“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” I refrain from punching him and speed up. “He just showed up here. And he’s not leaving without seeing me.”
“It’ll be fine.” Cadence touches Adrien’s forearm, and even though I know it’s to calm him, it pisses me off. “We’ll walk with you.”
Adrien huffs but nods.
It dawns on me that Bastian’s presence puts a wrench in the plans I had with Cadence.
“Putain,” I turn to her. “Our date.”
Adrien stumbles. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t like the sound of Cadence going on a date.
Even in the dimness, I spot the streaks of crimson licking up the sides of her jaw. I could’ve used the word dinner but deliberately didn’t. I realize this makes me no better than a dog marking his territory, but I want Adrien to know.
He side-eyes me, and I swear his eyes flash with a warning: don’t screw with her. “I didn’t know you guys were . . . dating.”
“We’re not,” Cadence blurts out, and damn if that doesn’t chip off a little piece of my ego. “We were just going to have a friendly dinner at the tavern. You’re more than welcome to join us.”
The fuck he is.
“I’m meeting Charlotte.” He slants me another look. “And if we don’t step on it, I’ll be late.”
I think I’ve blown the date completely, but then Cadence turns to me. “How about I call Alma? Four’s a better number than three.”
My pared ego reshapes and solidifies.
“Unless you wanted time alone with your brother?” Her gaze pulls me in like undertow.
I check myself from hollering hell, no, not wanting to reek of desperation, a sentiment that is oh-so-new-and-unwelcome.
“If I’m alone with him, he’ll sense something’s up, so definitely call up your friend.” Then I add, “I need to get him out of town. Maybe we can get him drunk enough to board a train back to Marseille before daybreak.”
Already, we’re in sight of the station. I can see the glowing white letters spelling out GARE, like specters in the Brumian mist.
A handful of minutes later, we’re standing in front of the building.
“Your stop,” Adrien announces.
I peel off. Even though I’m not expecting Cadence to follow, she does.
“Cadence, I promised Rainier I’d walk you to your front door.”
She shoots Adrien a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I’m with Slate.”
“Your father said—”
I tilt my head his way. “I didn’t think you were that type, Mercier.”
“What type?” Adrien says sourly.
“The type to ask ‘how high’ when someone says ‘jump.’”
Cadence narrows her eyes at me. “It’s called being responsible.” Under her breath, she adds, “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should go home.”
Panic flares in my chest. Even though the words don’t want to come out, I force them past my clenched teeth. “Sorry for jumping down your throat, Prof, but everyone always assumes I’m irresponsible, and it takes a toll.”
Adrien’s teeth stay clenched. I’m hoping his inner struggle comes from duty and not jealousy.
After another loaded minute, Cadence’s breath puffs out like Gaëlle’s dead husband’s ghost. “I’ll call Papa, so you’re off the hook, Adrien. Thanks for walking with us, and for worrying about me.”
“I’ll always worry about you.”
She smiles at him, and he holds her gaze for a beat too long.
“If you need anything, call me.” Adrien’s eyes cut to me. “And make sure she gets home all right.”
“Aye aye, Prof.”
She waves as he takes off. “Don’t make me regret hanging out.” Her whispered words knock hard into me.
“Maybe I’m jealous, too.” Jealous of how she feels about him and how he feels about her. Jealous of their shared history and familiarity.
She tips her head up. “Adrien is important to me, Slate—he’ll always be important to me—but you’re the guy I’m going to dinner with. Not him.”
But is that because he’s busy with Charlotte? I bite back the question, which tastes bitter on my tongue.
As I study her heart-shaped face, I wonder if my attraction to Cadence could be another Brumian curse. I mean, I have never wanted anything or anyone more than this girl, and I’m a man with a lot of wants. Bastian says it’s to compensate for not having had much during my childhood.
Shit! Bastian.
I turn toward the station, which is pretty big for such a puny town in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere. Like everything else here, it’s made of aged gray limestone and looks like it popped off those collectible miniature Christmas villages Bastian adores. I’ve never understood the fascination with fake little holiday towns, too cheesy and saccharine for me. But Bastian has a thing for them. Hell, I remember his face when I surprised him on his fourteenth birthday with a midnight stroll through one of those fancy shops that had dozens of these villages set up. I’d temped there over the holidays and had managed to filch not only the key but the alarm code. He’d spent well over an hour drooling over the teeny cathedrals and ice-skating rinks and plastic gingerbread houses, eyes watery and lips wobbly. I told him to take one, that I’d worry about the consequences. Righteous as he was, he refused. So, we’d gone home empty-handed to a house that forever smelled of athlete’s foot, warm beer, and camembert past its prime.
I shake the memory out of my mind as Cadence and I pass under an illuminated clock with a cheery mechanical wizard that clangs a bell every hour. I realize it’s only seven, even though it feels like midnight. The smell of hot chestnuts blasts into me and makes my stomach rumble like a Rottweiller.
Cadence grins. “Hungry?”
“I could eat.” I’m so relieved by the appearance of her smile that I almost miss the sound of my name.
Bastian’s standing by the information office at the other end of the station, a brochure dangling from his hand. Just the sight of him makes my lips curve—black-rimmed glasses sitting crooked on his nose and navy peacoat swallowing up his scarecrow frame. Putain, I love this kid. But my smile turns to a deep frown. However glad I am to see him, I need to get him away ASAP.
He stuffs the brochure back into the rack, lobs his backpack over his shoulder, and meets me halfway. “Big bro!” He punches me in the shoulder, giving me a half-hug, but then his grin falters. “You got into a fight?”
I put a hand to the bite on my jaw, grateful he hasn’t spotted the bandage on the nape of my neck that feels soaked again. “Good news is, I won.”
“And here I thought some schooling would civilize you.”
“And here I thought you knew me.”
His gaze slides over my shoulder to Cadence, who’s hanging back to give us some privacy.
“Bienvenue.” She shoots Bastian a smile that makes him go a little red.
“No wonder you haven’t been calling me back,” he says under his breath as he skirts me to reach her. “Hi. I’m Bastian.”
“Cadence.” She leans in and gives him a kiss on each cheek, the normal French greeting, nothing else, but I find myself scowling.
Bastian, an expert on all-things-Slate, cocks an eyebrow. I cross my arms and wedge my lips into a firm line. He gives the faintest of nods, which is bro-code for: Got it. Girl’s off-limits.
“We were thinking of grabbing dinner tonight.” Cadence puts a hand on my arm, a spot of sudden warmth in the freezing cold station. “Unless you want to catch up with Slate alone.”
“Nope. Dinner with you and Slate sounds awesome.” The beginnings of a smirk grows on his lips.
I know the reason for that smirk. I’ve never had dinner with a woman I didn’t want to strip of intel. Five days in Brume, and I’m a new man.
The crazier bit is I kinda like this new guy.
A prickly lump forms in my throat. Who the hell am I fooling? I’m stuck here and trying to make the best of my containment. Th
is whole scene is not in line with my life. This new me is not in line with my life. It’s not like I’m going to stay one more second than I have to once I get the ring off my finger.
Cadence releases my arm to tug down her pompom beany. “I’m going to go home to change, then meet you two at the tavern. Eight sounds good?”
“I’ve been entrusted”—or rather I’ve entrusted myself—“with your safety, so we’ll walk with you.”
Cadence’s lips part as though to protest.
“Bastian adores sightseeing almost as much as you love dusty old books, so it’ll give him the chance to see all the hotspots in Brume.”
“There are no hotspots,” she says, with a little curl of lip.
“Don’t I know.” I want to drape my arm around her again or take her hand. I do neither. In part, because I’m not sure she wants the contact, and in part, because I have never walked hand-in-hand with anyone before. As always, my eyeballs freeze once we’re out of the station. “Welcome to Brume, otherwise known as the Ice-Crack of Hell.”
Cadence grins and shakes her head while Bastian chuckles.
“The Ice-Crack . . .” he repeats, taking in the glowing streetlights, the cobblestones, the fog snaking past like a giant serpent. “You’re so dramatic.”
For once, I’m not. For once, I’m terribly realistic.
As we walk into the fortified part of town at the base of the hill, Bastian peppers Cadence with questions about Brume, and she answers cheerily. It’s only when he says, “So do you think there really was magic here at one time?” that she bites her bottom lip and shrugs, her cheeriness morphing to unease.
And then, because the town’s handkerchief-small, we’ve arrived in front of the tall iron gates of Manoir de Morel.
“Wow.” Bastian whistles approvingly at the house.
Unlike me, wealth doesn’t spark jealousy in him. Not that he’s poor anymore. Although he doesn’t know how rich he is yet. Hopefully, he won’t know for a long while, because him finding out means I’m dead, and I don’t feel like dying.
“We’ll pick you up at ten to,” I call out as she fishes her keys.
“Slate—”
“Cadence.”
“That’s really unnecessary.”
I want to touch her but keep my hands in my pockets and back away. “Ten to eight.”
A breath eases from her lips and bleaches the air. “Fine.”
Once Cadence is safely inside, Bastian all but throttles me with questions about the university. I answer as truthfully as I can, leaving out the part about not actually attending classes and cursed magical artifacts.
I lead him up the stairs to Second Kelc’h, and we skirt the square. He marvels at the Christmas village state of this place, from the slate rooftops that shine like fish scales to the gleaming cobbles dusted with fresh snow. Brume, through his eyes, is a magical place. If only he knew the extent of the magic.
We pass by a gaggle of girls who look our way. He straightens his glasses.
“So, Cadence’s best friend is coming to dinner tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“I think you’ll like her.” Scratch that. I know he’ll like her. But suddenly, I don’t want him to like her because liking her would make him want to stay, and I don’t want him to stay. Maybe I should cancel dinner.
“So how did you and Cadence meet?”
“Remember that stuffy dean who sent me my welcome packet? She’s his daughter.”
“No way. Actually, duh. The mansion had the name on the gate.”
I punch in the code for the dorm’s front door. “Before you ask, we’re not together.”
“But clearly, you wouldn’t object to it.” He follows me up the flight of rickety stairs.
“The only thing that’s clear is that I don’t want her to be with anyone else.” I twist my key in the lock and present my matchbox-sized dorm room to Bastian with a grand flourish.
A grin threatens to cleave his face in half. I don’t think it has anything to do with the sight of my present accommodations. “Never thought womanizing-Slate Ardoin would want to settle.”
I scoff. “No one’s settling.” I pull off my coat, gloves, and shirt and toss them on the bed, then kick off my grimy boots and jeans, but keep my boxers on. “I need a shower.”
Bastian takes in the small bed. “This’ll be just like old times.”
What he means by that is, he’ll curl up on the floor next to my bed, which was something he used to do when we had separate bedrooms back in our foster homes. Every time I’d find him, I’d scoop him up and lay him on my bed, then take his spot on the floorboards, and since he was always such a heavy sleeper, he didn’t notice until the morning.
I think of bumming Cadence’s guestroom again, but leaving Bastian alone in an evil town doesn’t sit right with me. I hook my towel around my neck so that Bastian can’t spot my bandage, then grab my bottle of soap and the crinkling paper bag filled with bandages, alcohol swabs, and antibacterial ointment.
“Where’d you get that ugly thing?”
My gaze flicks to the hand I have curled around the doorknob and the big red stone blinking like a snake eye. “Found it in a vintage shop.”
Bastian studies it, then the acres of bruises on my body. “That vintage shop has a nice upper-cut.”
I smirk.
“Have they tacked up WANTED posters with your face on them yet?”
I chuckle. “Nope.” I pop the word out. “They’d have to snap a picture of me in the act, and you know me: stealth-personified.”
“Slate . . .”
Sensing a sermon, I say, “I promise, I’m not in any trouble.” At least, not the sort he’s thinking of. I hate lying to him, but I need to keep him safe. If that means dishonesty, then so be it. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”
30
Cadence
When we reach La Taverne, Alma’s standing out front in a pair of thigh-high boots, sheer black tights, and a tiny denim skirt that makes my slim black jeans, black V-neck cami, and duster-length cardigan look homely. At least Slate doesn’t give her the long once-over he gave me when he picked me up.
During the short walk over to the town square, he’s barely taken his eyes off mine. Probably because I did my hair again and applied some mascara and eyeliner.
Obviously, Alma notices. “Whoa. Is that makeup I see?”
I’m half-tempted to scrub it off.
“Dude, your eyes,” she says, before turning to the boys. “Hey, Slate.” She tilts her head to the side to get a glimpse of Bastian, who’s presently studying the well like a kid in a candy store, neck swiveling every which way and eyes as large as gumballs.
Slate trails Alma’s gaze over to Bastian, and his body locks up. I wrap my hand around his arm, stealing his attention off the arena in which he fought, and mouth: She’s gone.
His Adam’s apple jostles.
When Bastian, who’s trotting up to us, notices Alma, he pauses midstep and then straightens his glasses—twice. She greets him with the customary bise. In her heels, she’s only half-a-head shorter than gangly Bastian.
Gangly, starstruck Bastian.
“I heard you’re Slate’s brother.” She looks between the two boys, probably seeking a resemblance. She won’t find one. Not only is Bastian’s complexion several shades darker, but they also share zero similar features. She must decide not to pry, because she goes with, “I want all the stories. The more embarrassing, the better.”
“No. No stories,” Slate says, opening the door for everyone.
As I sidestep him, his clean, woodsy scent drifts into me, making me inhale so deeply I think he notices, even though no smug comment comes out of his mouth. Then again, his mouth is still tensed and his gaze keeps skipping to the well. I chew on my lip, wishing there was a way to hide it from his sight.
Alma pulls open the heavy curtain, dispersing the aroma of browning butter, golden onions, and fried garlic. Lots and lots of garlic. We Bretons l
ove our garlic. Almost as much as we love our French tunes. Over the din of voices spills a vintage song from the folksy rock band Louise Attaque.
Nolwenn, who’s bustling by with a heavy clay pot, nods to the upstairs area. “Saved you the corner table beside the stairs.”
“Thanks, Nolwenn.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t do much to smooth out the myriad of little lines crosshatching her face. She’s worried and tired. I don’t think she should be working, but the last time I mentioned her taking a break, she said that idleness is the bane of the French, and that she’ll rest when her bones are laid to rest in her family’s crypt. Makes me think that one day, we should move Matthias’s bones off Slate’s property and into that crypt.
I shake my head, dispelling thoughts of cemeteries and death. I want to celebrate life tonight.
Living.
Surviving.
I must’ve missed something, because Bastian and Alma are both laughing, their gazes going up to Slate, who isn’t laughing but who is smiling.
“Giggle away, little brother,” he says, walking up the stairs. “I have plenty of stories about you to share.”
Bastian sobers but then looks at Slate and cracks right back up. “I may giggle like a girl, but at least I don’t dress like one.”
Alma tosses her head back and spills that loud, contagious laughter of hers all through the restaurant. It’s the sort of laugh that makes everyone look and want to join in even when they have no clue what’s funny.
“A kilt isn’t a skirt,” Slate grumbles. “Besides, I’ve got damn good legs. I looked hot in a skirt.”
“We don’t doubt you looked hot,” Alma purrs, elbowing me before sliding onto the wooden banquette along the wall.
Slate pulls off his jacket and tosses it on the bench seat beside Bastian, then surprises me by helping me out of my silver puffer. He hands it to his brother, who sets it atop the growing pile of coats.
I take the chair across from Alma, and then Slate settles in beside me, casually slinging his arm over the back of my chair.
Nervously, I sit upright, keeping my distance from his arm. “I missed the part of why you wore a kilt.”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 25