I think of bumming Cadence’s guestroom again, but leaving Bastian alone in an evil town doesn’t sit right with me. I hook my towel around my neck so that Bastian can’t spot my bandage, then grab my bottle of soap and the crinkling paper bag filled with bandages, alcohol swabs, and antibacterial ointment.
“Where’d you get that ugly thing?”
My gaze flicks to the hand I have curled around the doorknob and the big red stone blinking like a snake eye. “Found it in a vintage shop.”
Bastian studies it, then the acres of bruises on my body. “That vintage shop has a nice upper-cut.”
I smirk.
“Have they tacked up WANTED posters with your face on them yet?”
I chuckle. “Nope.” I pop the word out. “They’d have to snap a picture of me in the act, and you know me: stealth-personified.”
“Slate . . .”
Sensing a sermon, I say, “I promise, I’m not in any trouble.” At least, not the sort he’s thinking of. I hate lying to him, but I need to keep him safe. If that means dishonesty, then so be it. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back soon.”
30
Cadence
When we reachLa Taverne, Alma’s standing out front in a pair of thigh-high boots, sheer black tights, and a tiny denim skirt that makes my slim black jeans, black V-neck cami, and duster-length cardigan look homely. At least Slate doesn’t give her the long once-over he gave me when he picked me up.
During the short walk over to the town square, he’s barely taken his eyes off mine. Probably because I did my hair again and applied some mascara and eyeliner.
Obviously, Alma notices. “Whoa. Is that makeup I see?”
I’m half-tempted to scrub it off.
“Dude, your eyes,” she says, before turning to the boys. “Hey, Slate.” She tilts her head to the side to get a glimpse of Bastian, who’s presently studying the well like a kid in a candy store, neck swiveling every which way and eyes as large as gumballs.
Slate trails Alma’s gaze over to Bastian, and his body locks up. I wrap my hand around his arm, stealing his attention off the arena in which he fought, and mouth:She’s gone.
His Adam’s apple jostles.
When Bastian, who’s trotting up to us, notices Alma, he pauses midstep and then straightens his glasses—twice. She greets him with the customarybise. In her heels, she’s only half-a-head shorter than gangly Bastian.
Gangly,starstruckBastian.
“I heard you’re Slate’s brother.” She looks between the two boys, probably seeking a resemblance. She won’t find one. Not only is Bastian’s complexion several shades darker, but they also share zero similar features. She must decide not to pry, because she goes with, “I wantallthe stories. The more embarrassing, the better.”
“No. No stories,” Slate says, opening the door for everyone.
As I sidestep him, his clean, woodsy scent drifts into me, making me inhale so deeply I think he notices, even though no smug comment comes out of his mouth. Then again, his mouth is still tensed and his gaze keeps skipping to the well. I chew on my lip, wishing there was a way to hide it from his sight.
Alma pulls open the heavy curtain, dispersing the aroma of browning butter, golden onions, and fried garlic. Lots and lots of garlic. We Bretons love our garlic. Almost as much as we love our French tunes. Over the din of voices spills a vintage song from the folksy rock bandLouise Attaque.
Nolwenn, who’s bustling by with a heavy clay pot, nods to the upstairs area. “Saved you the corner table beside the stairs.”
“Thanks, Nolwenn.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t do much to smooth out the myriad of little lines crosshatching her face. She’s worried and tired. I don’t think she should be working, but the last time I mentioned her taking a break, she said that idleness is the bane of the French, and that she’ll rest when her bones are laid to rest in her family’s crypt. Makes me think that one day, we should move Matthias’s bones off Slate’s property and into that crypt.
I shake my head, dispelling thoughts of cemeteries and death. I want to celebrate life tonight.
Living.
Surviving.
