I frown. “Something?”
“In the middle of the scroll, when you let your eyes go blurry, a quatrefoil appears.”
I come to a stop. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s the way the words are spaced out. Here let me show you.” He removes his hand from my lower back to fish his phone out of his sweatpants, then flicks it on and opens up his photo app, bringing up a shot of the scroll. He squints at the screen as though to test out if he sees the shape again. “Here.” He props the phone in my hands.
I stare at it, but nothing happens. “I don’t see it.”
“Relax your eyes.”
This time, I fix the image until my vision goes hazy. Suddenly, the shape all but leaps out at me, and I clap a hand against my mouth. “Mon Dieu!”
The others stop walking and whirl around, already scanning the area for a threat.
“Guys, you have to see this.” I stride up to where they’re standing, phone flipped their way and quickly explain what Slate just told me, what he just showed me.
Adrien cups the back of his neck. “Incredible . . .”
“Whoa,” Bastian says.
“Why is this so groundbreaking?” Alma asks. “I mean, it’s cool, but—”
“Because the text has never made sense,” Adrien says. “But perhaps, we’re supposed to be reading it differently.”
Bastian plucks the phone from my hand and blows up the image. “You think only the text contained in the quatrefoil should be read?”
“Or only the one around the shape.” Slate rubs his jaw, and even though a torrent of vital things are going on at the present moment, I can’t help but latch on to an incredibly insignificant one—the rough, sexy sound of his stubble. “Or maybe, I’m wrong about the entire thing. I don’t want to get your hopes up for nothing.”
“What do you think it’ll tell you guys that you don’t already know?” Alma stuffs her hands inside her coat pockets and shifts around on her wedge booties, surely freezing in her tiny dress and fresh pair of tights I lent her, which bunch at the knees considering our vast height difference.
“It’s never made much sense.” Adrien smooths a palm over his head. “Maybe now it will.”
I exhale a deep breath. “Let’s hope Slate’s right, and there’s something more on the scroll, because something more would be extremely welcomed.”
I study the photo again. The ink is smudged in several places, but there’s a large splotch in the middle. I zoom in. Something about it makes my brain tingle.
When I was young, the Kelouenn frightened me. Until Papa picked me up and held me in his arms so that the scroll was at eye level. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, ma chérie. It’s simply one big word search, like the ones we print out and do together, except in a different language.”
Suddenly, it hits me. There’d been a big red dot ringed by tiny words at the heart of the scroll—the Bloodstone. Not a black splotch.
Although, maybe I’m mixing things up. I’ve studied so many texts about Brumian history that all of them have begun to bleed together.
I hand Slate his phone back, and he slides it into his pocket. He wraps his fingers around mine, and we resume carving through the thick fog all the way up to Fifth Kelc’h.
Even though this Quatrefoil quest is terrifying and brutal, at least I’m not in it alone.
41
Slate
Cadence pulls a fancy bronze skeleton key from her bag, its bow in the shape of a quatrefoil.
I lift an eyebrow. “Doesn’t the university believe in modern security?”
“Not when the old ways work. Plus, it’s a piece of history.” She fits it into the embossed iron lock on the massive wooden doors. As she turns it, two filigreed latches pop up, allowing her to slide a long bolt to one side. “I think it’s kind of cool.”
I have to admit. It is. Feels like we’re entering a medieval castle, not a 21st century university building. Although, it isn’t really a 21st century building. It’s a converted temple—once a place to worship magic; now a place to worship knowledge.
The ticking of the clock greets us as Cadence pushes the door open and hits the lights. We cross the threshold into the vast space paved by ochre and white floor tiles. For some reason, I hadn’t noticed during my previous visits that many are festooned with inscriptions—names and dates. Some worn and near illegible, others newer and sharper. Like the one under my left boot: MARIANNE SHAFIR.
I stop and nudge Bastian. “Isn’t that the woman named in my financial documents?”
He nods.
“When did Rainier give her my money again?” I keep my voice low.
Bastian flicks through the folder, then peers back up at me. “Four years ago. Same year as on the tile.”
“Huh.” It didn’t hit me when we were in de Morel’s office, but it does now.
When I first met him, Rainier implied he’d saved me from my asshole foster father. Bastian and I were in Vincent’s “care” four years ago.
I look up and catch Cadence frowning at me. “What’s wrong, Slate?”
“Nothing.” I keep my mouth shut about Rainier. I’ve got the money now. Whether he accessed my bank account before he found out I was alive or after doesn’t matter.
Bastian crouches to examine Marianne’s tile. “What’s with the names and dates on these things?”
“They’re for dedicated university staff who passed away.” Cadence’s eyes track the name of the professor beneath her feet. “The dates mark the year they left us.”
“As in, retire?” Bastian asks.
“As in, die.”
His eyebrows rise so high they overtake the top of his black frames.
“What?” Alma asks.
“Nothing.” I step on the tile with Marianne’s name, my marrow ringing with alarm. An alarm I don’t want to sound, yet. Not until I’m sure of its reason for ringing.
Alma and Cadence exchange a look.
“Slate?” Cadence asks.
“It’s Marianne’s tile.” Adrien, whose brows would’ve been knitted together had he not endured a wyvern-wax, narrows his eyes on my boot.
Alma looks confused. “Marianne?”
“You know, the art professor?” Cadence supplies. “The one who painted the evolution of handwriting throughout the ages?”
“I love that painting! It’s one of my favorite art pieces. That and your mother’s statue. What did that old woman call herself again? The graphologist artist? Or was it, graphartist?”
Adrien smiles. “Graphartist? I hadn’t heard that one.” He puts a hand to his head as though to thrust his fingers through hair. When he realizes he has none, he grimaces and rubs his palm over the burnt, buzz-cut instead.
“She died at the same time as your mom, didn’t she?” Alma asks.
Cadence elbows her.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so insensitive, Adrien.”
“It’s okay. And yes. Her funeral was the week after my mother’s.”
I can hear the grief in his voice, and despite myself, I feel for him.
“And your mother’s was when exactly?” Bastian asks.
“June.”
The word stokes the alarm. Cadence’s jackass of a father knew I was alive when he “borrowed” my money since Vincent was out of my life on March 4th. I remember the date because I celebrate it each year without fault.
“Your parents have tiles here, too, Slate.”
“Yeah?” My gut twists and twists. I put Rainier out of my mind—for now—and scan the floor.
“Their tiles are over by that bookcase.” Cadence points to a cracked ochre tile bearing the names EUGENIA & OSCAR ROLAND. Underneath them, in smaller letters is RÉMY.
My knees go a little rubbery.
Well . . . fuck.
Bastian grips my upper arm to keep me from keeling over. “You all right, Slate?”
“Fucking fine,” I grumble. I’m not the dead boy; I’m Slate Ardoin.
Bastian doesn’t seem
convinced. He keeps glancing between the tile and me.
I shrug him off and then shrug off the little zaps bursting along my spine. This isn’t a headstone or an omen, Slate.
Cadence must sense where my mind has gone, because she says, “It’s proof that you have roots in this town.” Her teeth dent her lip. “That you have every right to be here. To stay here, if you want, no matter what anyone else says. That you belong in Brume.”
Between the revelation about Rainier and my honorific tile, I’m incapable of stringing two words together. I hope she doesn’t interpret my silence as reticence about belonging to her town. It may not feel like home, but I’m willing to stick around for a while.
After sifting through my expression for something—confirmation that telling her I was staying wasn’t just a trick to get her to trust me again—she turns on her heels and heads toward the trapdoor on the opposite side of the temple. As though the shelves of books release a collective exhale, I’m struck by wafts of dust, mildewed paper, and old incense that makes my nostrils twitch.
Bastian cinches my wrist as the others patter away, their footsteps resonating against the curved walls. “He knew. When he borrowed”—he air-quotes the word—“the money, he knew about you.”
“Were you really expecting he didn’t?”
“You should tell Cadence.”
It’s impossible that she’s heard her name considering she’s on the other side of the temple, yet she turns, one eyebrow peaked.
“Not yet. Not until I understand why he lied.”
Bastian’s fingers slide off my wrist as we go after the others. He walks with his head tipped so far back I expect to hear the cartilage of his trachea crack.
“Here I thought you’d be salivating over the books.”
“Trust me, I—” He comes to a violent halt by the recessed centerpiece: the clock. “Whoa. It’s massive. Way bigger than I thought it would be.” He doesn’t move for a long time, and then he’s lunging around the guardrail, eyes sparkling behind glasses that keep slipping down his nose.
Last time I came here, I didn’t pay close attention to it, too worried about my finger falling off. Now, I take the time to absorb each detail—the four elemental signs carved into the thick gold band, the golden quatrefoil outline that spans the entire enameled face, the larger of the two dials that runs from white to navy and the smaller one embedded with diamond-like constellations. Last but not least, the hands fastened to the smooth golden disk at the heart of the clock, one tipped with a star and the other with a crescent moon.
“The dihuner!” Bastian eyes the golden crescent tip on the longer hand. “I thought it was out of order.”
I knew there was something I forgot to tell him.
“All thanks to this baby.” I hold up my ringed finger.
He glances at it, then back at the crescent resting atop a sliver of blue veering toward navy. “That’s the moon phase dial, right?”
“Right,” Cadence says, chewing her lip.
“Five days until the new moon,” Adrien announces.
Five days . . .
Bastian shakes his head. “I was expecting religious symbolism, but there’s none.”
Adrien’s peering down at the clock as though it were a wish-granting well. My spine jams up. Yeah. I don’t want to be thinking about wells right now. Or ever, for that matter.
“Because it isn’t a religious temple. At least, not the sort of religion that’s popular in the world,” Adrien explains. “During the inquisition, the zealots labeled it the devil’s playground and forbade people from entering.”
“Brume holds the record for most witch trials and convictions in all of France. Some even called it the Salem of the East.” Cadence is studying one of the elements: a triangle with a bar running through it. Earth? Air?
Thanks to Bastian, I’m up to date on my elemental symbolism.
Alma whirls, looking around her at the temple of magic. “To think you told me it was all lore.” She shivers and rubs her arms. “Am I the only one getting chills?”
Bastian eyes the cupola. “Why didn’t they burn it in the era of witch hunts?”
“They tried, but apparently the fire wouldn’t take.” Adrien’s clutching the top of the glass guardrail. “They also tried to rip apart the clock, but they couldn’t even dent the enamel, so they boarded up the entire temple.”
Cadence tips her head toward the trapdoor. “Guys, the translation. We can admire the clock and discuss history later.”
As she heaves the basement door open, I tell Bastian, “You’re going to weep in awe when you see what’s below.”
That makes him move.
Sure enough, when I get down there, Bastian’s mouth is wide, wide open. Forget flies, he could trap bats. The ancient mechanical lacework of cogs is impressive. Its sheer size alone would make anyone gawp.
“Come on.” Alma holds open the door of the chilled tank that contains the precious documents of Brume.
Cadence is already pulling on her special gloves to take out the huge tome filled with the Quatrefoil history, which she sets on one of the tables. As the door suctions shut behind us, she removes the gloves, laying them on the leather cover, and heads toward another shelving unit.
When I see her push up on tiptoe, trying to inch a big white box her way, I stride over and pluck it off the shelf. “You know, asking for assistance isn’t a sign of weakness.”
“I would’ve gotten it. Eventually.”
“I have no doubt about that. Just reminding you that I’m here. For an indeterminate amount of time,” I add quietly, handing over the archival box.
Without looking away from my eyes, she takes it from me, her fingers brushing over mine, feather-soft. She lets them linger, the coolness of her skin seeping into the warmness of mine. My entire body goes still, still and hard. Very hard. I angle myself toward the shelving unit, because I’m tenting my sweatpants, and although I don’t mind if Cadence sees what her touch does to me, I’d rather not scar the others.
I concentrate on a moldy book spine.
I think moldy thoughts.
I must look like I’m in pain, because she gasps, “Is it the ring? Is my piece—”
“It’s not the ring,” I reassure her, then repeat it louder, because the others have stopped talking, so I imagine they’re staring.
“Then what is it?” Her voice is full of concern.
I look at her, then at my crotch. She follows my line of sight. When our eyes meet again, her cheeks brighten, but so do her eyes. And then she smiles. And since that’s not kryptonite enough, she bites her lip.
“Are you trying to make it worse?” I grumble.
She pushes up on her toes again, this time to whisper, “Think of the Quatrefoil, Slate. Of all those monsters we faced.”
Her minty breath warms the shell of my ear.
“Better?” She rocks back onto her heels, but not before grazing the edge of my jaw with her pillowy lips.
I shut my eyes, trying desperately to summon up Matthias’s ugly face. If only the others hadn’t been here. I would’ve pushed Cadence against the stacks, or laid her out on the table, and—
She gasps, and I think I may have spoken my dirty designs for her out loud when I realize her attention isn’t on me but on the archival box, which she’s nudged open.
It’s empty.
42
Cadence
“The translations!” I whisper-shout. “The translations are gone!”
Slate’s pupils go from distended to pin-sized, along with his erection.
Yes, my eyes went there. How could they not? But now my eyes are back on the empty beige lining of the box.
For the barest of seconds, I wonder if I might’ve grabbed the wrong one, and my gaze flies to the top shelf, but there aren’t any other boxes.
“Are you sure?” Adrien’s by my side now, peering into the empty container.
It shouldn’t piss me off that he doesn’t believe me, but it does, so I
none too gently shove it into his arms. “Check for yourself.”
Slate’s hand lands on my shaking one and envelops my fingers. I don’t pull away. Instead I lean into him until more than our hands touch.
“Do you guys have a logbook down here?” Bastian asks.
“No.” My teeth chatter and not from the cold. Although it is really cold. “Why would someone t-take them?”
Slate squeezes my hand, then lets go and grips my hip, dragging me into him. Adrien’s gaze flicks off the box to the point of contact between Slate’s protective, possessive fingers and the waistband of my gray leggings.
“Could they have been misplaced?” Bastian suggests.
I look around the small, sterile room. “I d-don’t think so. I mean, there were close to a hundred sheets in there. That’s a lot of p-paper to misplace.” Slate’s thumb slides beneath the hem of my sweater and sets on my chilled skin, then starts small, slow strokes.
“When did you see them last?” Adrien’s voice is as harsh as the lighting.
I have to rack my brain. Did I pull the box down the day I showed Slate Istor Breou? No. I’d thought about it but hadn’t trusted him enough. Feeling a groove form between my eyebrows, I say, “The last time I looked at them was with your mother, Adrien. I was helping her type them.” It feels like yesterday and yet four years have passed.
Alma spins on a stool. “How many people have access to this room?”
“Not many. Adrien, Papa, me, and one of the librarians. But Papa never comes here. Because. You know, his wheelchair.”
Adrien sets the empty box on the table.
“When was the last time you looked at them, Prof?” Slate’s thumb is still moving, still coaxing goose bumps from my skin.
“Not since my thesis two years ago.” One of his eyes closes a little as though he’s remembering something.
“What?” I ask.
“There were a couple pages missing back then. I asked your father about it, and he said I should check Mom’s computer. That they might be backed-up on there. Except her computer was never retrieved after . . .” He swallows, and I feel the pain of his loss echo in my bones.
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 35