Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Slate’s eyes curve with a touch of humor. “De Morel, I think that if the ring doesn’t murder me, your daughter might.”

  Papa’s expression clears of some somberness.

  I plant my hands on my hips. “How can you be making jokes right now? Your life’s hanging by a thread!”

  Slate’s expression turns so serious it makes him look years older. How old is he again? I try to remember the date on the birth certificate he showed me mere hours ago. “That’s precisely why I’m making jokes. I don’t do sobbing and lamenting. Like I said last night, a person makes their own luck.”

  “Or their own misfortune,” I mutter.

  He tsks. “Such a pessimist, Mademoiselle de Morel.”

  The doorbell shrills.

  I move my seething gaze off Slate and onto the foyer. Since the front door isn’t going to open itself, I stride toward it. I’m so angry slash annoyed slash perplexed by this entire situation that when I fling the door open, the butterflies that usually take off at the sight of Adrien don’t even flap their wings.

  His head jerks back as though I’ve punched him. He must think I’m glowering at him.

  I attempt to smooth out my expression, because Adrien doesn’t deserve my contempt. Only Slate deserves it. “I thought you’d be halfway across the Channel.”

  “My flight was tomorrow morning.”

  Was. Not is. I suppose he’s not planning on going.

  I nod and am about to close the door when I spot another figure coming up our driveway. Gaëlle’s eyes find mine in the spreading dusk. “Did you know—”

  “Shh,” Adrien says, and I understand he must be warning me not to speak about the Quatrefoil beyond the walls of this house.

  He shuts the door behind Gaëlle, then offers to help her with her coat. That he can still be gallant at a time like this stuns me, but Adrien is like Papa, a gentleman to the very core. I precede the new arrivals into the living room. Slate’s now standing beside the mammoth peach fireplace, nursing a glass of wine and poking a fire he must’ve just kindled.

  Adrien pauses in the doorway. “I’d almost forgotten about you.”

  Slate smiles, but there’s acid in that smile. “Hi, Prof.”

  Adrien’s gaze drops to the hand Slate’s wrapped around his glass, the one with the enormous red Bloodstone, then zips over to Papa. “Already? Rainier, this is ridiculous! We were supposed to wait until after the new moon.”

  He knew?

  Gaëlle unwinds her yellow scarf, then drapes it beside my jacket. “I thought we were waiting until Spring.”

  She knew?

  “Winter’s the worst time,” she adds. “The ground’s frozen solid. The lake in places, too. What if we have to dig? Or swim?”

  “Swim?” And here I thought I’d reached the pinnacle of shock, but nope . . . I sense there are miles of steep and mysterious terrain ahead of me before I can get to the top and look down over all this new knowledge and make sense of it.

  “I haven’t gotten to explaining the finer details of the Quatrefoil to Cadence and Slate yet. And, yes, we were going to wait. However, my hand has been forced.” Papa skewers Slate with a look. “Both of you, grab a glass and get comfortable.” He taps his cigar against the ashtray on the coffee table. The ashes collapse off in one big chunk before crumbling into small heaps.

  Gaëlle pushes up the sleeves of her sweater and steals a glass from the middle of the table. “So glad I’m not breastfeeding anymore, because I need a drink. Or ten,” she says to no one in particular, or maybe she’s voicing this so we don’t judge her.

  Right now, the only person I’m judging is Slate.

  Slate, who’s slotting the brass poker into the accessory stand. He straightens but doesn’t return to the couch, just steps toward the steel-gray wall and leans against it. Adrien drops down beside Gaëlle and takes the glass she’s poured him.

  I take the seat closest to Papa’s wheelchair. It almost seems like we’re picking camps, but technically we’re all in this together.

  All of us supernaturally screwed.

  11

  Slate

  I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes while the little group before me gets settled, babbling on about the wine and the weather.

  Meanwhile, I’m dying.

  Fifteen days . . .

  I don’t have a last will and testament or anything like that, so I need to make a few calls. To my bank. To my other bank. To my other, other bank. To my lawyer. If something should happen to me, I want to make sure Bastian gets everything I own—my money, my apartment, my Aston Martin, and Spike, of course. That prickly soul needs to be taken care of.

  De Morel told me what to expect should this all go to shit. He said the magic works like a poison in the blood. It would take a whole day and, during that time, I’d be in such excruciating pain that I’d probably try to peel off my own skin. His wife tried scrubbing her arms with a goddamn cheese grater before he took it away.

  I shudder.

  The only way around this pitiful end is to get the Quatrefoil pieces and put them together.

  So that’s what I’ll do. It’s not like I have a fucking choice.

  And like I told Cadence, you’ve got to make your own luck in this life.

  The mood in the room changes. Voices less relaxed. Higher pitched. Angry. I open my eyes and see they’re all glaring at me. Oh, goody. De Morel must’ve explained the finer details of how the ring got on my finger.

  The professor Cadence has the hots for has been giving Rainier shit about the lack of time. Now he shakes his head at me like I’ve been a bad puppy, annoyed but not panicked like the others. He gives his chin a firm rub with nails shaped into perfect crescents. His skin has that uncracked porcelain sheen to it, like he’s been massaged in lotion his entire life. I bet growing up, he found chocolates on his pillow instead of rat droppings and his shoes never pinched his toes.

  After he lowers his hand, he shoots Cadence a reassuring smile. One that says, Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I bet she really believes Monsieur tweed-pants-and-matching-vest can save the day.

  I drain my wine glass, and push off the wall for a refill. Gaëlle, who’s been drinking her wine like it’s water, extends her glass, and I fill it up, too.

  She scoots back into the couch, nursing her drink as though it were a newborn’s head. “So, now that the Bloodstone’s out of hiding, the pieces are too, right, Rainier?”

  “Yes and no. They show up one after the other. But the first should show itself soon.”

  Cadence tilts her head to the side. “Or we could save ourselves the trouble and let Slate die. An amoral guy like him must have a kid or two somewhere.”

  Cute. “Or we could use the next fifteen days to make a baby instead of hunting down those pieces, Cadence.” At least, I’d die happy.

  Her cheeks burn pink, and she crosses her arms over her chest. The usual satisfaction I get from seeing her blush doesn’t hit me. Probably because I’m still feeling like shit about her mother’s grave. Jesus. I’ve got to get it together. I’m too far off my game. I blame the ring.

  “There’ll be no procreation. Especially not with my daughter.” Rainier pins me with an impressively unpleasant glare.

  Mercier, too, for that matter. I wonder why he cares.

  “If we’re going to have any chance at succeeding, everyone here needs to understand the mechanics of the Quatrefoil. Slate?” I turn my attention back toward Rainier. “Consider this an accelerated lesson in unofficial Brumian history.”

  “Unofficial and undisclosed,” Mercier adds. “In other words, secret.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up, Prof. Big words confuse me.” What a dickhead.

  “Adrien?” Rainier tips his head. “Will you explain it to him?”

  Adrien plants his elbows on his thighs and links his hands together before rehashing what I learned at the library with Cadence. I sip my wine in silence, allowing him to feel important as he drones on about the Bl
ack Death, the mishandling of magic, and the Council’s decision to have the diwallers break apart the source of all magic to punish the undeserving and undisciplined masses.

  “What they did sounds simple: four leaves and a Bloodstone key. But because records are sparse, it took the last generation a lot of trial and error to grasp the actual complexities of assembling the Quatrefoil.”

  Gaëlle swirls her wine, then drinks it in one swallow. “And deaths. It caused so many deaths.”

  Cadence’s expression ripples with shock. “Deaths? It wasn’t just Maman?”

  “Non, chérie.” Rainier gives her a pained smile. “It’s not just the ring that kills. In my generation, four people lost their lives.”

  “Out of how many?” I figure it’s all about averages.

  “Eight.”

  “Half the group died?” I laugh. “Pretty shitty odds.”

  “And I lost the use of my legs.” Rainier’s voice is razor-sharp.

  Cadence drops her glass, which spills over the rug like blood, splattering her jeans and the cream couch on its way down. “You said it was a car accident!”

  The liquid beads over the leather, striping it purple.

  Gaëlle extricates herself from the sofa cushion. “I’ll go grab some salt. It’ll soak up the stain.”

  I don’t think Cadence or Rainier care about the stain at the moment.

  As Gaëlle leaves, Rainier takes his daughter’s hands and cocoons them between his. “Ma Cadence, I was trying to protect you—”

  “By lying?” Her eyes shimmer with disappointment. “What else have you lied to me about, Papa?”

  “Chérie . . .”

  Cadence pulls her hands free, then swipes the glass from the rug and plops it on the coffee table so hard I’m surprised neither cracks. Hands shaking, she takes the bottle from the center of the table and starts pouring but misses her glass more than once.

  Adrien, ever the fucking gentleman, scoots off the couch and gently peels her fingers off the large, dark-green bottle, before accomplishing the job she was botching. With a wink, he grabs a tissue from his vest pocket and cleans up the base and stem.

  “I forgot to tell you, Rainier, but the clock started ticking,” Adrien says as he returns to his seat. “Could that be one of our pieces?”

  “No. The clock’s like an hourglass. It’ll mark the number of moon phases you have left.”

  “What about the star dial?” Mercier asks.

  “The hand on that one didn’t move last time. I suspect it’ll start working once the Quatrefoil is assembled.”

  “What is this about the clock?” Gaëlle blusters back in, armed with a wet dishcloth and a canister of sel de Guérande—of course this is the only type of salt these people would own.

  Rainier fills her in as she blots Cadence’s jeans, then energetically scrubs the sofa before sprinkling the salt flakes over the rug.

  “Thank you,” Cadence murmurs, her skin the same shade as her thick turtleneck. She’s in shock, and if her white knuckles are any indication, she’s also pretty ticked off. She should be. Lies are hard to stomach, even if they’re dispensed to protect.

  “So, let me get this straight, De Morel. I’m not the only one who risks dying if we go after these pieces?”

  He nods. “The pieces can only be earned through challenges.”

  “Then I’m going at this alone. Just give me the instruction booklet, and I’m good. No one else needs to be involved.”

  Adrien scoffs. “This isn’t a game, Roland. There is no instruction booklet. Besides, the rest of us have no choice in participating.”

  “Really, Mercier?” I bite down hard on his family name. Dick thinks he can call me Roland. “Why?”

  “Because each one of you has a specific piece to find and win. We learned this the hard way.” Rainier stares at his emaciated thighs. “I was with Amandine when she faced her challenge of retrieving the Earth piece. She succeeded but then she handed it to me for safekeeping.” His crow’s feet deepen. “I was lucky it was only my legs I lost.”

  Gaëlle runs a hand through her snarled, dark curls. “Also, last time, they didn’t know that the pieces could only be touched by the descendants of that specific element or it activated the curse contained within the piece.” She nibbles on her lower lip. “That’s how I lost my father. He didn’t realize that our piece was Air.” Her ruddy-brown eyes set on the gray mist billowing over the inky lake. “Not Water.”

  Rainier sighs. “It was only after your parents died, Monsieur Roland, that we managed to put the Quatrefoil puzzle together.”

  I don’t even bother correcting him with my name anymore but do question his declaration. “You said my parents died in a fire.”

  “Their element was Water.” He contemplates the flames devouring the logs behind me. “They touched Camille Mercier’s leaf: Fire.”

  I absentmindedly rub the scar under my shirt sleeve.

  Rainier takes a drag from his Churchill, which is nothing but a glowing stub now. “After Pierre—Gaëlle’s father—and your parents died, we finally understood how it worked.”

  Magic killed my parents . . . might very well kill me. It probably shouldn’t be restored. But at the same time, I really don’t feel like dying.

  “So, we each have a specific leaf to find and collect?” I pour more wine into my glass, even though I’m tempted to grab the bottle and chug it.

  Rainier nods. “Yours is Water. Adrien’s, Fire. Gaëlle’s, Air.” He reaches out toward his daughter, who hesitates but ends up yielding to him, wrapping her slender fingers around his. “And Cadence’s is Earth.”

  Gaëlle drains her glass, but it does nothing to loosen the stiffness of her shoulders. “Each of us will have to face a challenge brought forth by our element. We can help each other, but we cannot, under any circumstances, fight another person’s battle or touch their piece.”

  “Sort of like a treasure hunt,” Cadence says, “but with cursed artifacts.”

  “Which is why it’s incredibly dangerous, ma chérie.”

  “And not just for Slate,” Adrien adds.

  I’m glad for the reminder. I had almost forgotten about my dire predicament.

  I take a swig of wine. “You just might get your wish after all, Mademoiselle de Morel.”

  She makes a face before dropping her gaze to her knees, to the patch of wet denim. “I don’t actually want you to die, you moron.”

  Gaëlle slides her glass onto the table and cradles her face in her hands. Her voice is muffled when she says, “I need to ask Nolwenn and Juda to take care of the twins. Not just over the next two weeks, but . . . but I need to make plans, in case.” She sighs and drags her hands down the sides of her face which seems gray in comparison to the rich shade of her fingers.

  “It’ll be okay, Gaëlle. We know so much more than before.” Rainier’s reassurance makes the thirty-something woman shoot him a grateful smile.

  “How do we know where to look?” Cadence’s voice is as wispy as the dark smoke rising up the chimney. “What if they’re scattered all over the world?”

  Rainier smiles. “The pieces have been magicked to remain within the confines of Brume, and they’ll be located within their element. In the next day or so, someone will claim to have seen a whirlpool in the lake or will report a sinkhole. There might be a windstorm in only one part of town, or a house that catches fire without reason. These natural happenings will lead us to the pieces.” He juts his chin toward my hand. “Not to mention, we have a live artifact detector.”

  I hold up my swollen finger. This time I get a tiny rush at flipping him off in front of everyone else. Maybe I’m not as off my game as I thought. “You mean, this old thing?”

  “You’re such a jerk,” Cadence mutters under her breath.

  My gaze slides to hers. I don’t say it out loud, but I’m thinking, Really? Even more of a jerk than that asshole who let me rot in the system my whole life? I’m guessing, that in all the excitement, Rainier’s fail
ed to inform her of his hand in my upbringing.

  Rainier continues, “The stone reacts when it nears a piece of the Quatrefoil. Slate will feel a burning in his blood, cramping in his limbs.”

  “How . . . nifty.” I examine the bottle. It’s empty. I could really use a refill.

  “We have to keep our eyes on the prize. We’re going to bring magic back. It’ll be . . . extraordinary.” Rainier’s voice has the high timbre of a fanatic. Easy to get all creamed up when you get to sit back and twiddle your thumbs.

  My gaze sticks to his legs, then to Cadence, and I realize that was uncalled for.

  Mercier sighs. “Guess I should cancel my plane ticket and inform the head of the history department at Cambridge I won’t be visiting.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cadence says, before turning to me like she expects me to apologize.

  Hell, no.

  Gaëlle stands and begins to wind her ridiculously long scarf around her neck. “I’ve got to get back. If I see or hear anything, I’ll let you know.” After three loops, the yellow yarn still hangs to her knees.

  Adrien stands, too. “I’ll walk you home. Goodnight, Rainier. Cadence.” He sends her a smile that stains her cadaverously-pale cheeks pink.

  While Gaëlle winds another coil of scarf around her neck, I pick up my coat that’s slipped off the back of the couch and puddled on the floor like tar. I spear my arms through but don’t bother with the gloves. Cadence accompanies us to the foyer, or rather walks Adrien and Gaëlle to the door while I trail behind my new squad.

  What a team we make—a preppy professor, a woman with a yarn fetish, and a girl way too pure of heart for all this bullshit. The ultimate underdogs.

  To think my life is in their hands.

  My ever-practical mind reels to my cell of a dorm room. I need sheets and towels. Although I have my pride, I doubt the village has a twenty-four-seven Carrefour, and since my pimp jewel prevents me from leaving this godforsaken town, I ask Cadence if I can borrow linens.

  When she scrunches her forehead, I say, “You’ll get them back in two weeks. Either I’ll be dead or I’ll be gone.”