“Let’s just say I visited the family. Your family. It was supposed to be a short visit. The fuck ’em and leave ’em kind. Just long enough to swipe a few things and bruise your ego. But, well”—I raise my hand higher, middle finger still extended—“this little baby took a liking to me. And now it won’t let go.”
Rainier is still for a moment, not moving, not breathing, just staring me straight in the eye with a lethal glare. Then he rolls right up to me, his left wheel squeaking against the leather couch, his right wheel banging against the glass table. When he’s close enough that I can see the pores on his nose and the sweat beading around his lips, he shouts, “Youbloody idiot!” Spittle lands on my chin and cheeks. “You goddamn witlessfool!”
And then he’s maneuvering his chair like an angry drunk. Tries to go backward but bangs into the coffee table. Then the couch. Then both. The sleek, black bag hanging from his armrest gets half unsnapped, and the strap catches in the wheel. Rainier’s skin tone veers to an unflattering eggplant as he swears, using expressions that I imagine are Breton because I’ve never heard them.
Astonishingly, I get no joy from watching him wriggle like a worm in weeks-old bread. With Herculean effort, I push myself up from the soft leather sinkhole and make my way around the couch to yank on his chair and roll it back until he’s no longer stuck between furniture.
He doesn’t say anything, just snaps his bag in place, then pulls out a brown leather case. I’m silent as his trembling fingers go to work sliding out a Churchill, cutting it, and lighting it with a fancy torch lighter.
Once he’s puffed a few times, he rolls the cigar between his finger and thumb and bellows, “Jacqueline!”
Is he going to ask his physical therapist—or naughty nurse—to forcibly remove me? Not sure how that would work considering I outweigh her in both muscle mass and shrewdness. Unless she carries a hunting rifle . . . I wouldn’t put it past the people living so close to a magical forest to know their way around firearms.
She comes running so fast, her hair chops the air around her jaw like an axe. “What is it, Monsieur de Morel?”
“I won’t have time to exercise any more today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you certain? I don’t mind waiting.”
“I’m certain.” Even though he’s speaking to her, his glacial eyes are on me.
He takes a long drag of his cigar before puffing out donuts of smoke. Keys jangle, rubber squeaks on marble, and then the click of a door followed by a heavy bang. Minutes tick by in silence as thick as the pearl-gray cashmere throw draped over the back of the couch.
“You’ve ruined everything, Monsieur Roland.” Before I can answer, he puts a hand up. “I know.Ardoin.”
This time I sit on the arm of the couch. I don’t sink down. So my face is level with his when I say, “Besides a rank crypt, what the hell did I ruin?”
“Careful.” Rainier raises his cigar-free hand and brings his thumb and pinky within a millimeter of each other. “I’m this close to snapping.”
I snort. “Planning on running me over with that fancy wheelchair?”
The front door opens again, then slams shut, and I imagine Jacqueline forgot something, but the voice that accompanies the ruckus is not the old woman’s.
“Papa!” The scream is high-pitched and breathy. “Oh, Papa!” Cadence runs into the room, tripping over the corner of the beige rug, before launching herself into De Morel’s arms. Her body trembles beneath her silver puffer.
Papa?
No.
Fucking.
Way.
How did I not catch that?
Her face is sallow, her eyes as scarlet as her lips, and wet tracks shine on her cheeks.
An odd and violent rage flares inside my gut. I’ll fucking wreck whoever put her in this state. As fast as the thought fires across my brain, it snuffs out. What the hell’s wrong with me? She’s De Morel’s spawn. She neither deserves my pity nor my protection.
I owe the De Morelsnothing.
“What is it,maCadence?” Rainier asks.
She peels her hands off from around his neck, then stands and paces between the marble and rug. “I went to see Maman today and—” Cadence’s voice splinters, and she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. “The door was open. And there was wine. And I—I saw . . . I saw her. My God, Papa.” She presses her knuckles against her mouth. “I saw her,” she whispers.
Rainier’s stare turns as sharp as the steak knife Vincent planted into my hand.
A gasp falls from Cadence’s mouth in time with her hand, which knocks against her thigh. “Slate? What are you doing here?”
