Of Wicked Blood

More about the book

No rest for the wicked... or the cursed. SLATE I didn’t mean to steal the Bloodstone from the De Morel’s crypt. Scratch that, I did mean to steal it. Until I realized it was a curse-magnet that only comes off if I, along with a jolly trio, successfully defeat four curses. If any of us fail, I’m dead. I’ve never been a glass half-empty sort of person, but my glass looks in dire need of a refill right about now. The only highlight of this wicked treasure hunt: feisty, entitled Cadence de Morel. CADENCE I was raised on tales of magic, in a small town reputed to be the birthplace of French witchcraft. Did I believe all the stories I heard? Absolutely not. I mean, if magic existed, Maman wouldn’t have died, and Papa wouldn’t be stuck in a wheelchair, right? Wrong. The night Slate Ardoin waltzes into my life, wearing a ring he stole from my mother’s grave, I call him a monster. But then I meet real ones, and Slate, well . . . he becomes something else to me. Something frustrating to live with but impossible to live without. Something I will fight for, no matter the cost. *Warning: profuse cursing (and not just the magical kind).