“I don’t fucking care!” I hang up and start scrolling through past calls to find Rainier’s number. Vaguely, I hear Gaëlle say my name, but I focus on the phone. My hand is shaking so hard I accidentally call my lawyer. Then Bastian’s number again.
I thought I was scared when I was fourteen and Vincent came at me with a knife. I thought I was scared when they hauled me into juvie and my cellmate tried to chew my fucking ear off. I thought I was scared when thatgroac’hhad me in her talons. I thought I was scared when I let go of little Emilie’s hand.
“Slate?” All of a sudden, Adrien’s right beside me. He rips the phone from my hands. “What’s going on?”
“Call Rainier.” I shove the bookcase keeping me away from Cadence with every ounce of strength I have. It doesn’t even slide an inch.
“What do I tell him?”
I shoulder the solid oak again, drive my boots into the tiles, push.
“Slate? What do I tell Rainier?”
All those times I thought I was scared? They were nothing. Nothing compared to the terror that grips me now.
My eyes meet Adrien’s. His face blurs as I say, “Bastian’s knocked out and Cadence is fighting for her piece . . . alone.”
52
Cadence
Ifall into a crouch, and the sword whispers above my head. It hits the door with a deafening thwack. And then pellets of something—splintered wood?—rain down on me. Before one can knock me out, I lurch away, ducking under Ares’s still raised arm.
My opponent howls his discontentment as I scramble upright and whirl around, backing away without taking my eyes off him. He turns, and though there is little light, I notice the blade of his sword is gone. What bombarded me wasn’t bits of wood but fragments of dry clay.
The man can crumble. This is how I defeat him! The realization injects vigor and hope where there was only fear and despair.
He takes a step in my direction, then another. I pray the others are on their way even though I need to fight like they aren’t coming. Make my own luck, as Slate told me the first night we met.
Would Ares charge me into another wall? Maybe. But would my organs survive being body-checked by a man made of hardened clay? Probably not.
No. I really do need a weapon. For a fleeting moment, as I prance backward, my gaze zooms onto the temple. The doors are still sealed shut, and although the crescent moon spits out the faintest trickle of light, I can see the outline of a body hunched over another.
My bones chafe against one another as fear wads up in my throat. Why aren’t they out? Why are the doors closed? If anything happened to them . . . I wheeze in a breath, tears stinging.
I can’t go there. I need to focus.
So I do.
On the growling warlord advancing toward me.
53
Slate
Please, God. Please.
I’ll do anything.
Fucking anything.
Stop thieving.
Stop swearing.
Give up drinking and madeleines.
Give up everything I own.
