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