“The same thing you do to all the girls you keep company.”
“You mean, extort them after repeatedly satisfying them sexually?”
His blue gaze turns positively lethal.
“I don’t know where you picked up that information about me, but it’s a lie. I don’t screw over the women Iscrew.”
“You’re denying it?”
“Of course I’m denying it.” My knuckles crack, sending little bolts of fire down the tendons. “I’m no saint, but I’m not some amoral gigolo. Have I ever let a woman buy me a meal or a gala ticket? Yeah. Have I ever helped a woman out of a bad marriage against material compensation? Guilty. But that doesn’t make me the low-life asshole you depicted me as to Cadence.” Because I’m feeling spiteful and petty, I add, “It’s fresh, coming from you. A man who took his wife’s last name and inherited all her assets. Who were you before becoming Monsieur de Morel, Rainier?”
If looks could kill, I wouldn’t just be dead; I’d be buried six feet under solid concrete and a high-rise.
The door swings open, disturbing the coalescing tension.
“Am I interrupting?” Bastian asks.
I’m not sure whether he was eavesdropping or whether he sensed my morning meetup with De Morel wouldn’t be pretty, but whatever his reasons for barging in, I’m grateful he’s come. Then again, Bastian’s the type of guy who shows up and sticks around, for better or worse.
De Morel growls, “yes” at the same time I answer, “no.”
When Bastian has shuffled in beside me, I nod to the folder. “My financial records. Do your magic.”
I’m expecting De Morel to clap his hand over the file, or start shredding the papers, but he keeps his fists on his armrests.
Bastian grabs the file, then begins leafing through it. As he squints at the legalese, I study the smudged upside-down triangles, statue-like sketches of people, and weird bugs littering the framed scroll above the filing cabinets. I’m so fucking angry that the small lines of illegible Breton blur, and a quatrefoil appears. Not by magic or anything, but the spaces in the text are arranged in a way that they align into four curved leaves.
I step in closer. “What’s this?” When a minute passes and De Morel still hasn’t answered, I hook a glance over my shoulder.
His skin’s returned to its normal pasty shade of pale, but the hatred in his eyes burns darker than ever. “TheKelouenn, also known as the Scroll.”
“Shouldn’t it be stocked in that state-of-the-art archival room you got up in the Temple?”
“Cadence showed you the archival room?”
“She did.”
Unhappiness wafts off him as potent as his fancy vetiver cologne.
“So what does this scroll say?”
“It explains how to assemble the Quatrefoil.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” I whirl around. “And you didn’t think to show us this blueprint before we faced the curses?”
“Adrien, Gaëlle, and Cadence all know what’s on theKelouenn. And technically, so do you. I explained what we’ve managed to gather from the translation the night you showed up wearing the ring.”
“Mind if I take a look at the translation?”
“Why? Do you think I’m lying?”
I cross my arms. “No. Just curious.”
“Trust isn’t your forte, Monsieur Roland.”
“Because you’ve given me so many reasons to trust you, De Morel?”
His mouth puckers as though he’s chomped on a sour cherry. “The translation’s in the library. In the archival room.”
