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

  Contents

  GLOSSARY

  THE DIHUNER

  1. Slate

  2. Cadence

  3. Slate

  4. Cadence

  5. Slate

  6. Cadence

  7. Slate

  8. Cadence

  9. Slate

  10. Cadence

  11. Slate

  12. Cadence

  13. Slate

  14. Cadence

  15. Slate

  16. Cadence

  17. Slate

  18. Cadence

  19. Slate

  20. Cadence

  21. Slate

  22. Cadence

  23. Slate

  24. Cadence

  25. Slate

  26. Cadence

  27. Slate

  28. Cadence

  29. Slate

  30. Cadence

  31. Slate

  32. Cadence

  33. Slate

  34. Cadence

  35. Slate

  36. Cadence

  37. Slate

  38. Cadence

  39. Slate

  40. Cadence

  41. Slate

  42. Cadence

  43. Slate

  44. Cadence

  45. Slate

  46. Cadence

  47. Slate

  48. Cadence

  49. Slate

  50. Cadence

  51. Slate

  52. Cadence

  53. Slate

  54. Cadence

  55. Slate

  56. Cadence

  57. Slate

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  THE MAKING OF . . .

  OTHER WORKS BY THESE AUTHORS

  Be kind. Be wise. Or be cursed.

  GLOSSARY

  FRENCH

  allez-y – go on ahead

  apéritif – a drink

  berceau – cradle

  biensûr – of course

  bienvenue – welcome

  bise – customary French greeting consisting of two kisses, one on each cheek

  bon appétit – enjoy your meal

  bonsoir – good evening / goodnight

  bouchon en bois – wooden cork

  bordel de merde – goddammit

  chaton – kitten

  chérie – darling

  chez moi – my place

  chouchen – mead (Brittany specialty)

  dieu merci – thank god

  dieu sait pourquoi – God only knows why

  dragon de merde – fucking dragon

  enfoiré – bastard

  fait chier – damn it

  foutu – fucked

  galette – a savory crepe

  gare – train station

  guivre – wyvern

  horloger – watchmaker

  incroyable – incredible

  j’en ai rien à branler – I don’t give a shit

  Joyeux Noël – Merry Christmas

  le mal – evil

  magie noire – dark magic

  manoir – manor

  merci – thank you

  Monsieur Le Maire – Mister Mayor

  mon dieu – my god

  oui – yes

  mon amour – my love

  non – no

  pardon – sorry

  peste - pestilence

  pouvoir – power

  Puit Fleuri – Flowered Well

  putain – fuck

  putain de merde – fucking hell

  quartefeuille – quatrefoil

  salidou – salted caramel (Breton specialty)

  salut – hey

  ta gueule – shut up

  tabac – convenience store

  voilà – there you have it

  (OUR) BRETON

  arzoù-kaer – beaux-arts

  diaoul – demon

  diwallers – guardians

  erenez e v’am – bind to me

  kelc’h – circle

  kelouenn – the scroll

  groac’h – shapeshifting water sprite

  Istor Breou – History of Magic

  dihuner – clock

  THE DIHUNER

  The Astronomical Clock

  1

  Slate

  I step out of the private elevator to find the door to my newly refurbished loft wide open.

  I pat down my tuxedo for something I can use as a weapon, but all I come up with is a strand of black Tahitian pearls, six thousand euros in cash, and a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. The Opéra de Marseille is a profitable place to pick pockets. Swearing under my breath, I pull an umbrella from the stand near the door and lunge into the apartment.

  “Well if it isn’t Mr. Mary Poppins, my favorite thug.” Bastian sits on the leather couch devouring my stash of madeleines.

  I toss the umbrella on the kitchen counter, then nudge his sneakers off my expensive coffee table. “Doors are equipped with this magical thing called a latch, little brother. Use it.”

  He snorts. “Heard your car, so I knew you were on your way up. The engine on that thing is loud. I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t complained.”

  Loud and beautiful. “I’d love to see them try.”

  Bastian and I met in my third foster home, seven years ago. He was a skinny, bookish almost-eleven-year-old, with skin a shade darker than mine and a soul ten times brighter. I was thirteen and two full heads taller. I kept to myself and so did he. But then our foster parents took in two meathead strays with only a scattering of braincells between them. They got their kicks from slamming Bastian’s head inside his books, cackling when they bloodied the pages. The day I caught them at it, I broke their noses. For the next year, anytime they gave Bastian a hard time, I broke other body parts. Toes. Fingers. An arm. Finally, I got tossed out of the family. I took Bastian with me to the next homey hellhole, having developed a soft spot for the kid.

  The only thing I might love more than larceny is that boy. And madeleines.

  “I see you’ve come into some cash since I last visited.” Bastian gestures to the custom fireplace that runs along the bottom of the living room wall, then to the granite kitchen countertop, the le Corbusier stools, and the Noguchi glass and maple coffee table he had his dirty sneakers on only a moment ago.

  Some is an understatement.

  I smile as I appraise all the material beauty that is now mine. “Sold a lost Renoir.”

  “Lost or stolen?”

  “It was lost among a clutter of other masterpieces. Total shame.” I snatch the bag of supermarket madeleines from him.

  He can eat anything else in the place, but not these. These are mine.

  As I bite into one, I spy a thick, creamy envelope on the couch beside him. “What’s that?” I ask, my mouth full. “Christmas isn’t until tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, not from me. My gift to you is my visit.” He holds the letter out—it’s big and square and made of quality vellum. “It was under your door. Found it when I came in.”

  “Huh.”

  His thick eyebrows gather over the black plastic frame of his glasses. “It says Monsieur Rémy Roland. New underground persona?”

  I take the envelope from his hands and swallow a dry clump of madeleine. Monsieur Rémy Roland a.k.a. Slate Ardoin is written in a deep-blue ink by an elaborate hand. “What the fuck?”

  Bastian hums the Mission Impossible theme. “Rémy Roland a.k.a. Slate Ardoin, your mission, should you choose t
o accept it—”

  My murderous glare gives him pause.

  “Wait,” Bastian’s voice breaks. “Is Roland your . . . birth name?”

  Ardoin is the family name given to me by the system. My first name was also a gift from the system, although, as far as names go, Slate isn’t exactly the easiest on a francophone tongue. Whoever was handing out monikers that day must’ve smoked one too many blunts.

  Bastian knows his birth family’s past—Algerian immigrants who came upon life-crushing hard times and thought he’d be better off with someone else. Me, I’m a goddamn ghost. According to social services, I came from nowhere.

  I read the fancy script again, then flip the envelope, run my thumb over a navy wax seal bearing an ornamental capital M laced through with a small, curly d. Pretentious. I break the flap and yank out a bundle of papers. A key drops out and lands on the tabletop with an alarming clink. Thankfully, the glass doesn’t chip.

  As Bastian picks up the key, I read the cover sheet, a letter written in the same scrolling hand that penned the address.

  Monsieur Roland,

  My name is Professor Rainier de Morel. I am Acting Dean at L’Université de Brume. Founded in 1350 by four local families, the university is rich in history and culture...

  Blah, blah, blah. I skim until my gaze snags on a sentence that makes my blood turn to ice.

  As a descendant of one of the founding families, you are entitled to a full scholarship, room and board included. In the packet of materials I’ve given you, you’ll find your original birth certificate. Before you became Slate Ardoin, you were born a Roland.

  Nothing about me is soft, not my body, not my personality, yet my knees suddenly turn to jelly as I flop down onto the couch next to Bastian.

  “What?” Bastian snatches the letter from my hands, his eyes going wide behind his rectangular lenses.

  I flick through the pages I’m clutching, and . . . putain de merde.

  There it is.

  My birth certificate.

  Rémy Roland. My birthday: November 18, not October 9, like a social worker told me. My parents’ names: Eugenia and Oscar Roland.

  It’s just a document, one that shouldn’t have my heart pounding so hard, but my pulse lances against my skin. I pass the certificate over to Bastian.

  He whistles and shakes his head. “You think it’s real? If it is, then you’re going to have to change your ID.”

  “I’m not changing anything,” I growl. “My name’s Ardoin.” Why would I associate myself with people who tossed me out like day-old trash?

  “But you will take the scholarship, right? I mean, I’ve heard about that college. It’s prestigious. Like, on equal ground with the Sorbonne.”

  “I don’t even have my damn baccalaureate, Bastian.”

  While I dropped out after ninth grade, Bastian aced his final exams and got into college a year early. The boy could be anything. A rocket scientist. A lawyer. A neurosurgeon. Instead, he’s studying to be a social worker to help kids like us in the system. Where my heart has withered and dulled, his has stayed shiny and pure.

  “This de Morel dude doesn’t seem to care about diplomas. You get in on your family name alone.”

  “My family name is Ardoin.”

  “Slate, come on . . . Or should I call you Rémy?”

  I growl at him, and Bastian holds up his palms. I snatch the letter back and continue reading:

  I’ve been waiting for the right moment to call you back to your birthplace and share some of your family’s history, since your parents are no longer here to tell you themselves. That time is now. It is vital that you come to Brume, and soon. Please do not attempt to telephone me. I will only answer questions in person.

  A student dorm has been made available to you, and you can find me on campus. Classes start on the 2nd of January. In their will, your parents left you money in an account at the university bank. You will be able to use it for any extracurricular expenses you might have.

  I cannot tell you how pleased I am to welcome you...

  I wasn’t tossed out of the nest.

  My nest was pulverized.

  My parents are dead.

  And this de Morel prick knew the entire time.

  I stand and tear the letter.

  “What the hell?” Bastian collects the pieces like they’re bits of a five hundred-euro bill.

  Every inch of me boils with rage. “What do you mean, what the hell? This professor knew about me! He knew I had a history. Money. He knew my name. And he only contacted me now? Where was he and this money when I fought off pigeons to eat stale loaves out of the bakery’s dumpster? Where was he when I got my face smashed in and went two years without front teeth! Where was he when the two of us were sleeping in that abandoned factory with the damn rats just to have a roof over our heads?”

  Bastian looks at the shreds of paper in his hands. “Yeah, money would’ve been nice.”

  But it’s not even the money that’s making me see red. Not really. It’s this stupid feeling of relief unwinding the familiar knot in my gut. I’ve always believed no one wanted me. That maybe I can’t be loved. But my parents didn’t abandon me; they died.

  My relief turns to bitterness, though. Finding out that this man knew this and never told anyone—not even social services—infuriates me even more than his keeping my money. “Where does this enfoiré get off thinking he can waltz into my life after all this time and expect me to be grateful? And how does he even know where I live?”

  There’s no way I’m going to some snooty school in some cold, assbackwards town all the way up in Brittany. I’ve been part of the shameful dregs of society for far too long to sit in a classroom and listen to philosophical vomit.

  Bastian gets up and strides to the kitchen counter. He lays the key on top and pulls open a drawer, rifling through it until he finds a roll of scotch tape. “I know you don’t think you’re worth a different kind of life—”

  “I happen to love my life. Look at this place.” I gesture to the expansive loft and its unobstructed sea view. “Besides, I’m damn good at what I do.”

  Bastian begins piecing the letter back together. “Yeah, you are good at it. And this place is amazing. But deep down, I don’t believe it’s what you really want. Also, you live day to day, never sure how much you have in your pockets. And do I have to mention that you’re in a dangerous business? One slip-up and you’re done.”

  I blow air out one corner of my mouth.

  “Here’s your chance to do something else. Something other than simply survive. Who knows, you might even be happy.”

  “Happy?” I scoff. “I don’t do happy. Besides, I’m not into the college scene. It’s not me.”

  “Except . . .”

  I stare out the bay windows at the harbor. At night, the Mediterranean looks like a black tongue licking the beach. I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I turn. “Except what?”

  “Except maybe it is you. You’ve never even had the slightest inkling of your origins. What if you descend from a long line of joyful brainiacs? I mean, your ancestors founded a college. You could be royalty in Brume. Who knows? Even if you don’t attend classes, go there to scratch that itch you’ve always had.”

  He’s talking about the itch of being someone.

  Bastian sighs and tips his head to the side, mocking me. “Or, you could go to get revenge. Con this guy out of his cash. Sleep with his wife. Seduce his youngest daughter. Loot his home. Would that make you happy?”

  I ignore Bastian’s sarcastic tone and smile. “Happy is overstating it. But revenge would be . . . pleasing.”

  He rolls his eyes and goes back to his papery puzzle.

  I could make a short trip, learn about my family from this Rainier guy, empty my trust fund.

  Bastian hands me the patched letter and the key. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No way, little bro.” If he comes with me, he’ll nag me to sign up for classes. He’ll want to go sightseeing. Tu
rn my quick in-and-out into a holiday.

  “But—”

  “Look, I’ll still be here for a week. Annoy me all you want until then. On the 31st, I’ll take off for Brittany—without you—because someone needs to stay behind to care for Spike.” Spike’s my cactus, a rare Eve’s Needle that’s over three feet tall and currently sitting in the middle of my cavernous living room.

  “Fine. As long as you’re going. ’Cause this trip, Slate . . . I have a feeling it’ll change your entire life.”

  A shiver slinks down my spine. “Let’s fucking hope not.”

  2

  Cadence

  “Papa, we’re going to be late. Are you almost ready?” I skim the sleek curls I created using the flat iron Alma gifted me last Christmas and which I only just removed from the packaging.

  To my best friend’s despair, I’m a big fan of minimal maintenance when it comes to my straightish brown hair. I have to admit, though, as I study my reflection in the glass protecting the Gauguin sketch, I like the effect.

  “Sorry, I was finalizing some details for the New Year’s party.” The tires of Papa’s wheelchair squeak against the white marble floor just as Alma arrives.