Slate
Not even twenty-four hours have passed since I trampled the treads left behind by heeled boots and shiny loafers in the crusty snow, yet it feels like centuries. Like I’ve aged enough to have traveled through another ice-age and landed in the new dark ages.
Manoir de Morellooks just as dramatic and pretentious in daylight. Last night, thousands of sparkling holiday lights outlined the building. Today, filtered rays from the setting sun polish the old gray stones, making them glow a reddish-umber. The place looks like it’s lit by hellfire, and here I am, the asinine soul walking directly into it.
I reach the massive blue door adorned by a pattern of metal grommets forming a quatrefoil—that symbol is starting to feel as ominous as blood smeared on doors to prevent the wrath of God. Ever since I set foot in this damn town, nothing has gone according to plan. From my teeny room to my conversation with Rainier de Morel to the fucking ring. Hell, even my flirtation with Cadence hasn’t been ideal. If we were in Marseille, we’d already have shared a five-course dinner, a bottle of fancy champagne, and most probably, body fluids. Instead I got freakish stories of warlocks and honed death stares.
The bell dings, echoing inside the manor.
A heavy-set middle-aged woman in navy scrubs opens the door. Her lipstick is knock-out red, and her dark hair is cut into one of those severe bobs that only movie stars and dominatrix wear. I’m pretty sure she’s not a movie star.
“Can I help you?” The disdain in her voice is evident.
Sure, my hair’s mussed and the bags under my eyes are as pronounced as the protuberance on my finger, but my clothes cost way more than the little diamond comet dangling in the crook of her flabby neck. “I’m here to see Rainier de Morel.”
She narrows her brown eyes at me, intensifying the crow’s feet bracketing them. “Is he expecting you?”
“Jacqueline?” Rainier’s voice calls from somewhere behind her. “Who is it?”
“Slate Ardoin,” I say.
Jacqueline repeats it even though Rainier is many things, but not hard of hearing.
A satisfied chuckle. And then, “Let him in.”
She frowns and calls over her shoulder, “But your exercises—”
“We’ll finish them later. Let him in.”
She purses her lips and ticks her head to the side.
We travel in the opposite direction of the grand room, through an open set of double doors, and into a humongous living room with black marble floors. Carbon-gray walls are sandwiched between white baseboards and crown moldings. There’s a peach granite fireplace wide enough to roast a horse on a spit, and angular furniture in various shades of eggshell. Everything’s shiny and spotless.
Guess no one snacks on madeleines in here . . .
Rainier sits in his wheelchair near the bay window, a stretchy green physical therapy band in his hands. Jacqueline relieves him of it before hustling out of the room, forgoing an offer of coffee orapéritif.
I round a glass coffee table as big as my bed back in Marseille and sink into the soft leather sectional. And keep sinking until the couch all but gulps me up. I shift, but it doesn’t help. It’s like a weird chapter inAlice in Wonderland—I’m feeling smaller and smaller with each movement I make.
This couch isn’t made for relaxing; it’s made for intimidating.
Damn. De Morel is good.
Now, Rainier rolls himself a little closer. Despite whatever exercise he was just doing, he’s perfectly put together—from the ironed crease of his khakis to the smooth fibers of his gray cashmere sweater to each gelled hair on his head.
He lifts the corners of his mouth up into what I suspect is supposed to resemble a smile, except there’s zero warmth to it. “How are you getting on here in Brume?”
“So well I can’t bring myself to leave. Insane, huh?”
He narrows his navy eyes. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” He makes the word pleasure sound like a dirty smudge.
I recognize this for what it is: a typical dick-swinging contest, with Rainier and I taking our places, readying our stance.
I swing first.
Pulling the glove off my right hand, I reveal the scarlet stone on my middle finger by flipping him off with a flourish. I’m waiting to feel a rush, but I’m way too pissed off and agitated for any other sentiment. This ring has sapped me of even the most basic pleasures.
Rainier’s skin goes from snooty aristocratic alabaster to zombie gray to stomach-flu green, and his fingers grip the armrests of his wheelchair. “How did you get that?”
