“Okay.” I can tell she’s still confused, because her eyebrows haven’t leveled out yet. “In case you change your mind, let’s come up with a safe word, and I’ll whisk you away from any potential regrets. How about . . . arctic fox?”
“That’s going to be easy to place in a conversation.”
My sarcasm reboots Alma’s good mood. As she brushes her wedged-heel boots against the bristly doormat, I stick the bottle in her arms to switch up my footwear, then clap my rubber boots together.
Two more people show up behind us: Liron and his older brother, a senior like Charlotte. If I’m not mistaken he used to date Charlotte’s bestie, Jasmine.
“Salut.” Liron grins at us. “Caleb was worried there wouldn’t be anyone at this party. Besides Jas, Char, and Adrien, that is.”
Alma sucks in air. “God, I didn’t even think about that.”
I hadn’t either. “That would’ve been . . .”
“Awkward?” Caleb supplies with a smile that doesn’t curve his eyes or make them shine like Slate’s.
Which is a good thing since I don’t want a second Slate. I jam my finger into the doorbell. The door swings open, releasing a rush of warm air scented by cigarettes, weed, and melted cheese.
“Come in, come in!” Charlotte gushes over the loud music, her eyes so glossy I assume the drink in her hand isn’t her first. As I step past her, she asks, “Where’s Slate?”
I put my wet shoes down under the coat hanger by the door that’s overflowing with wintry jackets and add mine to the pile. “He couldn’t make it.”
“Aw, man. Jas is going to be soooo disappointed,” she slurs.
I know it’s petty but I can’t help thinking: good. “Where’s Adrien?” I take the giant bottle of Amour de Deutz from Alma’s hands.
“He’s in the kitchen, trying to salvage the mini-quiches I overcooked.” She wrinkles her nose. “Anyway, grab a drink, or a blunt. Make yourselves comfortable. And do away with those hideous facemasks.” Since neither Alma nor I nor the boys are wearing any, I imagine she’s addressing another invitee. Sure enough two more people stand on the threshold of the house. “I have it on good authority that this virus isn’t as contagious as we thought. Geoffrey told me.” She adds a sloppy wink.
If I were Jasmine or Adrien, I’d forcibly remove her glass and make her drink some water. I mean, it’s only 7:15 p.m.
I head through the living room to the open kitchen where Adrien hisses a string of expletives when his fingers connect to a sheet pan.
I smile. Can’t help it. It’s not that often I get to see cool and collected Adrien so domestically frazzled. “Want some help?”
He looks up from the burnt quiches. For half a second, he stares as though he doesn’t recognize me, then he blinks and grunts, “Thanks for coming to my surprise party.”
My smile grows. The fact that Charlotte didn’t know he’d hate it increases my opinion about their lack of durability. “Not what you had in mind to celebrate the big 2-4?”
“Not even close.” He stares past me at the crowd thickening like the snow on his windowsills. “In all honesty, I was hoping the fake outbreak would throw a wrench in her plan, but then my father had to go ahead and mention how this virus—”
“Isn’t all that contagious. I heard.” I prop the champagne bottle on the bar.
“Most of these kids are my students,” he adds in a hushed voice.
“Your girlfriend is your student, Adrien.”
“No. She was my student. I never crossed that line.” He shoves a lock of gelled hair back with his bare forearm and reads the label on the golden bottle. His eyes snap back to mine. “That’s much too good to drink tonight. I’ll put it away for when we’re done with the . . . puzzle.”
“Ah, the puzzle.” I sigh as he sticks the bottle under the sink, next to a fire extinguisher and cleaning supplies. “I wish I’d already gotten my leaf.”
He smiles, but it’s wrought with tension. “I’ve been meaning to call and check how you were holding up after the other day.”
I grab a metal spatula from the thick ceramic jug above the stove and start helping him slide the salvageable quiches from the blackened parchment paper onto the serving dish. “I’m okay. And you?”
He pauses. “I ran into her mother. She was visiting my dad.”
I bite my lip, then release it to whisper, “Does she believe Emilie ran away?”
“No. She thinks someone kidnapped her. She hired a private investigator. Papa was trying to calm her down, but she told him to go screw himself and his virus. That if her daughter was out there, she would find her.” He runs a hand down his face, getting a little smear of charred crust on his jaw. “It’s so awful.”
I’m about to tell him about the black smudge when Charlotte bustles in next to him, whining, “Bébé, you’re missing out on your own party.”
“Hardly. Cadence and I are having a grand old time making sure your guests don’t start gnawing on my Tudor furniture.”
“Our guests.”
“Yes. Our guests.”
She hooks one skinny arm around his neck and drags his face down to hers. I flick my gaze away, freezing when my eyes connect with a set of very, very dark ones. And I’m not just talking about their color.
Crap.
Slate ambles over to the kitchen, Bastian in tow, collecting quite a lot of attention on the way. I steel my spine and cross my arms, trying to quiet my ratcheting heart. I shouldn’t feel guilty to have left his text messages unanswered or to have failed to extend Charlotte’s invitation, and yet guilt is precisely the sentiment bubbling in me. That, and a little lust, because the boy cleans up much too well. Even the yellowing bruise on his forehead doesn’t distract from his appeal.
“Aw, yay!” Charlotte spins away from Adrien and grins at Slate. “You managed to cancel your thing!” Her eyes go straight to the small crowd dangling off the carved walnut furniture Adrien inherited from his father’s side of the family.
“Nice house,” Bastian says, looking around before zeroing in on the floor. “Those tiles are amazing.”
I study the deep blue arabesque motifs set against creamy white backgrounds. “Adrien brought them back from Marrakech.” When I look back up, Slate’s displeasure slams into me anew. Is he imagining me cementing them alongside Adrien? Probably . . .
“Cadence, can I talk to you?”
I want to say no but that would be childish, and I’m trying very hard to act like an adult, so I nod and walk toward the other end of the kitchen. “What?”
He frowns. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I thought you might’ve missed my texts, but I’m guessing you chose not to answer them. The same way you chose not to invite me tonight.” His voice has an unmistakable bite to it.
Instead of cowing me, it makes me stand straighter, taller.
His eyes don’t stray off mine. “Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding me?”
The desire to come right out and ask him if he’s truly a glorified gigolo hangs on the tip of my tongue, but he’ll be gone in a week. Maybe sooner depending on the temperamental Quatrefoil. So instead I go with, “Look, I’ve thought about it and don’t want to start anything that has no chance of going anywhere.” Not the entire truth but entirely true.
“So you’re going to shut me out until I leave?”
My pulse bangs against my tensed forearms, against my strained neck. I don’t know how to respond so I keep quiet.
“Is this because of . . . what happened at the lake?” His voice breaks.
I may not want to be with him, but I can’t have him thinking it has anything to do with little Emilie. The guilt would be too much. “No.”
He’s quiet a second, then his brows dip over his eyes, hooding them further. “Your father said something to you, didn’t he?”
I swallow. How the heck did he guess?
“Can I at least know what I’ve been accused of? I’m no doubt guilty of it, but color
me curious.”
My nostrils flare in distress, and the scent of spice and black coffee leaps off his skin and streaks straight into my chest. “I don’t think discussing it is necessary, Slate. Soon you’ll be gone and—”
“Cadence, just rip the goddamn Band-Aid off.”
“Fine.” My arms stiffen some more. “I heard you seduce women to extort them. And when I say seduce, I mean . . .” I don’t finish. I can’t.
His pupils seem to spread although his irises are so dark and the kitchen lighting so weak, it could be my imagination. “Your father told you that?”
“Yes.”
For a full minute, we both stay silent, even though, on the inside, I’m screaming, “Is it true?”
Behind Slate’s squared shoulders, I catch Charlotte and her friend Jasmine trying to get past Bastian, who’s doing a marvelous job at fencing them off with polite questions about their classes and degrees.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s your life.”
“It is my life. My business.” He sounds annoyed but neither repentant nor stunned. “But it’s also my business.”
My lips pop around a shocked gasp. “So it’s true?”
He clenches his jaw.
“Good to know.” I go to sidestep him, but he shifts, blocking my escape.
“In case you’re wondering if that’s why I kissed you, Cadence, it’s not.”
I crane my neck. “The only thing I’d hate to lose is my bracelet.” My bracelet, whose prongs are currently digging unpleasantly into my skin, whose emerald quatrefoil charm glitters quietly. “So if you do decide to take something before you leave, at least have the decency to leave me that.”
And then I shove past him, heat engulfing my eyes, hating that Papa was actually right.
Hating that I kissed a mouth used on unsuspecting women to divest them of their prized possessions.
Alma catches up to me right as I reach the front door.
She shoots me a remorseful smile. “Arctic fox?”
“Yeah.” I try to dig my jacket off the coat hanger, but all the fabrics blur together. Finally I spot silver and pull. Six coats fall. My jacket is among them. Alma gently tugs me away from creating a larger massacre, digs out my jacket, then gathers the fallen garments and lobs them back onto the coat hanger.
A tear trickles out just as a hand circles my bicep.
“Cadence. What happened? What did Slate do?” Adrien’s hazel eyes are narrowed and murderous.
“N-nothing.”
“Bullshit. What did the asshole do?”
I gape at Adrien, so unused to hearing him swear. “Really. It’s nothing.”
“You’re crying, Cadence. What. Did. He. Do?”
“I’m overreacting.”
“Cadence.”
“I promise. I am. I swear he hasn’t done anything. Not to me.”
“But to someone else?”
“Adrien, please . . . not here. People are staring.”
“I don’t care about any of these people. The only person I care about is you.”
And Charlotte.
I want to correct him but don’t, because he obviously doesn’t realize he’s singled me out.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go outside, so you can—”
A shrill scream rents the living room, cutting him off. Only the music remains, thumping along with my pulse.
Our bodies go rigid as we spin around and see Charlotte’s navel-baring pink angora sweater catch fire.
35
Slate
Charlotte drops the champagne bottle she’s fitted with a giant sparkler and starts swatting at her sweater. Brume has messed me up so much that, for a full five seconds, seeing a girl on fire doesn’t strike me as odd.
My first reaction is, Huh? This is entertaining.
But then I’m like, Oh, fuck!
Adrien’s reaction is instant. In a matter of seconds, he hurdles over his bulky, old-man furniture, skates through the champagne foam, and tackles Charlotte full-on yelling, “Cadence! Slate! It’s my piece! Get everyone out of here, now!”
Putain de merde. That snaps me into action. “Out! Everybody out!” I shove Charlotte’s friend away from Adrien and his lit-up, in every sense of the term, girlfriend, then extend my arms and rake through the crowd.
Cadence and Bastian are throwing coats and scarves at random to the students funneling out of the house. Charlotte’s friend—can’t remember her name, something with a G maybe—offers to help, but I signal Bastian who calmly escorts her out, barring me from shoving her into the snow. It’s a goddamn circus, but a small one. In less than a minute, the party’s over and the door’s locked. No other guests are left except Alma, Cadence, Bastian, and me.
Shit. Alma. Should she be here?
I stare at Cadence, whose reddened eyes are wide with alarm. I hate that I did that. That I stood there and took the coward’s way out of our doomed relationship by accepting my burglarizing Casanova reputation, because losing her respect beats breaking her heart.
Let her go. She’s better off without you.
Everyone is.
Charlotte’s friend bangs on the window. “Let me in!”
I ignore her. We all do.
“A little help!” Adrien yells, straddling Charlotte, batting at her sweater with his palms.
I grab the ice bucket on the coffee table and dump it, turning her into a sputtering, angry mess. The flames fizzle, leaving behind the mangy remains of her fuzzy sweater and patches of blistered skin. Holy hell. That’s got to hurt. Wait. Does this mean she’s cursed, or is this some fake-Charlotte? Emilie’s listless body flashes behind my lids, and I stiffen like an ice-carving.
I glance at the ring on my middle finger. “Adrien, wait. The ring. It’s not shining.”
Adrien holds Charlotte to the ground, an arm shoved across her throat. “I’ll kill you, diaoul,” he growls. “Salt! I need salt!”
“Adrien . . .” I’m about to repeat my warning when the stone flares to life and a cramp shoots up my knuckles and tendons. I clench my jaw, breathing through the pain. Putain de merde, I was wrong. “Keep on doing whatever you’re doing,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Bloodstone’s aglowin’.”
Charlotte’s eyes bulge as she thrashes about, high heels and pale fists alternatively banging the varnished wooden floorboards and Adrien’s powder-blue sweater-vest.
Cadence snaps into action, sidestepping me and the pair writhing on the floor. A second later, she returns clutching a grinder filled with fancy pink flakes. Doesn’t anyone own normal salt in this town?
Alma tugs at Adrien’s sweater, stretching the collar. “Adrien, you’re hurting her!”
Bastian steps up behind her and puts a palm on her shoulder, probably to haul her away before she can make contact with the piece and get cursed. Sagacious kid.
“She’s a fire diaoul.” A lock of hair flies into Adrien’s slitted eyes. “A demon!”
The stretched cashmere slips through Alma’s fingers. “A d-demon?”
Bastian pulls her back, and she stumbles into him on those wedged stilts of hers.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” Cadence whispers beside me.
I glance down at her, my heart wadded inside my chest like chewed gum. She’s right. The fire’s out, and Charlotte’s terrified. My groac’h was a lot of things, most of them nasty, but never panicked. There’s no seductive magic or eerie evil.
Cadence darts a glance at the ring, which has stopped emitting light and random bolts of pain. I extend my palm in front of me, closer to Charlotte. The Bloodstone doesn’t ghoulishly flare back, but a pin of bright scarlet remains in its center, and although my muscles are no longer seizing, they definitely feel a little crampy. But that could be due to the three-hundred pushups I did before coming to this rotten b-day party. I’d been trying to work out my excess . . . let’s call it energy, and wine wasn’t hitting the spot.
Adrien snatches the salt and sprinkles some on Charlotte anyway. Not
hing happens. No smoke. No screaming. No melting. Nothing.
Charlotte’s face is turning the same blue as his dainty kitchen tiles. Demons can’t suffocate, can they? Can they even breathe?
“Adrien, get off her.” When he doesn’t, I grab a fistful of gelled locks and yank with such force that he yowls. That split-second of inattention is enough for Charlotte to slither away from his grip.
Cadence helps her sit.
“Don’t touch her! She’ll curse you, Cadence. Don’t. Touch. Her.” Adrien breaks away from me, but I grab him again, this time pinning him in a headlock. The dude turns feral, growling and clawing at my sleeve with his buffed fingernails.
I like this untamed side of Professor Prickhead, because it’s got Cadence’s upper lip hiked up in disgust. Yes, I pushed her away, but I most definitely don’t want her to end up in Adrien’s lap.
In any man’s lap . . .
“She’s not the piece, Adrien.” Cadence’s voice is firm, her limpid eyes radiating both sympathy and repugnance.
Charlotte’s shaking and bawling. Through sobs, she shrieks, “What the hell’s wrong with you, Adrien?”
His body goes limp, the fight and conviction draining out of him. I release him, and he kneels on the wet floor beside Charlotte, who’s clutching on to Cadence as though she were a lifeguard.
“Merde. Oh, bébé, I’m so sorry. I—”
“You’re a fucking lunatic! A demon? You’re the demon. I could press charges, you know? Assault. You weren’t trying to put out the fire. You were trying to hurt me. Maybe even kill me.” Charlotte’s voice goes higher and higher with every word.
“No, I would never . . . I thought . . . I thought—”
Cadence helps her stand, then keeps an arm around her waist, because Charlotte’s like a kid after their first-ever beer. Wobbly legs. Swaying body. No sense of depth perception. Her heels skid in the foamy puddle, and although Cadence’s arm tightens, they both list and bump into the sideboard holding a hammered silver tajine dish. Adrien jumps back to his feet and reaches out to steady them, but Charlotte swats his hand away.
Cadence helps her toward the couch. “We need to get your burns treated—”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 30