Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,151

and the warlord is immobilized. As I advance toward him, the ground stops shaking, but the plaster’s still peeling off the ceiling and drifting down like sheets of snow during an avalanche.

“Not feeling so proud now, Ares, huh?”

Under the lip of his helmet, his eyes rove over me. They don’t glitter like real eyes, because they aren’t real.

He isn’t real.

And yet, when I’m going to plunge this sword inside his chest, I’m going to feel real satisfaction.

He growls, and then in one surprisingly fluid stroke for someone made of clay, he rips his shield off his vambrace and frisbees it toward me.

I dive sideways. My head ricochets off the marble, crackling the edge of my vision. I blink and blink, then heave myself onto all fours, knuckles of the hand clutching the sword smarting from where they met stone. Something wet and warm drips over my lids, then down the sides of my nose.

Crap.

As I force myself to stand, I wipe it away, knowing it’s blood without needing to see the crimson stain.

Doesn’t matter.

It’s just a flesh wound.

The shield lays smashed a body’s breadth from where I fell. The ochre chunks poking out from underneath the kindling Slate had mistaken for wands when I’d given him a tour of this building.

Thinking of Slate steels my rattling spine.

I roll my shoulders back and face the warrior again.

55

Slate

“Stop it, you two. Stop!” The way Gaëlle speaks, with such desperation, makes me think this isn’t the first time she’s tried to get boys to stop acting like boys.

Sweat drips into my eyes. Warmth and pain radiates through my upper body. My sweater’s stained a deep scarlet. I’ve been beating myself bloody trying to move the damn bookcase.

Adrien, too, has open wounds on his hands, and a sheen of sweat across his blistered forehead. He closes his eyes and sags against the massive piece of furniture, looking utterly defeated.

The clock is still ticking. The ground still shaking.

Bastian’s cell phone died fifteen minutes ago, so I have no idea what’s going on out there. All I know is that Rainier was sending the whole freaking fire brigade up to Fifth.

A dull thud comes from the other side of the bookcase.

“Stay away from the doors!” yells a muffled voice. “We’re coming in!”

Relief and impatience flood through me in equal parts. “About fucking time.”

56

Cadence

Ares’s mouth opens around another roar, displaying toothless gums. I guess that if my mother didn’t sculpt it, it doesn’t exist. He reaches to his head and pops off his helmet like a Lego hat, then bowls it at me. I duck.

“You’re getting predictable, Ares.” I scan the rest of his attire. Besides a toga, and one sandal, he’s weaponless.

Before he decides to strip and strangle me with his clay dress, I launch myself at him, sword pointed straight at his chest. He swats the air, the back of his hand catching the blade, sending it and me flying sideways. I go down on one knee, speckling blood all over the pale stone. My joint feels like it’s popped out of its socket, and yet I manage to stand, so it must have stayed put.

I hobble toward the monster, rethinking my strategy of going for his chest. It’s not like he has a heart to pierce. I circle him. There is no way I can reach his head to saw through his neck. He twists around the column, hopping on one foot. The column chips from his weight, but astonishingly, it holds up.

My gaze locks on his remaining foot. Clutching the sword with both hands, I run at the giant and swing the sword into his calf. The impact rattles my wrists and makes me utter a string of obscenities, but I hold on. Hold strong.

The clay fissures and then his ankle snaps off.

Ares’s livid howl reverberates through the cavernous building as he slithers like a snail down the column, spiderweb cracks shooting up his shins when they connect with stone.

He crumbles and crumbles.

I did it.

I defeated the Quatrefoil!

I did it.

Tears stream down my eyes, mix with the blood still gushing from my forehead. I want an unobstructed view of my victory, so I wipe them away, smearing my cheeks, pasting my hair to my throbbing skull.

The leaf glistens and falls with a clank amidst the debris of clay. I step toward it and then lean over and clasp the warm, smooth metal. I want to kiss it. I want to spit on it. I want to stomp it under my boots. I want