But now . . .
Now, a searing pain radiates through my chest, my temples throb, and my ears ring, because I’m the one responsible for Cadence’s tears.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Monsieur Roland?” Rainier taps a finger on the armrest of his wheelchair, managing to lend that minuscule gesture a massive amount of violence.
My throat works but not to produce any sound, just to swallow the vile taste of what I’ve done.
I feel like dog shit smooshed under someone’s shoe. Like a wad of chewed-up gum stuck to a subway bench. Like the garbage social services always told me I was.
Cadence’s eyes are a stormy blue. “The brooch and all that other stuff in your pockets . . . You stole them from my family’s mausoleum, didn’t you?” She’s breathing like she just ran a marathon, her shoulders heaving. Her slender fingers have curled into her palms, and her small fists bump into her jeans. I don’t know why she’s not pummeling me with them yet. I don’t know why she’s not gouging my cheeks with her nails and spitting into my face.
She sinks onto the sofa opposite where I sit, making it clear she doesn’t want to be anywhere near me. “I hate you.”
Not as much as I fucking hate myself right now.
“I want to hurt you,” she says.
There’s no point in me saying I’m sorry. The situation is way beyond apologies. In fact, saying sorry might just infuriate her further.
So, I do what I do best—I act like a prick. “Get in line, Cadence, because your maman beat you to it.” I raise my hand, not just my middle finger this time.
“Where did you—Is that—” Cadence’s mouth drops open. “Is that . . . what I think it is?” There’s a note of reverence in Cadence’s voice.
“The Bloodstone? We were just about to cover that with your old man.” My eyes glide back to Rainier, focusing on the features blurred by a cloud of cigar smoke.
I’m not sure what snaps Cadence out of her daze, but all her breathy reverence vanishes when she shouts, “You . . . you . . . crook! Take that off right now. It’s part of Brumian history. It doesn’t belong to you!”
“No can do, sweetheart. Your maman got me good.”
“My mother? What does the ring have to do with Maman?” Her teeth are so clenched her question is growled. “And what do you mean you can’t take it off?”
“He means”—Rainier’s voice is calm, chillingly so—“that no matter what he does, the ring won’t budge. Isn’t that right, Monsieur Roland?”
“It’s a little stuck. Don’t happen to have some quality bolt cutters lying around, do you?”
He sighs in a drawn out, dramatic way. “Alas, my stupid, stupid boy. Bolt cutters won’t help. Not even on your finger. The stone’s fused to you, to your blood, not to your skin.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?”
“The cursed kind. The kind you get when you mess with dark magic.” His lips curve around his cigar as though he’s done with anger and has moved on to derision. “You reap what you sow in Brume. Welcome.”
I shiver from the chill of his greeting.
Cadence looks at her father like she’s seeing him for the first time. “The Bloodstone’s real?”
Every line on Rainier’s face softens as he nods.
“And it was in Maman’s grave?”
He exhales more smoke. “I’ve been planning to sit you down for some time now. To explain your family’s history. To tell you about the Quatrefoil Council and your role now that you’re of age—”
“Me? The Quatrefoil Council?”
“You’re a de Morel. Like your mother.” Cadence doesn’t seem surprised by Rainier’s statement, but it makes me pause. Rainier took his wife’s surname? Not unheard of, just unusual. Unless he isn’t her biological father but some uncle she calls Papa?
Little seems to make sense right now.
Cadence shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it. “So, the Council exists? And the diwallers? And magic—”
“Magic exists. Well, existed. Since 1350, it’s been contained inside the separate leaves of the Quatrefoil.”
A new light burns beneath Cadence’s mottled skin. “Magic is real?” she breathes.
A whole world of emotions and unsaid words pass between them as they look at each other. It’s like they’ve forgotten I’m here. Like they’ve forgotten a stone filled with blood has bonded to my veins.
As I watch her gaze at Rainier, something dawns on me: Cadence may lust after that Adrien professor dude, but she doesn’t worship him. The man she worships is her father.
I attempt to get up in silence, but the leather under my ass groans as I shift. Both Cadence and Rainier’s gazes snap over to me, then to the red stone glinting garishly on my finger. “So, I’m stuck looking like a pimp for the rest of my life?”
Cadence grunts; Rainier takes a long puff of his cigar.
“Yes. You’re stuck like that for life.” Smoke makes his face appear wavy. “But the good news is it won’t be that long.”
“That long until what?”
His smile suddenly seems genuine, as though he’s getting off on torturing me with scraps of information that my muddled brain is trying to keep straight and piece together. “Why . . . until you die, of course.”
I take a step toward Rainier. “Are you threatening me?”
Cadence bounds off the sofa and sticks herself between us before slamming both her palms into my chest. If I weren’t so distracted by the whole insanity of the conversation, I’d be impressed by how fiercely protective she is. Since I’m fuming, I grip her wrists as gently as Slately possible and push them off. I don’t advance, just glare at Rainier over the top of Cadence’s head.
“I wasn’t threatening you, Monsieur Roland; I was simply stating facts.” He sucks on his cigar, taking his sweet time explaining what’s in store for me. “The Bloodstone is cursed to keep magic contained. Ironically, the only way to free yourself is by restoring that magic.”
I’m aware it’s my own fault the ring’s stuck to my finger, yet my urge to poke his eyes is mighty strong. “Stop with the goddamn riddles!”
Cadence’s breath whispers over my clenched jaw. “You need to reunite the pieces.”
The odor of her shampoo fills my nostrils. Putain, she smells good. Does she wash her hair with jam? And why the hell am I sniffing her right now?
I take a step back and throw my hands up, careful not to hit Cadence. “Okay, then. That’s what I’ll do.”
Rainier laughs, a deep, soulless laugh. A Disney villain laugh. “This is not a game of Connect Four, Monsieur Roland. This is a battle against potent magic. First, you must locate the pieces, pieces that are hidden by magic. And then you must fight for them. And believe me, you’ll lose. The curses put in place to keep them hidden are formidable. And the stone’s curse is the strongest of all.”
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“Ah, but I do.” He clears his throat and looks directly at the back of his daughter’s head. “I know because it’s the Bloodstone that killed my wife, Amandine.”
10
Cadence
Magic robbed me of my mother?
“Why the fuck did you tell me to come to this fucking town!” Slate’s voice slaps the tension-filled air, bashing right through my thoughts.
I step to the side so I can keep an eye on both men. I don’t want to have my back turned to Slate. I don’t trust him.
Papa’s face turns the color of raw beets. “I didn’t tell you to pilfer my family’s crypt!”
Both men’s chests heave equally hard whereas mine is quiet. I’m still processing. That my mother died because of magic. That magic is real. That it’s stored inside four hidden leaves and a ring that’s presently choking the thief’s finger.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I whisper.
“What?” I don’t think Papa means to snap at me, but that’s how the word comes out.
“About magic? That it existed?” I s
tare at the bronze bonsai in the middle of our coffee table, at the grooved bark, delicate branches, and raindrop-sized leaves. “That it stole Maman from us?”
“Telling you was putting you at risk. Until Rémy came home—”
“My name’s Slate. Not Rémy. And this isn’t my home.”
“Until Slate came back to Brume, we had no way of bringing magic back, so I didn’t see the point in getting your hopes up for nothing.”
Slate backs up until his calves hit the couch and then sinks down but doesn’t lean back, his spine as rigid as a fire poker. “Until I came back?”
The large red stone catches the dying sunlight outside, beaming it onto Papa’s chest. The red dot looks like a bloody hole against the pale cashmere.
Papa sighs. “It’s complicated.” His navy eyes rove over Slate’s face, then off, settling on the long bay window and the lake beyond, which gleams gold and sapphire-gray under a thin layer of mist.
Slate thrusts a hand through his mussed black curls. “Try me. I’m good at complicated.”
“Let’s hope you are,” Papa says. “With Amandine and the others, we tried to assemble the Quatrefoil. And we failed.”
“The others?” I venture.
Papa’s gaze climbs up to me. “The other founding families. The other guardians.”
“We’re . . . we’re diwallers?” I don’t think I’ve ever experienced so many extreme and mixed emotions in the space of such a short while.
“I was hoping we’d have more time . . .” he adds quietly.
“More time?” Slate’s clutching his knees, the knuckles of both hands pale, the tendons so taut they look about to snap the ring off his purple middle finger.
My heart almost goes out to him, but he did this to himself. Actions have consequences. It’s about time he learns this.
“The moment the ring binds to a descendant, the pieces appear. If they’re not found and assembled before the new moon, they all vanish again.”
“Okay.” Slate’s still breathing laboriously. “So, that gives us how long?”
“Full moon’s tomorrow.” Which reminds me. As I shrug out of my puffer jacket and toss it on the back of the couch, I gush, “Papa, I tried calling you earlier, because the clock—”
“Started ticking.” He sighs.
“Did Adrien tell you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you—”
“Rémy, here, woke the magic.”
“For fuck’s sake, it’s Slate,” he growls.
“And now you only have two weeks to assemble the Quatrefoil,” Papa says quietly.
Slate’s grip slackens. “Good thing finding things that don’t want to be found is my forte.” Beneath the confident inflection, I sense agitation.
“Except you won’t be able to retrieve them on your own,” Papa says. “All four diwallers will have to play in order to win.”
Goose bumps rise everywhere on my body. “All four? I’m going to have to”—I gulp—“help Slate?”
“Yes.”
“Who are the other two?” Slate asks.
Papa stares out the window. “Adrien Mercier and Gaëlle Bisset.”
Of course . . . the descendants from the founding families. What exactly was I expecting? That these other guardians would be strangers?
“Oh, goodie,” I think I hear Slate say. He might’ve just emitted a caveman grunt. Wouldn’t put it past him to make sounds of an animalistic nature.
“What happens if we can’t get the pieces in fifteen days’ time, Papa? Do they go back into hiding?”
Papa shuts his eyes, and his nostrils pulse. “Unless Slate has fathered a child, it’s game over after this new moon. And not just for a while, but forever. He’s the last Roland.”
Both Slate and I frown.
“If the ring doesn’t come off before the new moon, it kills the carrier.”
Slate doesn’t make a sound. He seems to have stopped breathing.
“My original plan was to bring Rémy—I mean, Slate—home, fill him in on our shared history, fill you in”—Papa’s lids reel up, and he stares at me—“then call a meeting with the others. One of the diwallers was going to put on the ring . . . I wish it could’ve been me, so that if we failed, if anything happened—” His voice catches, and his eyes begin to shine like the lake. “But no thread of dormant magic runs in my blood. All I can do is teach the four of you all the lessons we learned from past mistakes.”
Another chill scatters over my skin. I must pale because Papa wheels himself closer and clasps my limp hand as though to remind me that he’s here. That everything will be okay.
“Thank goodness you can’t put it on,” I say, closing my fingers around his. “I’d rather have a parent than magic.”
“You’re almost eighteen—”
“So what?”
He glares at his useless legs. “Ma Cadence, you think I enjoy being in a wheelchair?”
I know it’s hard. I know he’s often in pain and resents relying on others for everything, but I just can’t—I just . . .
“Papa, I’ll always need you.” Tears pop out from underneath my lids and leak down my cheeks.
His thumb comes up, and he swipes them away.
Why am I weeping over this? It’s not like losing him is an actual possibility. I mean, I’ll lose him eventually. No one lives forever, but at least it won’t be a ring that removes him from my life. Not like my mother.
God, a ring . . .
I lost her because of a cursed jewel. It still seems so . . . so—
“Not that this little moment isn’t heartwarming, but I have fifteen days left to live, so if you could both focus on me for a second and explain what the fuck I’m looking for, it’d be real appreciated.”
I narrow my watery gaze on Slate. He’s so hateful that I don’t even feel bad that he might die. Okay . . . I feel a teeny bit bad.
“Slate’s right. We need to get to work.” Papa fishes his cellphone from the wheelchair pocket and scrolls through his contacts.
When I see the name he selects, I bite my lip. “Adrien said he was flying to London today.”
“Then he’ll have to fly straight back,” Papa says.
My heart pumps so much blood that it sounds like the lake is rushing through my skull. Still, I manage to catch bits of what Papa is saying, and it doesn’t sound like he’s leaving a message.
After he hangs up, he scrolls through his list again until his thumb stills on Gaëlle’s number. “Adrien’s on his way.”
His way back or his way here? I suppose they’re one and the same. Relief pokes through the haze of dread. I don’t know whether Slate is smart or a team player, but I know Adrien is both.
Slate’s head is bowed in contemplation of the Bloodstone, probably ruing its power and his stupidity.
Once Papa hangs up, he says, “They’re both on their way. Cadence, can you go down to the cellar and grab a bottle of wine?”
“Make that two,” Slate says.
I dip my chin into my neck and glower at him. “Planning on sharing one with Maman again?”
Slate’s dark eyes go pitch-black. He doesn’t say a word. I’m almost surprised he doesn’t have a clever comeback since he has clever comebacks for everything.
“Cadence, chérie.” Papa prods my ribs and nods to the door. “And grab five glasses.”
“Five?”
“Yes. Five.”
Not that he’s ever prohibited me from drinking, but he’s also never encouraged me to do so. I suppose he thinks I’m going to need a little buzz, but is that to stomach what he’s just confessed or to endure all that he’s about to?
I cross the room in a few short strides. I don’t bother closing the doors since no one else is home. Jacqueline is long gone—I passed her on my way in—and our housekeeper only comes in the morning. I head into the kitchen, a state-of-the-art space filled with Corian and stainless steel, then through a door that leads to the basement which contains a giant jacuzzi and a w
alk-in wine cellar. I enter the dank room, free a dusty magnum from its cradle, then shut the door and traipse back upstairs. After I’ve pulled out the cork, I hook five long-stemmed glasses through my fingers and grip the bottle’s neck as though it were Slate’s.
A ring killed my mother.
The same ring Slate is wearing.
Slate will die if we—Adrien, Gaëlle, Slate, and I—fail to find four magical leaves.
If we succeed, Slate lives, and magic . . . magic will reappear.
Maybe I should’ve grabbed vodka from the freezer instead of wine, because this is all just so crazy.
When I burst back into the living room, Papa and Slate hush up.
“Don’t stop chatting on my account,” I say, wondering why they’re wearing matching guilty looks.
Both watch me set my loot down on the coffee table, the soft clink of glass on glass rivaling the whir of the convector heaters, which have been working full-time since the blush of autumn swept over Brume.
“Papa, if I’m part of this, I want to know everything.”
As I start to pour, he says, “I was just explaining to Slate how Amandine”—he pauses—“how your mother . . .” Again he stops talking.
“How my mother what?”
“What the end will be like for him in case we aren’t successful,” he says in a single breath.
My blood turns to sleet in my veins, transforming my arms into unyielding branches like the ones Alma and I stick into the snowwomen we build every year on the university quad.
The wine almost overflows from the first glass. Would have if Slate hadn’t risen from the couch and lifted the bottle from my hands.
“Bet you’re thinking I should’ve puckered up and planted one on you last night,” he says.
I don’t know if he’s trying to alleviate my mood or his own. Unless he’s just trying to get under my skin and embarrass me in front of my father.
My cheeks flame. “Trust me, that’s not even remotely close to what’s going through my mind at the moment.”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 9
