I want her so bad it hurts, but I know not to push. She needs to set the pace.

  We step out into the permanent soup of fog, and I drop Cadence’s hand to lock the door of the house.

  Adrien’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, probably trying to keep his blood from congealing. “Finally.”

  My phone vibrates: Bastian.

  As we crunch over the snow down the drive, I answer. “Yo, little bro.”<
br />
  “Guess where I am?”

  “Euro Disney?”

  “Close but no. I’m in Brume!”

  I stop walking.

  “The train’s just pulling into the station.” He says this with the satisfaction of someone who’s just cleared out Carrefour’s entire stock of madeleines for his sugar-addicted brother.

  For the first time in a long time, I can’t even speak. A thousand thoughts crash into my head. Bastian can’t be here. He could get hurt. No fucking way in hell am I letting my little brother close to dark magic.

  Adrien motions for me to keep moving. Cadence lifts her eyebrows at me as if to ask what’s going on. Somehow I find the wherewithal to put one foot in front of the other.

  Cadence removes my jacket and hands it over. I clutch it tight but don’t put it on.

  “Uh . . . Slate? You still there, man?” Bastian’s voice rings in my ear, or maybe it’s my ear that’s ringing.

  “Who’s watching over Spike?” I bark.

  “Well . . . he’s a cactus, so . . . I figured he can go a few days—”

  “He’s not just a cactus. He’s an Eve’s Needle, and he needs care. Turn around, Bastian. I asked you to do one fucking thing: watch Spike. Go back and do it.” Fear brings out my inner asshole.

  He isn’t fazed, too used to my moods. “Nope. I still have two weeks until school starts. There’s no way I’m going back to Marseille until I see Brainy Slate sitting in a classroom. I want proof that you’re bettering your life and not heisting anyone.”

  “Heisting isn’t even a verb.”

  “Actually it is. Train’s stopped. I’ll be getting off now. Should I wait here, or do you want to send me your dorm address?”

  I sigh. “Shit. Fine. Just sit tight. I’ll be there in ten.” I hang up, then slide on my coat. “You guys go on. I’ve got to head to the train station to pick up my little brother.”

  Now it’s Adrien’s turn to stop walking. “Brother?” His voice is as tight as his brow.

  “Yeah. Brother. Foster brother,” I add, so he doesn’t go thinking Bastian’s fair game for the next round of this merry hunt.

  “It’s not a good time for visitors, Roland. With us trying to put the Quatrefoil together—”