Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,35

moment.”

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