“And the De Morel dude? You find him yet?”
“Yep. Just need to get him alone.”
After Bastian makes me promise to call him, we hang up. Only eighteen, and he’s already such a mommy.
I peer into the now-dancing crowd for Rainier de Morel, aka “the one in the wheelchair,” as Coat-check Girl graciously informed me. I could’ve guessed without the tip, though. Pretentious entitled asshole might as well be tattooed on his smug forehead.
He’s parked beside the bay window, an aging purple fairy fawning all over him.
Leaving behind the Gauguin, for now, I round a couple who are grinding to an instrumental rendition of the Monster Mash. Or maybe that’s the song I’ve cued up in my head to fit this strange-ass crowd, and the orchestra’s playing something else entirely. When I step in front of Rainier, the old fairy squawks and removes her paws from the arms of his wheelchair. He looks up, relief etched across his blue eyes and barely-lined face, until he sees who just saved him from getting mauled by a woman too old to be wearing a tutu. His smile falters for a second, then slides back into place.
“Monsieur de Morel.” I keep my voice even despite the fact that I want to punch the taunting cheer from his face. “Do you know who I am?”
He studies me a moment before nodding. “I believe I do.” Without taking his eyes off me, he says, “Sylvie, will you excuse us, please?”
She frowns but recedes into the crowd like a smudge of grape juice.
“You must be Rémy Roland.” He holds out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.
I cross my arms and ignore the gesture. “Actually, it’s Slate Ardoin.”
“Ah. Slate.” His eyes spark in amusement. “Well, regardless of what you call yourself, you’re a Roland.”
“How the fuck,” I growl, “do you know who I am when I never knew?” My emphasis on the word fuck gets partygoers glancing our way in spite of my low tone.
One of his eyes twitches. “Let’s talk somewhere private, shall we?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, my voice mocking, “let’s.”
He spins his chair around and leads me through the monstrous living room—or maybe it’s an actual ballroom . . . wouldn’t put it past this man to have a ballroom in his house. With me hot on his wheels, he maneuvers his chair into the foyer, past the split staircase, past the coat-check ladies, and into a glass elevator adorned with the same intertwined M and small d as his wax seal. Inside, he reaches over to press 1, and then we’re gliding upward at the speed of a dozing slug.
Just like downstairs, the first floor looks like a florist shop puked up Christmas decorations. Bastian would love it. Although, dieu sait pourquoi, the kid actually has a preference for light-up plastic reindeer and waving Santas.
I follow Rainier into what must be his study. I can’t get over how incongruous this house is. From the outside, the manor resembles a medieval castle; from the inside, it looks like some modern catalogue spread. The brushed cement walls are lined with sleek wooden shelves holding up row upon row of books illuminated by recessed lighting. No rug covers the veined marble floor that’s polished to a reflective shine. Rainier’s desk is specially made to be at his height. It’s immaculate, the only items on the pristine kidney-shaped glass are a framed photo I can’t see the front of, a pricey Baccarat paperweight, and crystal ashtray in the shape of a four-leaf clover. What is it with this town and shamrocks?
Rainier parks behind the desk, then tents his fingers together. He’s got two distinguished streaks of gray at his temples that shine silver in the dimmed glow of the spotlights entrenched in the smooth, white ceiling. “I’m so pleased you’ve come to study with us.”
“Cut the bullshit, De Morel. How the hell do you know who I am, and how did you find me?”
He taps his index fingers to his lips. “I’m not sure how much research you’ve done on your family tree since my letter, but since you’re here, let me enlighten you. The Roland name goes all the way back to the early centuries when the wilds of Brume went by the name Brocéliande. You might have heard about the forest in Arthurian tales. Merlin and Viviene—”
“I don’t give two shits about Merlin.”
“Of course you don’t.” He says it like it’s a major disappointment and exhales before continuing. “Anyway, your parents were a part of the ancient Roland bloodline. They were respected in this town. I knew them well. But when they died, you . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. We couldn’t find you.”
“Toddlers are pocket-sized, but come on . . .” I wait half a beat for him to clarify. When he doesn’t, I glare harder. “Are you saying I wandered away and into the system? That I toddled my way to social services?”
“No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “Your parents lost their lives in a fire. You were there as well. To be completely honest, I thought you’d perished along with them.”
I rub the patch of puckered skin that resembles dripping wax along the inside of my left arm. I can’t remember ever not having it. Did I get it here? In Brume? My childhood was so violent that it never occurred to me that I got it by accident. I always thought it was one of my foster parents who’d tried to use me as kindling.
“Doesn’t Brume have this thing called forensics? Didn’t they look for my bones? Or teeth? Or whatever the hell it is those people look for . . .”
“I’ll admit, the fire and aftermath were quite a mess.” He looks to the side. A tell that he’s lying, but about what? The fire?
“Okay, then how did I get to Paris?” I spent my first ten years in the capital before being kicked farther south.
“This village has a long history, Monsieur Roland—”
“Ardoin.”
He lets out a long breath. “Monsieur Ardoin, this village has a troubled past. Feuds between families. Secrets of betrayal and death. Someone probably thought you’d be safer away from it and kidnapped you.” He finally looks back at me. “I only found out that you were alive a few years ago.” Then he adds as if it’s a good thing: “Since then, I’ve had my people track you. You seemed safe, so I didn’t intervene.”
“A few years ago.” I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what safe means to you, but at no point was I safe. I had foster parents break my bones, other kids try to kill me. I scrounged like a rat most of my life.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “But here you are, alive and well. Safe.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says slowly. “Didn’t you ever wonder about Vincent?”
Vincent was my fourth foster father. The one who planted that steak knife in the fleshy part of my hand the night I told him not to involve Bastian in his drug runs. The old man used to rough me up, but the knife was something else. A week after the incident, the day I’d planned on running away with Bastian, Vincent didn’t come home. Just up and vanished.
I narrow my eyes. “You made him disappear?” He doesn’t answer me, which I suppose is answer enough. “Why didn’t you ever help in any other way? Why didn’t you reach out? Send a check? Something? Anything?”