I instinctively bring the wine bottle to my mouth for a swig when I feel cool, grainy dirt against my lips. Damn it. I forgot the bottle was the one from the crypt. I spit, then wipe my mouth on my sleeve and crunch across more snow, passing headstones and spindly trees. When I find myself back on a winding cobblestone road, I chuck the bottle into a trash bin, the thick glass clanking against the iron can, then head to the tavern. I take a new route down a narrow alley bent like a crooked arm where the stone walls have crumbled in places and the wooden shutters are gray. Yet even this neglected corner of Brume, with its scraggly evergreen boughs nailed above doors like overplucked eyebrows, holds more quaintness than the places I grew up in with their misspelled graffiti and soundtracks of gang fights and police sirens.
As I skirt the historical well in the town square, the small hairs on the back of my neck rise the same way they used to when I walked around my old neighborhoods.
Three girls clutching copper goblets and taking drags off cigarettes stand beside the entrance of the tavern, pointing to a couple sitting on a bench groping each other.
“Get a room!” one of the girls shouts to the couple, while her two friends break into giggles.
None of them look my way, yet the sensation of being watched strengthens. My gaze sweeps higher, to the second and top floors of the buildings. No eyes shine back at me from a shadowy window. No figure is crouched on the rooftops. Nothing seems off. Nothing that should get my spidey-sense tingling. Shaking off the sensation, I take another step, and it’s like someone injected my veins with liquid fire.
I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the well. My breaths come in hard, raspy pants, as though the fire is spreading and has begun to char my lungs. I cling to the cold stone as mind-shredding pain cramps my muscles and wraps around my joints. It’s enough to make me grit my teeth and let out an involuntary snarl.
My insides feel like they’re melting, like the time I got a stomach flu and spent two days sprawled on my cool bathroom floor, wishing I were facing a gang armed with deadly knives instead of a torturous virus. I heave, but nothing comes out.
Maybe I drank too much wine. Or maybe—more likely—Cadence poisoned my wine.
My muscles seize, and icy sweat lines my brow. I grunt and groan, and the well echoes and amplifies the animal sounds.
Wait . . .
I stumble away from the well, hobbling to the far side of the square. Even though my toe is still throbbing, my joints and stomach aren’t. I rip the glove off my hand with my teeth and stare at the fugly ring. Then, swallowing a breath of frigid air, I approach the well again. The girls standing outside the tavern are watching me now. I salute them, which makes one smile and the other two whisper.
The burning in my veins starts up again. Then the cramping in my muscles and a general creepiness, like a spider’s egg sac has just hatched on my spine and the creatures are skittering all over my vertebrae. The closer I get to the well, the stronger the sensation. The ring flares, the stone glinting like a giant drop of luminous blood under the garlands of holiday lights trussing up the square.
Putain. De Morel was right when he said the ring was an artifact detector. If the thing came with a battery and sound effects, right now it would be going beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep beep beep beep.
A piece of the Quatrefoil is in or near the old well.
I study the shiny cobbled rim, the pointed, slate-shingled canopy shading it, the rusted chain wrapped with ribbon, and the hanging bucket filled with poinsettias—probably fake ones, unless someone took the time to stick a real bouquet in it. Wouldn’t put that past these weird-ass townsfolk. Either way, I’m guessing no one uses this well to get their water anymore.
I need to get closer, but the girls are still watching me. And the pain . . . The mere memory of it makes me grit my teeth. Fuck it. I need to know if one of the leaves is in there. I lunge toward the well, bones burning beneath my skin, blood blazing. I clutch the damp ledge and shine my phone’s flashlight down into it, feeling like I’m about to retch again.
There’s a grate at the top—probably to stop drunks or stupid kids from falling in. Below, the empty cylinder stretches far and deep. I’m guessing it leads straight into hell.
With shaky fingers, I dig a coin from my pocket and toss it in. It plinks wetly, breaking water.
Does this mean it’s my piece? Unless it’s Cadence’s . . .
If it is mine to get, and if I could get it tonight, we’d be ahead of the game. I eye the rusty chain. Would it hold my weight?
I reach out, close my trembling fingers over the icy metal, and tug to test the chain’s sturdiness. It groans like something’s coming loose, and ochre flakes chip off. Yeah. Not happening. If I’m going to do this, I need to do it right. That means decent equipment. That means not hurling myself into a black pit on too much wine and too little sleep.
On that note . . .
I could use more wine to help me sleep.
I release the chain, then back away, rubbing my palm over my jeans.
My breathing quiets the farther I get, and the fire in my veins subsides.
Maybe I will live to my next birthday after all.
I stride across the square to the tavern with a little more bounce in my step that has nothing to do with the fading pain.
“What did you wish for?” one of the girls standing by the entrance of the tavern asks.
“Wish?”
She juts her chin toward the well, her eyes running down my body.
Right . . . the coin. “To get the fuck out of Brume.”
Her smile wanes. Obviously, she wanted me to hit on her, which is alarming on several levels, the first being that I was acting like a madman barely a minute ago, and the second, that I probably smell like the inside of a liquor casket . . . or plain old casket, for that matter.
“Cheers.” I step past them and push open the heavy oak door.
The noise inside is loud enough to wake a dead man, but the cheery music and stifling heat are welcomed. I squeeze onto a squeaky red barstool, between two older men nursing drinks. The bartender’s the same wiry middle-aged guy with crooked teeth and stick-straight hair as earlier. As he fills a glass with tap beer, he holds up a finger to indicate he’ll be with me in a minute.
The lady with the puffed-up whitish hair who shot me a warning look when I was talking to Cadence earlier bustles in behind the bar. She sets down an empty tray near the sink and looks to the rack where wine glasses hang upside down like sleeping bats.
“Nolwenn,” the bartender says, “can you take over for five? Gotta hit the head.”
She motions with her hand to shoo him off, then turns her attention to those of us on the stools. Within seconds she sees there’s no drink in front of me. “What can I get you, young man?”
“I’ll take a . . .” I scan the shelves behind her.
“I’ve got the best chouchen in town. Brewed right on the premises.”
I have no clue what the hell that is, but if it’s brewed, then there’s alcohol.
“Hit me.” I rub my hands together trying to get rid of the lingering pins and needles.
As she pops the cork off a clear bottle, her gaze falls to my finger, lingers there.
Huh. Either she recognizes the Bloodstone or she’s appalled by my choice in accessories.
She blinks and clears her throat. “That’s quite a gem you’ve got there.”
When I sense one of my neighbors copping a glance, I cross my arms, burying the stone under my elbow. “Family heirloom. Passed down from generation to generation. No accounting for taste, though.”
She quirks up an eyebrow as she pours yellow liquid into my glass. “You from around here?”
I shake my head. “Marseille. Night and day these two places.”
Her hand dips, chouchen spilling over the side of the glass. She wipes it up with a wet cloth. “And what’s your name, Marseille?”
“Slate. Slate Ardoin.” I purposely keep my Brumia
n identity under wraps.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Nolwenn.” She holds out a red-knuckled hand.
Is she being friendly, or does she want another look at the ring?
Keeping my eyes on her face, I shake her hand, which is more calloused than mine, and notice her attention drift to the stone.
“You really like this ring, huh?” I look for a reaction, but the bartender comes back then, and Nolwenn untangles her fingers from mine. Before she leaves, I ask, “That well out there . . . how deep is it?”
She glances over her shoulder at me. “About thirty meters. Why?” She tilts her head to side. “You studying aquifers at the university?”
I’m not even sure what that is, but I go with it. “Yeah.”
Her eyebrows gather. “You look a lot like someone I used to know.”
“I get that all the time. I have a very unoriginal face.”
She shakes her head, and her hair doesn’t even shift. “Enjoy the mead, Marseille.”
I might be imagining it, but as she leaves, her frown deepens. It strikes me that she must’ve known my parents. I wonder if she has stories. She looks like the type to have stories. Busybody running the town’s watering hole.
Maybe I should ask her. Maybe—
“Marseille, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever met a person with so many different identities.”
I smile even though I don’t look over my shoulder at the person who’s just spoken. Don’t have to. I know that scent, and I’d recognize that sultry voice anywhere.
“Thought you weren’t coming back out, Mademoiselle de Morel.”
14
Cadence
“I couldn’t sleep. Surprisingly, I have too much on my mind.”
Slate spins around on his stool, smiling smugly. “Would a curly-haired Adonis be to blame?”
“Could you be more arrogant?” Technically, he’s right, though. He is on my mind, but not because of his mussed hair or chiseled face, neither of which are that attractive. “What happened to your forehead?”
He touches the yellowing bruise. “A ceiling beam. I’m taller than your average elf.”
Okay . . . “I’m going to go sit at a table.”
“Is that an invitation?”
I unzip my puffer coat, the heat of his gaze combined with the heat of the hissing radiators making my body uncomfortably warm. I almost wish I’d changed out of my turtleneck. “Did it sound like an invitation?”
One of his black eyebrows juts up, vanishing behind a springy curl. “Guess not.” He turns back toward the bar.
I stand frozen in place for a second. Here I was, certain he’d leap off his stool and trail me to a table. I’m usually good at reading people, but Slate’s confusing. Even though I was joking about his multiple identities, I realize I might’ve not been so far off the mark after all.
I swallow my pride and say, “If you get bored drinking alone, come find me,” then head over to an unoccupied table in the corner.
I should’ve stayed at home. Why did I think coming out to the tavern was a good idea?
“Bonsoir, chérie.” Nolwenn drops by my table as I’m sitting. “Is Alma coming?”
“No. It’s just me. We missed you at the party last night.”
“Wish we could’ve made it, but we closed up so late. Or rather, so early. Did Sylvie behave, or was that old bat all over Rainier?”
I smile because Sylvie is Nolwenn’s age. “She was, but I don’t think Papa’s interested.”
She smirks. “So, what can I get you?”
“The cheese plate and chamomile tea with honey.”
“Good choices. Found Juda asleep over the stove earlier, so I sent him upstairs to rest and I’m not quite the cook he is.”
“I hope he didn’t burn himself.”
She flaps her hand. “The old man’s sturdy as a witch’s cauldron.”
I sit up a little straighter, itching to ask if she believes in magic but bite my tongue. She’s not a descendent, just one’s in-law. After she leaves, I pull up a search page on my phone about Brume and the Quatrefoil. If I’m going to be sitting here alone, might as well make the most of it. I’m scanning the webpage when the chair across from me scrapes against the brick-red tiles.
“I got bored drinking alone.” Slate sets down his goblet of . . .
I sniff the air but have trouble smelling anything over his spicy fragrance. “What are you drinking?”
“Chouchen.” He drops his coat on the back of his chair.
“Huh.”
“What does huh, mean?”
“That stuff will make you go cross-eyed.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t sound like such a bad fate right about now.”
As he scoots his chair in, I hear a cringy voice say, “He’s definitely not from around here.” Adrien’s girlfriend is sitting across the narrow dining room from us with two of her friends.
They’re all seniors at the university, all pretty, all annoying, and all looking in Slate’s direction. Charlotte catches my eye and shoots me a smile that really isn’t one. She doesn’t like me, even though I’m not sure why. It’s not like I’m much of a threat to her relationship with Adrien.
“Friends of yours?” Slate’s angled his chair out, arm draped around the back rungs, gaze on the trio.
“Nope.”
“Isn’t the girl with the short hair your favorite professor’s—”
“Shh . . . And he’s not my favorite anything,” I grumble as one of the girls flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, eating up Slate with her large, brown eyes.
He tips his goblet to her, then to his lips, and takes a lengthy swallow of Nolwenn’s mead, his Adam’s apple gliding up and down.
The blonde, whose name I can never remember—by choice—winks at him.
“If you’d rather go sit with them”—I shrug—“go right ahead.”
“If I wanted to go sit with them, I’d do it.” The wood creaks as Slate shifts in his chair. After a quiet beat, his voice rises over the cheery holiday tune, “So, I think I found a piece.”
My gaze snaps to his face. “What?”
He stretches his fingers as though they were cramping. “Damn ring lit up like Rudolph’s nose when I was close to the well. Not to mention, I got to experience all the pleasant symptoms your papa warned me about.”
I blink. “You’re kidding?”
“Sadly not.”
“I thought they would take a while to reveal themselves.”
“Apparently this one was in a hurry to be found.”
“Let’s go get it.” I push my chair back and start to stand, but Slate claps his palm over my wrist to keep me in place, the red stone gleaming like an unblemished ruby.
“Slow down there, princess. First off, I’m in no state to leap down a thirty-meter pit filled with Satan knows what. And secondly, I want to check with Rainier if it’s yours or mine.”
“You think it could be mine?”
He removes his hand from my arm. “Wells are technically inside the earth.”
“It’s in the well?” My pulse skips and strums. “Let me call Papa.”
“There are a lot of people around, Cadence.” Slate’s dark eyes don’t stray off mine. “Ask him when you get home.”
“But—”
“Take it from someone who treasure-hunts for a living—”
“Treasure-hunts?” I cock up an eyebrow. “Really?”
A smile leaps into his dark eyes. “A job well done is eighty percent preparation, twenty percent execution. Without careful planning, you set yourself up for failure.”
I lean my forearms on the table. “Never thought I’d be taking advice from a crook.”
His shoulder muscles bunch as he matches my posture, his forearms flopping heavily on the table. “Never thought I’d be sitting in a tavern in the middle of bumblefuck-nowhere across from a fifteen year-old librarian.”
I jerk back. “Fifteen? I’m not fifteen!”
“Sorry. Sixteen.”
<
br /> “I’m seventeen.” But he knows that. He heard Papa mention I was almost eighteen earlier.
Both corners of Slate’s mouth curve up.
“You’re such an ass,” I mutter.
He chuckles.
Nolwenn arrives with my plate of cheese, a basket of sliced baguette, and a thick ceramic mug of tea. Both Slate and I lean back to make room on the table.
Slate’s pushed the sleeves of his sweater up, and I see Nolwenn’s eyes snag on a scar there. It’s puckered and shiny, like a burn.
“Glad to see you’re making friends, Marseille.” Nolwenn’s voice is softer than usual.
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Cadence is like a granddaughter to me, so you be good to her.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pinches a piece of goat cheese from my plate and sticks the white glob inside his mouth as Nolwenn leaves to tend to her other customers.
When he filches a second piece, I drag the plate closer to me. “Hey . . .”
“I might die in a few days.”
“That’s low.”
“But true.”
“Fine. Eat my dinner.”
He smiles, and I think he says something, but I’m too distracted by the person who just walked into the tavern. Adrien unfastens his coat and looks around, his attention snagging on Charlotte, who’s waving him over like one of those lucky Japanese cat figurines.
“What do you see in that guy?” Slate asks.
Cheeks flaming, I shush him. He’s worse than Alma, and Alma is not subtle.
Adrien glances our way. Dear God, please let him not have heard Slate.
“He’s just a close family friend,” I mumble.
Slate splits a piece of baguette, squashes some goat cheese inside, adds a dried fig, then tosses his makeshift sandwich into his mouth. “Uh-huh,” he says around a mouthful, before upending his goblet of chouchen and wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
As I mix some honey into my tea, I wrinkle my nose. “Where did you grow up? A pigsty?”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 12
