I don’t think he’d ever try anything, but his fascination with Maman, and now with me, makes every warning bell in my head clang when we’re in the same space.
In spite of the fog of alcohol, Alma must sense my discomfort, because she steps in front of me. “And your resemblance to an old necromancer is simply mind-blowing. Where did you get that black velvet vest, Monsieur Keene?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle with a smirk. “Always so delightful, little Alma.”
She shoots him a smile that’s more teeth than lip before hauling me away. “Dinner with him last week was painful enough. Why must he be everywhere?”
“Maybe because he’s the mayor?”
She scrunches up her nose, making the small bump at the top stick out. “I know Adrien isn’t like him, but imagine if you two end up married, and Geoffrey becomes your father-in-law.”
“Married? I just want to kiss the guy, not marry him.”
Alma lets go of me to seize two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. She pushes one into my hands, then clinks hers to mine so hard I worry for the etched crystal. “To this year being the year you crawl out of your little shell.”
I take a small sip, the bubbles bursting deliciously against my lips. “I like my little shell.”
“I know. God, I know.” She hiccups-snorts. And then she just hiccups. “You like it way too much.” She downs the rest of her glass. “Ah, the man of the hour!”
My father wheels himself to us. “Bonsoir, Alma chérie.”
While she plops a big kiss on his forehead, he eyes my glass.
“It’s my first drink, Papa.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“What smells so divine? Oh. Ooh. Mini quiches.” Alma all but tackles the waiter passing around leek and egg tartlets.
Papa readjusts his simple black wizard robe until it lays flat on his lap. “I suppose it’s not Alma’s first.”
I smile down at him; he smiles back. I may have only one parent, but what a parent he is.
“Make sure she sleeps over. I don’t want her traipsing around campus inebriated.”
I realize Papa’s staring at my dress, and his blue eyes, a few shades darker than my own, slicken, resembling the lake on a frosty morning. “Is that—Is that Amandine’s?”
Biting my lip, I palm the black wool. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn Maman’s dress. It’s obviously paining him. “Oui. Pardon.”
“Don’t be sorry. You wear it so well, ma chérie.”
I didn’t even consider what it would do to him to see me wearing it.
“Rainier, I need two minutes of your time.” Sylvie, Brume’s one and only physician, lays her silk-gloved hand on the back of Papa’s wheelchair. She’s dressed in a purple tutu with a matching satin bodice so unlike her usual garb of tweed that I might not have recognized her had it not been for her waist-long gray hair. “I’ll have him back to you in no time, Cadence.”
Alma traipses back toward me, brandishing a paper napkin with a couple of fried shrimp. “Grabbed some for you.”
I pop a shrimp into my mouth as we weave around the boisterous crowd. It seems like all of Brume has congregated inside my home. The crazy thing is that all of Brume could probably fit inside our giant manor.
“So, who’s your victim tonight, Alma?”
“Victim.” She snorts. “You mean, the lucky man upon whom I’ll bestow a kiss? Haven’t decided yet. What about you?”
It’s tradition in Brume to lock lips with someone for good luck at the stroke of midnight. That’s how I got my first kiss. I was fourteen, and Romain, Gaëlle’s then twelve-year-old stepson, rose onto his tiptoes to smack his mouth against mine.
Raucous laughter rises from one corner of the room. Speak of the devil . . . Romain, now fifteen, is chatting with some other kids his age, his wheat-blond hair shimmering as brightly as the crystallized clockface dangling over his head.
Alma must’ve followed my line of sight, because she says, “He’s sort of cute now that he’s nearly grown-up.”
“You are such a cougar.”
“Says the girl who uses his lips as a good luck charm every year.”
I redden. “Only because he always volunteers, and I don’t have the heart to turn him down.”
As though he hears us discussing him, Romain’s brown gaze surfs through the sea of pointy witch hats toward us. The second his eyes alight upon us, he flashes a dimply grin and saunters over. He’s so tall now that I’d need to get on my tiptoes to reach his mouth, but he’s still a kid with his rounded jaw and splash of acne. A good kid. Although I had bigger dreams for my first kiss, all in all, it wasn’t so bad.
Alma tracks her gaze up his lanky body. “Dude, did you grow another foot since Thanksgiving?”
His grin strengthens. “Nice mini-hat, Alma.”
“And this is why I like this guy.” She latches on to his arm. She’s touchy-feely and gets in people’s spaces. It used to drive me insane until I understood that her need to touch others is visceral. “Any other guy would’ve commented on my tits or ass, but nope. Not this one.”
Romain’s dimples deepen so fast I expect them to leave a permanent imprint.
Alma cranes her neck. “What are you doing at the stroke of midnight, Romain?”
He glances at me, fuzzy jaw pinkening against the lacy white collar of the chemise he’s paired with a black cape. He looks more vampire than warlock. Then again, warlocks don’t exist, and if they did, they might be into capes and froufrou shirts.
“Or rather, whom are you doing?” Alma adds seductively.
I shake my head and laugh. To think Papa worries for her safety. We should be worrying for the poor boys of Brume.
“I, uh . . .” He rubs the back of his presently brick-colored neck. “Cadence?”
Alma winks at me. “She has a groomstick all lined up.”
Romain raises a blond eyebrow. “Groomstick?”
“Don’t ask.” I shake my head some more. “Seriously, though, you don’t need to take pity on me every year.”
“It’s tradition, not pity.”
I sigh. He really is sweet. If only Adrien could be as sweet. Of its own accord, my gaze stretches back to him. He’s no longer chatting with the science professor; he’s now making the rounds, grin in place. Everyone loves the young, brilliant, handsome professor of history, especially since he’s lost his mother. Every girl and her mother want to coddle him.
He catches me staring and smiles. My heart catapults against my ribcage. Which is all kinds of silly since he smiles at me often. He smiles at everyone often. Affability is as much part of his nature as flirtatiousness is part of Alma’s.
“If it doesn’t work out, come find me, okay?” Romain says, and I blush when I realize he’s trailed my eyes’ trajectory.
I flash him a grateful look, but then my gratitude turns to astonishment when I spot a head full of wild black curls over Alma’s shoulder. The boy I bumped into near the cemetery is here, in my house, studying the oil painting of Viviene trapping Merlin in a cave.
When he strokes a gloved finger along the ornate, gilt frame, I stick my half-drunk glass of champagne in Alma’s hands, tell her and Romain I’ll be right back, then weave through the crowd.
“I don’t think your pockets are large enough.”
The boy pivots to face me, his brow going from furrowed to smooth. “Whatever are you insinuating, Bellatrix Lestrange?”
Bellatrix Lestrange? His Harry Potter allusion temporarily makes me forget what I rushed over to say. Right . . . the painting.
“I’m insinuating that you’re clearly not here for the party.” I nod toward his attire—slim gray jeans, black turtleneck, leather gloves.
“Why? Because I left my magic wand at home?”
At home, or at the bar? He smells like a distillery. “What’s with the gloves?”
He stares down at his hands as though he’s forgotten all about them. Something protrudes from his middle-finger, straining the
leather. I’m suspecting it’s a big ring. Unless it’s a giant wart. Or boil. Or an identical twin he devoured in utero.
“My fingers are very sensitive to the cold.”
I cross my arms. “Uh-huh.”
“Besides, you’re also wearing gloves. So are half the people in this room.” He looks over my shoulder at the pointy assortment of hats, brooms, and wands. “What’s with the crazy-fest anyway?”
“It’s a Brumian tradition.”
“People take their lore very seriously around here.”
“Very.” I drag out the word menacingly. Or at least, I’m going for menacing. Maybe I just sound haughty. “So, what are you really doing here?”
He stares down at me, tipping his head a little to see under the brim of my hat. I hadn’t noticed how tall he was back in the cemetery. Then again, he was on his hands and knees for most of the two minutes we spent in each other’s company.
“I’m a new student.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” His breath flutters the hat’s burgundy fur and some of the loose brown tendrils of hair framing my face. “Not very trusting, huh?”
“Should I trust you?”
“Probably not. I’m a man of extremely loose morals.”
Even though I don’t mean to smile, a corner of my lip twitches. I iron out my expression immediately. “If anything disappears, I’ll know it’s you.”
He snorts, and his eyes squeeze and curve like tiny black arches. I’ve heard of people smiling with their eyes, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen it.
“Except, you don’t know who I am.”
“But I know what you look like,” I answer back sweetly.
The camber of the boy’s eyes increases.
“Cadence! There you are.” Alma’s voice bounces against my eardrums, and then her hands wrap around my arm. “Who’s your new friend?”
“He’s not . . . my friend,” I grind out the last part. “He’s a new student. Apparently.”
She hums, or maybe she purrs. “And what’s your name, new student?”
“Slate.” He daintily picks up her hand and brings it to his mouth. “Slate Ardoin.” He doesn’t touch his lips to her knuckles, but his mouth comes close.
Slick. This guy is so slick.
For a second, I feel a little miffed that he didn’t greet me this way until I notice Alma’s bare pinky. “Give her back her ring.”
Alma’s gaze widens when she realizes Slate’s filched the pearl jewel, a homeschool graduation gift from her parents.
“How did you do that?” Instead of sounding peeved, she sounds amazed.
“Sleight of hand.” He opens his fingers with a flourish. Atop the black leather rests Alma’s white pearl.
She plucks it from his palm and slides it back onto her pinky. “Is that how you got your name?”
His good humor collapses. “No.” He closes his fingers slowly, the smooth leather whisper-hissing. “But it would make a hell of a better story.” Whatever annoyance gusted over him is gone, and although he isn’t back to being Mister Smiley-Eyes, he’s also no longer Mister Moody.
“So . . .” Alma leans in. “It’s tradition to kiss someone at the stroke of midnight.”
“It is, huh?” Slate asks, distracted by something behind me.
I turn to find Adrien chatting with Papa.
When I spin back around, Slate’s attention is back on Alma.
“For good luck,” she says.
A nerve ticks in his jaw, beneath the black stubble, and then his eyes bow with a smile that matches the one on his lips. “I’m starting to like this town and its fanciful traditions.”
Slick. Slick. Slick.
Alma snakes her arm around my waist. “Cadence, here, has no one to kiss.”
My heart skitters to a stop. “What?” She did not just toss me under the cauldron!
“It’ll get Adrien’s attention,” she murmurs inside my ear. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
As though the air isn’t thick enough with my embarrassment, the music stops, and the countdown begins.
Alma lets me go so suddenly I almost topple over. “I promised to show Romain how a real woman kisses.”
She winks at me as everyone begins to shout: “Seventeen, sixteen.” I’m going to kill her.
Fifteen.
Maybe put a real spider on her puny hat.
Fourteen.
She hates spiders.
Thirteen.
Or soap on her toothbrush.
Twelve.
“So, who’s this Adrien?”
I murder my best friend in my thoughts. “No one.”
Eleven.
All of his face is smiley. “Ex-boyfriend?”
Ten.
I look over my shoulder and see Charlotte skipping to Adrien’s side, and then I spot our town’s good doctor in her purple tutu-like frock prancing toward Papa in spite of her bad hip.
Nine.
Oh my God. Please tell me she’s not going to kiss him. Papa’s gone a bit pale. He probably doesn’t want Sylvie, who’s two decades his senior, anywhere near his mouth.
Eight.
I turn back around, and my gaze bangs into Slate, who’s staring at me like he’s a cat and I’m a new ball of yarn.
Four.
Where did seven, six, and five go? And when did his hand land on my hip?
Three.
He leans over.
Two.
Lower still.
When the crowd yells one, his mouth whispers across my cheek toward my earlobe. I feel the heat of his lips against the shell of my ear.
“If I relied on kisses for luck, I would never have made it off the streets alive.”
I’m so surprised by his confession, and the fact that he didn’t use the pretense of a tradition to kiss me, that I gape up at him.
He picks up my limp hand, bows his head, and brushes his mouth over my lace-cloaked knuckles. “Word of advice . . . make your own luck. It’ll last you longer.” And with that, he’s gone, slinking like a shadow through the embracing crowd.
When I shake off my daze, I remember the thin diamond bracelet with the emerald quatrefoil charm I clasped over my glove tonight. I’m already imagining it gone, which is probably the reason for how startled I feel when the white diamonds and green stones blink wildly back at me.
5
Slate
My lips are warm where they touched Cadence’s ear, and the fruity scent of her shampoo lingers in my nose. I could’ve kissed her. Hell, I think I would’ve enjoyed it. Immensely. She’s quick and shrewd, and her lips are like ripe cherries, but there’s an innocence in those blue eyes that made me hold off. I’m normally surrounded by girls with hard edges and harder hearts. Girls who thrive off of power games and greed. This one is different. A naiveté emanates from her. A kind of goodness.
I glance back. She’s still standing by the far wall surrounded by all of de Morel’s dead relatives immortalized in their precious frames. Her curly-headed friend has returned to her side, chugging champagne like it’s laced with rainbows. Side by side, they resemble before-and-after shots of Christmas morning—Cadence all wrapped up head to toe, and Curly-head completely exposed, ready to play with.
Cadence absently runs a hand over the wool hugging her waist. Yeah. I have a feeling there’s something amazing under that wrapper. Before leaving this dumpy, gray town, I might try to find out.
My cell phone vibrates in my coat pocket, and I turn away from the girls, ducking back into the foyer frosted with so many damn silver garlands I’m almost blinded. LITTLE BRO flashes on my screen.
I lift the phone to my ear, stepping closer to the wall to peer at a graphite drawing. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just checking up on you. You didn’t text me when you got in.”
“Sorry, Maman.” The way the women are sketched reminds me of Gauguin. I check for a signature. Sure enough, at the edge of the aged vel
lum, Paul’s sketched his name.
Bingo.
Bastian sighs. “Are you drunk? Your voice is a whole octave lower than usual.”
“Nah. I’m almost sober.” But my tongue chooses that moment to stick to the roof of my mouth, and it comes out, “Um ummalst soba.”
“Shit, Slate. Don’t do anything stupid. You always do stupid stuff when you drink too much.”
“No, I don’t.” I turn away from the drawing and slip my gloved hand under my armpit despite the fact that Bastian can’t see a damn thing.
“So, what’s it like there?” Bastian’s chewing on something—it better not be my madeleines.
“Like a damn Harry Potter convention. They worship magic here, man.” I grab a salmon mousse thing from a passing waiter and pop it into my mouth. “The town looks like it just stepped out of the Middle Ages—all stone and cobbles and shit. And it’s cold as a witch’s tit. Fucking glacial.” Little Miss Cadence steps into my line of sight again. “But the view isn’t bad.”
“And the de Morel dude? You find him yet?”
“Yep. Just need to get him alone.”
After Bastian makes me promise to call him, we hang up. Only eighteen, and he’s already such a mommy.
I peer into the now-dancing crowd for Rainier de Morel, aka “the one in the wheelchair,” as Coat-check Girl graciously informed me. I could’ve guessed without the tip, though. Pretentious entitled asshole might as well be tattooed on his smug forehead.
He’s parked beside the bay window, an aging purple fairy fawning all over him.
Leaving behind the Gauguin, for now, I round a couple who are grinding to an instrumental rendition of the Monster Mash. Or maybe that’s the song I’ve cued up in my head to fit this strange-ass crowd, and the orchestra’s playing something else entirely. When I step in front of Rainier, the old fairy squawks and removes her paws from the arms of his wheelchair. He looks up, relief etched across his blue eyes and barely-lined face, until he sees who just saved him from getting mauled by a woman too old to be wearing a tutu. His smile falters for a second, then slides back into place.
“Monsieur de Morel.” I keep my voice even despite the fact that I want to punch the taunting cheer from his face. “Do you know who I am?”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 4
