“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Why the hell do you assume something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re calling me, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since we talked.”
What the actual fuck? “Youtoldme to call.”
“Yeah. And you’re doing what I asked. Hence, something’s wrong.”
Bastian knows me like no one else does. “Just wanted to check up on Spike.”
Unlike last night, the town square isn’t cluttered with witches and wizards. There are people, but the drunken crowds are gone. The villagers must be playing it safe since tomorrow’s a workday.
“Spike’s living it up. Yesterday, they had a sale on cute little succulents, so I got some. Should’ve seen him ring in the new year with all these juicy babes. I think he just might be falling for the Mexican Snowball. She’s got it going on, if you know what I mean.” Bastian can’t keep the grin out of his voice.
Thisis why I want him to have everything when I die. “You’re such a dweeb.”
As I enter the code to my new front door, glowering at the quatrefoil stamped above it, I let him know I probably won’t be back in Marseille before his classes start.
He nearly weeps with joy. “Aw, man, Slate. I’m so glad you’re going to study there. You’ll see, you’ve got the brains for it. You can start a new life. Alegitlife. No more dangerous coups. No more wondering if you’ll live to be twenty-one.”
Yeah.
Right.
“Anyway, Bastian. Stay safe, and don’t do anything I would do.”
A snort comes from his end right before I hang up and toss the phone in the laundry basket, where it slides between the layers of fluffy linens that smell sweet and powdery like the girl who gave them to me. I inhale, and it eases some of the tension along my spine.
I climb up the rickety stairs, unlock door number three, and shoulder it open, which sends the brass number rocking. The odor of dusty wood and mildew hits me full force, as does one of the beams crossing the elf-high ceilings.
“Bordel de merde!” I rub my throbbing forehead and swear at the beam as though it came at me on purpose.
Just what I need . . . a good concussion. Because my day hasn’t been shitty enough.
When the black spots in front of my vision clear, I drop the basket, shrug out of my coat, and make up the small mattress with military precision, then scrub my hands over my face and take a deep breath. I haven’t slept in two days, but before I crash I’ve got a few things to do. First, I call Philippe, my . . .uh. . . lawyer and financial advisor. I tell him my last wishes. He’s a bit perplexed and possibly high, but I’m a good client, so he gets right on it. Next, I slip back into my coat and gloves, wrap my scarf around my neck, and grab last night’s loot.
A sour bubble of guilt expands in my stomach as I descend the steps to First Kelc’h and crunch along the frozen snow toward the De Morel crypt, using the flashlight on my phone to guide my steps. An owl hoots somewhere, and black wings flap so close to my head I duck. My blood pressure soars, thumping like the wings on the bat? Crow? Vampire?
“Creepy-ass town,” I grumble as I reach the crypt.
Everything’s exactly like I left it: the open iron door, the smashed wooden coffins, the bones strewn about like toothpicks, the sarcophagus lid discarded like a forgotten sock, the bottle resting in a pool of wine that resembles dark blood.
What a fucking mess I made.
My boots thud over the packed dirt as I inch over to the sarcophagus. I imagine Cadence coming in here. Imagine her looking down on her mother and seeing nothing but rotting fabric and skin and bones. My lungs squeeze tight.
“I’m sorry. Your daughter should’ve never seen you like this,” I tell Amandine.
She leers at me with her toothy grin and hollow eyes, seemingly pleased I might die because I stole her ring.
I upend my pockets and dump it all back inside the coffin. I don’t want any of this tainted shit, priceless or not. Brume lures you in like a tasty lollipop, and it’s only when you see the blood dripping onto your shoes that you realize you’re licking your own heart speared onto a stick.
I shut that eerie thought down and grab the lid of the sarcophagus. At first, I can barely get it to move. When I do, the damn thing slips, and the edge slams down on my foot. My boots are steel-toed, but it still hurts like a motherfucker.
I howl and hop around the crypt. “Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck!”
Amandine’s grin seems to get wider.
