I don’t answer.
Her breathing hitches suddenly, and she blurts out, “Youdid it.”
“It?You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on, Mademoiselle de Morel”—I grit out her hateful surname—“because I’ve donemanythings.”
“Last night, you were coming from the cemetery when I bumped into you.” It’s not a question, so I don’t bother answering. “You’re the one who opened Maman’s grave?” Her voice is barely above a whisper now.
I become rigid, as though someone dumped a bucket of concrete over me.
The corpse in the sarcophagus was Cadence’s mother. The corpse I left in plain view.
Oh, fuck.
A tremor passes through Cadence as though she’s seeing her mother’s rotten body again, and fresh tears drip down her cheeks.
My stiff jaw hardens some more as the sweet taste of my vengeance turns unpalatably bitter.
To me, graves are just boxes full of bones. Notpeople. And certainly not people that meant anything to anyone. Last night when I was looting that crypt, the only thing on my mind was my fury at Rainier de Morel. Not once did I stop to consider how my actions would impact anyone else. Apart from Bastian, I don’t give a damn about anyone. Not even myself. Not really. But I thinkwhat if Bastian died? And what if someone defiledhisgrave?
I’d fucking rip their throat out, that’s what.
I’ve felt a lot of things in my life—anger, despair, jealousy, pride. The one emotion I’ve always seemed to lack is shame. It’s the reason I’ve been able to rise so high in my line of work. You can’t succeed at being bad if you’re concerned about being good. You just can’t. You have to put your conscience on hold.
But now . . .
Now, a searing pain radiates through my chest, my temples throb, and my ears ring, becauseI’mthe one responsible for Cadence’s tears.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Monsieur Roland?” Rainier taps a finger on the armrest of his wheelchair, managing to lend that minuscule gesture a massive amount of violence.
My throat works but not to produce any sound, just to swallow the vile taste of what I’ve done.
I feel like dog shit smooshed under someone’s shoe. Like a wad of chewed-up gum stuck to a subway bench. Like the garbage social services always told me I was.
Cadence’s eyes are a stormy blue. “The brooch and all that other stuff in your pockets . . . You stole them from my family’s mausoleum, didn’t you?” She’s breathing like she just ran a marathon, her shoulders heaving. Her slender fingers have curled into her palms, and her small fists bump into her jeans. I don’t know why she’s not pummeling me with them yet. I don’t know why she’s not gouging my cheeks with her nails and spitting into my face.
She sinks onto the sofa opposite where I sit, making it clear she doesn’t want to be anywhere near me. “I hate you.”
Not as much as I fucking hate myself right now.
“I want to hurt you,” she says.
There’s no point in me saying I’m sorry. The situation is way beyond apologies. In fact, saying sorry might just infuriate her further.
So, I do what I do best—I act like a prick. “Get in line, Cadence, because yourmamanbeat you to it.” I raise my hand, not just my middle finger this time.
“Where did you—Is that—” Cadence’s mouth drops open. “Is that . . . what I think it is?” There’s a note of reverence in Cadence’s voice.
“The Bloodstone? We were just about to cover that with your old man.” My eyes glide back to Rainier, focusing on the features blurred by a cloud of cigar smoke.
I’m not sure what snaps Cadence out of her daze, but all her breathy reverence vanishes when she shouts, “You . . . you . . .crook!Take that off right now. It’s part of Brumian history. It doesn’t belong to you!”
“No can do, sweetheart. Your mamangot me good.”
“My mother? What does the ring have to do with Maman?” Her teeth are so clenched her question is growled. “And what do you mean youcan’ttake it off?”
“He means”—Rainier’s voice is calm, chillingly so—“that no matter what he does, the ring won’t budge. Isn’t that right, Monsieur Roland?”
“It’s a little stuck. Don’t happen to have some quality bolt cutters lying around, do you?”
