The stench from that smoke is worse than brimstone. Worse than barbequed dragon. Worse than death. The bowl and lid shudder, and then something clinks inside. Adrien reaches down and removes the lid.
The Quatrefoil leaf glistens like pirate booty.
Three down.
One to go.
38
Cadence
Drained. Hot. Cold. Dirty. Relieved.
I am swarmed by all of these feelings, and not one after the other, but all at once. They twist through me like a tornado, violent and exacting, harshening the beats of my heart.
We did it!
Or rather Adrien did it, and Slate and I managed to survive to see another sunrise. We faced aguivre. A real-life, fire-breathing beast. My new normal would drive a weaker girl to complete insanity. I’m halfway there myself.
To think the remaining piece of the Quatrefoil is mine to defeat. I shudder harder.
When the adrenaline fades, which happens as fast as a blown-out wick, my teeth chatter and a full-body shiver courses through me.
I cross my arms to ward off the chill and calm the tremors, but it does zilch.
“Did theguivre. . .?” Adrien stands, clutching his silver dish. “Did it touch you, Cadence?” His voice sounds like his cashmere vest—soft and half-charred.
I suck in a breath that momentarily calms my trembling and dart a glance at my legs. “I-I don’t think so.” Even though I’m covered in soot, and there are a dozen runs in my stockings, there are no visible burn marks. I untie my arms and dance my hands over the back of my dress, hoping not to feel any holes. Although, would the beast’s fire have cursed us? As long as we didn’t rub up against his scales, we should be fine . . .
Right?
“Slate?” Adrien asks.
I whip my attention toward the boy who protected my body but injured my heart, hoping to see him shake his head . . .needingto see him shake his head. I want him gone from my life and Brume but not from this world.
His gaze wanders off the Quatrefoil leaf at the bottom of Adrien’s bowl and perches on my face. “Hope not,” he says in that cool, careless tone of his.
He might try to act all stoic but he’s not made of stone. Only of sin. Hestealsfrom innocents.
Correction.
He fornicatesthensteals.
I’m still not sure what I find more revolting: luring someone in before backstabbing them, or the larcenous act in and of itself.
Or the fact that I fell for him.
Banging on Adrien’s door has my chest tightening. In the havoc of the moment, I’d forgotten there was a town beyond the walls of this house. A town that must’ve been privy to the nonsensical inferno.
Adrien blanches behind the veneer of blackened dust that coats his nose, cheeks, and jaw. His forehead is red and peppered with clear blisters, and the hair atop his head has been singed down to the roots. When he turns toward the door, his remaining blond locks flutter, dusty, chaotic but still there.
“Coming!” He hinges at the waist and pinches the lid off the floor, then replaces it on top of the bowl, sealing in the cursed artifact.
Slate steps in closer to me, the heat from his body rivaling the one coming off the carbonized entrails of the gutted house.
“You think they heard? You think they know?” I keep my voice extra low. Even though I dislike him on a personal level, we’re still partners, so I attempt professionalism by discussing the situation.
“They didn’t hear thegroac’h. Or see the ghost. Maybe they didn’t hear or see the dragon, either.”
