“Your coat,ma chérie,” Papa says. “Where is it?”
“The fire got it.” I’m surprisingly not cold, though. Maybe my skin absorbed the fiery-demonic heat and stocked it. Or maybe there’s just so much going on inside me that my body can’t process the outside world.
A wall of pulsing warmth appears at my back. A wall that smells of smoke but also of spice. “De Morel.” A wall that sounds exceedingly incensed. If my father shared fallacious rumors about Slate, I suppose he would have every right to be mad.
But I’m not so quick to dismiss Papa’s report and trust Slate. Just because I want it to be false doesn’t mean it is. Does it matter, though? I’m not planning on getting back with Slate. He might not be a lowlife gigolo, but that doesn’t erase the fact that he hates Brume and wants out.
“Roland. Glad to see you made it out in one piece.”
“Are you?”
I don’t say anything. Just keep my eyes on Papa and my back to Slate.
Under his breath, he adds, “I suppose you are glad. After all, I’m the glue to your precious clover.”
I sigh. “Stop it, Slate.”
I sense him tensing even though our bodies don’t connect anywhere. It’s something in the shifting of the air between us, or the way his breaths palpitating against the back of my head have turned shallower, swifter. How I wish the Bloodstone could double as a lie detector. I’d really love to know who’s speaking the truth.
“Adrien!” Papa calls out.
I look over my shoulder, careful not to cross Slate’s tenebrous scowl. Adrien, still gripping his silver tajine dish, makes his father take a couple steps back and then circles him, giving him a wide berth.
“We need to . . .” Papa tips his head in the direction of our house.
He doesn’t mention the piece or the safe but we all get it. Well, except for Alma who’s staring at the dish as though it contains theguivre’s bleeding heart.
“My father will stay here, deal with the . . . with the wreckage, and the firemen.”
“You okay, son?”
“Non, Rainier.”
Papa’s forehead grooves. “Not that I ever doubted your strength and cunning, Adrien, but it brings me great comfort to see you standing before me.”
“I bet,” Slate mutters under his breath. “Would’ve put a real wrench in Operation Quatrefoil if he’d died.”
Adrien cocks the patch of skin that used to house an eyebrow but now sits hairless on his blackened forehead.
“I like the new do, Prof. Party in the back. Churchy in the front.”
“You’re such an ass, Slate,” Adrien says but smirks, so maybe he’s not mad.
But I am. “You know, being a jerk’s really off-putting.”
I don’t look to see what that does to Slate, but I see what it does to Adrien—makes his gaze, which had looked a little lost and wild, firm up. I don’t know if what Charlotte insinuated is true. I don’t know if Adrien actually harbors feelings for me. She probably said it out of spite.
“Papa has some hair clippers at home. I buzzed his hair once. Turned out fine. I’ll gladly help you out. Unless you want to keep it—”
“No. Definitely not.” Adrien runs his palm over his forehead then higher. “I definitely don’t want to keep it this way. Thank you, Cadence. I appreciate your offer and will take you up on it.”
“Cadence, Alma, I’ll drive you home,” Papa offers, but I shake my head.
“I need to walk, Papa.”
Alma casts a longing glance at the snowmobile seat, but in the end, she hooks her arm through mine. Once the distance has grown between us and the four men, she says, “There are so many screwed-up parts about this evening, but right now, I need to know, do you still have feelings for Professor M, because—”
I pinch her arm and hiss, “Alma, he’s right behind us.”
