His fingers slide through my snarled hair, catching in all the knots, but it feels nice.
“I hate magic,” I whisper.
The rubber wheels of Papa’s chair squeak over the veined marble floor, and I pull away from Adrien. As I rub my wet cheeks, I catch Slate staring at us. I take another step away, but then wonder what the heck I’m doing. Adrien’s my friend. He’s been my friend for years. And all he did was hug me. There’s really no reason for Slate to be looking like he wants to smother the poor guy.
The beeping of the safe’s keypad carries my attention away from Slate and to Papa, who’s drawing the door open. Behind colorful stacks of euros twinkle the two golden leaves. “Gaëlle, can you grab your piece?”
I can’t believe we already have two.
I can’t believe we’re still missing two.
Her arm trembles as she darts it inside the safe. “Which shelf? Oh, mon Dieu I don’t remember which shelf . . .” Her voice quivers as brutally as her extended arm.
“The second shelf, Gaëlle,” Papa says calmly.
She picks the leaf up, pinching it between her fingertips as though it were a dead rat, lips curled in repugnance.
“You have to let go of the girl’s hand, Slate,” Papa says. “Bodies are conductors.”
Emilie’s knuckles whiten. “Y-you s-said you w-wouldn’t let go, monsieur,” she stutters, tears curving around her heart-shaped mouth. I sense Slate struggle with the promise he made her.
He crouches and grips the back of her tiny neck. “This nice lady is going to hold your hand, and then as soon as you touch her pretty gold leaf, you come right back to me, okay? And then we’re going to go find your maman.”
Emilie’s eyebrows writhe as though it’s shredding her to release him.
“I promise.” He strokes away her tears with his thumb. “I’ll be right here, kiddo.”
A breath ratchets up her throat as her fingers loosen.
“Gaëlle, the second her hand’s out of mine, she’ll transport somewhere. You need to catch her.”
Gaëlle blinks and then she jerks her head in a nod and steps closer to the girl. What if her fingers fall right through her, though?
“Ready?” I’m not sure whether Slate’s asking Gaëlle or Emilie. Probably both. “Now!” He pulls his hand from the girl’s, then straightens.
Emilie tries to throw her arms around his middle, but as she lurches for Slate, she flickers, vanishes, and then reappears behind Papa’s glass desk, her sobs the only noise in the room.
“Gaëlle, come on!” Slate stuffs his hands in his coat pockets as though to keep himself from catching Emilie himself.
Gaëlle whips around, her curly black hair flogging her scarf-free neck. I thought she was missing something, but it’s only just hit me what. And then of course, it reminds me of why it’s missing, and I taste ash. Ash and sour grape. Emilie dematerializes and then pops up between Gaëlle and me.
Gaëlle punches the air, knocking the gold leaf against the child’s sternum. “S-sorry,” she whispers.
Emilie dips her chin into her neck and stares down at the shiny leaf.
Gaëlle crimps her other hand around the girl’s shoulder. “You need to touch it, Emilie.”
Although the girl flickers, she doesn’t vanish. Emilie looks over her shoulder, her eyes going straight for Slate.
“I’m right here,” he says, arms folded now, hands shoved under his armpits.
For some reason, the bump on his forehead seems like it’s swelled again. I make a note of grabbing something from our medicine cabinet and an icepack after this. Nursing Slate is a pleasant distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I refocus on Emilie, who’s inching her hand closer to the leaf.
Please work. Please work.
She grabs it, and her body sharpens, stops shaking. I release a breath, relief sinking through me as fast and headily as last night’s alcohol. But then her mouth pops open around a noiseless gasp and her eyes glaze over. And she crumples to the floor.
Gaëlle’s the first to scream. “Rainier? Rainier! What do I do?”
Slate starts to pounce forward, but I put myself in his path, planting my two palms into his chest in case he tries to bulldoze past me. He doesn’t. He freezes, his eyes going from Emilie, to me, and then back to the little girl.
“What’s happening, de Morel? Why isn’t she moving?” he growls, brisk heartbeats filling my palms.
I look over my shoulder at Papa who’s staring down at Emilie, a tightness between his eyebrows. He rubs the vertical groove as though attempting to iron it out. “Maybe the magic is still working itself through her . . .”
“Maybe?” Slate roars.
I grip on to the gray T-shirt he must’ve slept in because it’s wrinkled.
“Get the leaf away from her!” he thunders.
Gaëlle yanks her hand away, and the leaf arcs through the air, hits the thick plexiglass frame enclosing the ancient parchment scroll on the wall, then clinks against the buffed veined marble floor. The sound is deafening in the dreadful silence.
Although livid, Slate gently peels my fingers off his shirt and sidesteps me to reach the girl. I find myself staring at Bastian and Adrien who are standing rigidly side by side next to the wall of shelves.
“Gaëlle, get the leaf,” Papa orders.
Her boots squeak.
“She doesn’t have a fucking pulse, de Morel!” Slate’s voice cracks like a whip, makes Bastian and Adrien flinch. I’m half expecting the strength of his fury to obliterate the glass desk.
“Maybe if I make her touch the leaf again . . . or lay it on her heart?” Gaëlle’s suggestion goes unanswered.
Papa’s staring down at Emilie, whose blonde hair is fanned around her pale motionless face like rays of sunshine.
“Rainier?” Gaëlle’s hand shakes around the leaf.
“When I touched it, it stopped the curse from progressing instantly,” Papa says.
Slate’s hunched over Emilie, obscuring most of her body. “Try, Gaëlle! At least try.”
“Okay. Back up. Please. I don’t want—I don’t want it to . . .”
Slate stands and takes a miniature step back. Gaëlle kneels beside Emilie, pulls up her unicorn pajama top, and presses the leaf against her ribcage.
I wait for Emilie’s lips to flutter.
They don’t.
Gaëlle picks up the girl’s limp wrist and places her stubby fingers on the gleaming metal.
Nothing.
“Fuck this!” Slate growls.
Gaëlle bounces away from the little girl just as he drops to his knees and begins chest compressions.
“Come on, kiddo.”
I don’t know how long we wait. Perhaps it lasts all of a minute, or perhaps a half hour goes by. By the time Gaëlle deposits the leaf back inside the safe, I feel rooted to the marble. I can’t even move I’m so . . . shocked . . . revolted . . . disappointed . . . despondent. All of these things and more.
I want to destroy the Quatrefoil and vanquish magic once and for all. I think of Maman, and although I don’t remember her, it feels like I’m looking down at her body. It feels like I’ve lost her all over again.
Papa shuts the door of the safe with a clank, and still no one says anything.
Growling his anger, Slate stops the useless compressions and sits back on his heels, hands locked in fists on his thighs. He stares at the cursed child. Just stares, and then his fingers move to her forehead, and he brushes away a lock of hair before delicately lowering her puffy lids.
The silence in the room is deafening.
“Aveline needs to be told—” Adrien starts.
Papa interrupts him. “That her daughter’s run away.”
“She’s six, Rainier. Was six.” Adrien shudders. “Six-year-olds with happy home lives don’t run away.”
“Aveline spent years doing IVF to get pregnant with Emilie. We tell her that her daughter’s dead and we’ll have more blood on our hands. Let her have hope.”
“Hope’s better than having nothing, Rémy.”
Slate’s shoulders square. “Don’t fucking call me Rémy.”
Papa purses his lips and clutches the armrests of his wheelchair as though they were Slate’s neck. He’s going to hate finding out that Slate and I are—What are Slate and I? Besides two strangers who kissed in a restaurant. It’s much too soon for a label.
Slate finally stands, and his eyes go straight to mine. I want to reach out, but Papa’s watching, so I leave my hands hanging at my sides. Slate thrusts his fingers through his mess of curls, pushing them off the bruised lump. Icepack. He needs an icepack. And I need a reason to get out of this room and away from this innocent, dead child. I shiver when a ray of sun catches in her hair and makes it glitter gold.
“Adrien, phone your father and tell him to come over.” I meet Papa’s blue stare as he speaks. “It’s time the mayor gets more involved. We need to prepare for a town-wide lockdown to make sure no one else gets hurt.”
Slate snorts. “Hurt? You mean, lethally hexed?”
Adrien jerks away from the gray wall, his phone already in hand. “What about the girl, Rainier?”
“Cadence, ma chérie, can you grab a sheet from the linen closet?”
I nod and tail Adrien to the door when I hear Papa ask, “Now, can someone tell me who this boy is and what he’s doing in my office?”
I stop and turn back toward Slate, who has his back to Papa. “This boy’s my brother.” His fingers flex and straighten. “He’s the person I want my estate to go to in case the Bloodstone doesn’t come off, de Morel.”
“And you thought bringing him here to strongarm me into signing over your trust during the Quatrefoil hunt was a sound idea?”
“Papa!” How could my father think such a thing?
Slate smiles, but it’s not a smile at all.
I’m sorry, I mouth, ashamed.
“There’s a dead child in the room, Rainier. Maybe you can discuss this after we . . .” Gaëlle’s eyes are so red they resemble the Bloodstone. “After we bury her?”
“We can’t bury her. Not unless you want to dig around the Rolands’ backyard again.”
A nerve ticks in Slate’s jaw.
“We need to put her in the crypt or in the lake; I vote the lake.” Papa stares out the bay window at the ice-capped lake hedging our property line. “Cadence, the sheet.”
My skin pimples with dread as I back out of the office. I keep thinking it can’t get worse, but apparently it can. I think of Emilie’s mother as I take the elevator down to the laundry room, and the knot in my throat grows thick. So thick that I don’t return to the office right away. I press my forehead against the cool tiles on the wall and wade through my guilt-laced sorrow until it converts to anger, then I push the laundered sheet against my mouth and scream into it. Over and over.
I almost wish my piece would show up right now, because I’m feeling exceedingly ready to defeat it.
33
Slate
I’ve done some dark shit in my life. Breaking bones. Selling secrets. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Backstabbing.
None of it even compares to this.
Not. Even. Close.
I killed a kid.
An innocent little kid.
And not only that, I lied to her. I told her it would be okay. I told her I wouldn’t let go of her hand. And then I fucking did.
The look in her eyes right before she died was a hammer to my heart. The look said, “But you promised, monsieur.”
I shouldn’t have let go. I should have hung on. If only I’d told de Morel to go fuck himself and kept Emilie’s fingers in mine when Gaëlle gave her the leaf. Maybe Emilie would still be alive. Maybe I’d be dead instead, and this whole shitshow would have a decent and worthy ending.
Why couldn’t I have died instead? Why?
I bite down on my bottom lip until I taste blood. I want to smash my fist through a window. Or rip the wheels off of Rainer’s chair. But Bastian’s here, standing by my side, his eyes wide and distraught. I’ve got to keep it together for him. For Cadence. Hell, even for Gaëlle and Professor Prickhead. I can’t lose my cool or make any mistakes. Not anymore.
One false move and someone else could die.
As if reading my thoughts, de Morel gives me a cruel smile. “Regretting the decision of bringing your brother here, Monsieur Roland?” His voice is serrated steel.
Bastian clears his throat. “He didn’t bring me here. I came of my own accord.”
Rainier’s eyes flash over to Bastian. “Then may I suggest you leave of your own accord.”
“I’m staying.” It’s barely more than a whisper, but I know Bastian means it. Whether I like it or not, he never gives up on me.
I wish this time he would.
Rainier’s gaze slides over to Emilie’s body. “It’s a dangerous town, young man.”
“Non.” Gaëlle’s voice is broken but strong. She puts a hand to her bare neck, stroking the skin no longer girdled by her scarf. “It’s a ruinous town.”
Rainier doesn’t deny it.
Cadence is back, face the color of the folded white sheet in her arms. “For your forehead.” She hands me one of those old-fashioned hot-water bottles.
Right. The newest addition to my collection. The pain isn’t gone, but it pales in comparison to the clenching in my gut. “Thanks.”
She nods but avoids looking at me, keeping her eyes fixed to the length of cotton she unfurls. Her hands tremble, and dried tear tracks stain her cheeks.
I begin to reach for her but stop, guilt chomping through my chest. Once again, it’s my fault she’s in this state. First, her mother’s crypt. Now . . . Emilie.
No wonder she can’t look me in the eye.
I tuck the icepack under my armpit and pick up two corners of the sheet. Together, we drop it gently over Emilie’s body. The edges float like angel wings before settling on the veined marble floor.
As I stare silently at the impossible smallness of the shape underneath, I lift the lined cotton bag to my forehead, wishing it would numb more than just my skin.
Footsteps and hushed chatter ring in the hallway, and then Adrien and an older version of himself enter the study. Same tweedy clothes, same haughty stance, same hazel eyes. Just the blond hair turned silver is different.
Rainier nods to the mayor. “Geoffrey, thank you for coming.”
Geoffrey’s gaze travels around the room, taking in Gaëlle, pausing on me, then on Bastian, before sticking to Cadence. His stare lingers way too long, and not just on her face. It sweeps up and down her body. What the fuck? I clench my jaw and grip the icepack harder.
“I assume Adrien’s gotten you up to speed?” Rainier asks.
The humanoid larvae nods and crouches down to take a peek under the sheet. “Unfortunate.” He says this with zero emotion. “We should’ve prepared the town when the well overflowed. Delayed the new semester and come up with an excuse to keep the year-round residents locked up in their homes.”
Rainier taps two fingers on the arm of his wheelchair. “We were handling it just fine.” From his stiff countenance, I gather there’s no love lost between him and the mayor.
“I see that.” Geoffrey nods to the shrouded child.
Rainier’s jaw ticks, and his eyes drift to the clean surface of his desk.
Geoffrey lets out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I could put the town on lockdown. Tell them there’s some kind of new viral infection that needs to be contained. Give them twenty-four hours to get out of Brume or stay tucked inside their houses.” Geoffrey strokes the edge of his jaw. “This is a consequent request, though, Rainier. One that could jeopardize my political career.”
Anger distends the pitchfork of veins on de Morel’s hands. “What is it you want?”
Geoffrey’s gaze settles on Cadence again.
If he even—
But he looks back at Rainier
and says, “Once you’ve reinstated magic, I want to become a diwaller.”
Gaëlle’s forehead pleats. “You can’t become a diwaller; you have to be born one.”
“Actually, once the Quatrefoil is whole, one of you can concede your Council seat to me.”
Since his gaze slides to me, I’m guessing it’s mine he wants.
“There’ll be a little blood exchange; nothing too outrageous.” His attention shifts back to Cadence’s father. “Thanks to Rainier’s thorough research two decades ago, we learned how everything works.”
A vein goes berserk beneath Rainier’s temple and pulsates his silver-streaked hair.
“Not that he shared it with any of us, mind you. Amandine found out about it almost by chance. Thankfully, though, she brought it to Camille’s attention, who brought it to mine since my wife trusted me.”
Forget bad, the blood between those two is toxic.
“And you wonder why Maman chose my father over you, Monsieur Keene?”
Those two fought over Amandine de Morel? No wonder they loathe each other.
Cadence’s posture has never been so straight, and her chin, so high. “She wasn’t into petty men.”
Geoffrey stares at her long and hard. There’s anger there, but there’s also something else . . . frustration, sadness. “I’m not here to discuss the past, Cadence. I’m here to discuss the future. My future.”
“But Adrien is already on the Council,” Gaëlle says, matter-of-factly.
“Last I checked, my son and I aren’t conjoined twins, and I’m not a Mercier. Not even by name.” That last part is a direct jab at Rainier.
A jab that streaks color across Cadence’s cheekbones. “Never. We’ll never make you a diwaller.”
“Then I guess”—he gestures to the small shape beneath the white linen—“then I guess I’ll call up my dear golf buddy, the chief of police.” Geoffrey takes his phone from his pocket and touches the screen. “I’m sure after seeing the girl’s body, Henri won’t waste any time putting the lot of you behind bars.”
“Dad!” Adrien gasps.
I think the mayor’s bluffing. After all, he wants magic. Locking us up would be counterproductive. Unless he plans on locking Gaëlle and me up since we’ve already gotten our pieces . . .
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 28