chin, a smug smile on her lips. Like she just aced an exam.
My saliva thickens. I swallow, and it goes down like tar. “So, it stands to reason the Bloodstone’s cursed like the other pieces?”
She nods before gazing back down and flipping through a few more pages. “But it doesn’t specify how. Guess that’s the surprise for the poor soul who finds it.”
I can’t even appreciate how flushed her cheekbones are, or how wet her lips look. I’m way too busy reeling over the whole Bloodstone-curse bit. I clear my throat. If the stone on my finger is the stone we’re talking about, I’m officially foutu.
“Sometimes I fantasize the tales in this book aren’t just legends. Imagine how amazing it would be if this really was Brume’s history? If the founding families really were guardians and magic bearers? If—”
“If items like the Bloodstone were actually cursed and the wizards at the New Year’s party weren’t just a bunch of LARPers?”
“Larpers?”
“Live-action-role-players.”
A smile—a genuine one—brightens her face. It’s so magnificent it momentarily makes me glad I’m in a library on New Year’s Day in bumblefuck Brume.
Until I remember why.
“If all of it were true, Slate, it would mean that we could restore magic.”
We’re silent a moment; she, contemplating a lone archival box at the top of a shelving unit, daydreaming of possibilities; me, living a nightmare with few options. I need to find out if I’m wearing the Bloodstone or just some knock-off.
I have little doubt about the answer, but I ask anyway. “That Bloodstone’s got to be worth a lot. Where’s it kept? A museum? A safety deposit box? Dracula’s coffin?”
Cadence’s gaze narrows. “Why? Looking to steal it?”
Been there. Done that.
“You don’t care about Brumian history at all, do you, Slate?” She slams the book shut and shakes her head. “You’re just after something valuable. You’re not some middleman in the jewelry business; you’re a main man in the thieving industry.” She’s breathing so hard the thick turtleneck is vibrating. “I thought you wanted to know more about your origins, but”—she gestures to the room a little spastically—“all of this was just a ploy to find out about the stone, wasn’t it? Are you even a Roland, Slate?”
This girl is such a paradox—soft like cotton candy one moment and then hard as a lollipop the next. Between her volatile attitude, my severe lack of sleep, and my throbbing finger, I can’t help it . . . I laugh. Harder than I’ve laughed in a long time. I’m still chuckling after she’s rammed the book back onto its shelf, stashed the gloves, and stalked toward the door, hands splayed on her hips, glower fearsome.
I finally stop and inhale a long breath. “Whew.”
“I’m happy you got such a kick out of my history lesson.”
Even though I’m liking her feistiness, her comment sobers me. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Cadence.”
“I don’t care.”
She does.
“Good.” As I stride by her, I add, “You should never care what people think of you.”
We don’t say a word to each other after we leave the icebox, but her storming out ahead of me isn’t a total loss—I get a better view of her ass on the way up than I did on the way down. The temperature warms with each step. When we’re out of the hatch, the air’s downright tropical.
Cadence huffs, grabbing a few books off a cart and concentrating way too hard on locating their proper places.
I lean against one massive bookshelf and watch her stuff Les Liaisons Dangereuses between two thin books. “Thank you for your help.”
She snorts.
“I mean it. And I may be back with more questions.”
Her gaze cuts over to me. “Why don’t you save them for Professor Mercier’s history class?”
“You mean your boyfriend’s class?”
“My boyfriend? No. Adrien’s not—” Pink dots her cheeks as she fingers the glossy spines in front of her. “The professor isn’t my boyfriend. He’s an old friend.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Ridiculous as it is, her blind worship of the dude grates me. “Why was he here then?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“Doesn’t he have a clock at home?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m sure he does. He came to take pictures of the dihuner to supplement his thesis. Now if you’re done with your cross-examination, I have work to do.”
Cold air snakes around us, and then a girly voice calls out, “Cadence?”
“Over here, Alma!” She shoves past me and rounds the bookshelf.
Pulling my glove back on, I trail her out of the maze.
Cadence’s curly-headed friend from last