Even though I’m not especially hungry, I have two hours to kill before my afternoon classes, and Alma’s still in hers, so I decide to head down the hill to Gaëlle’s shop for her magical soup and scones—they aren’t spelled or anything . . . at least, not yet. Plus, I need answers as to whether she is seeing Papa. I didn’t ask him yesterday, and this morning, he was already with Jacqueline by the time I woke up, and it didn’t feel right bringing it up in front of his physical therapist. I could, of course, wait until I get home, but for some reason, I feel more comfortable discussing this with Gaëlle than with Papa. I’m still not sure how I might react if Alma’s hunch turns out to be true, and I don’t want to hurt my father by responding badly to the news.
Au Bon Sort is bursting with students by the time I arrive. All of the small round tables fitted between the aisles of witchy wares are occupied, and the line to the glass case displaying today’s lunch offerings snakes around twice. I spot the top of Romain’s blond head bobbing over the hungry crowd, and then I spot Gaëlle coming out from the small kitchen in the back, a pen stuck through the hair she’s twisted and piled on top of her head. Between her undereye circles and the questionable stain on the shoulder of her gray T-shirt, I take it this isn’t the right time to confront her.
I’m about to leave when I take pity on mother and stepson and carve a path through the crowd toward them. “I have an hour. Need some help?”
She looks up from scooping crème fraiche onto bowls of cider-braised apples. “Oh, yes, please!”
Waving hello to Romain, who grins at me as he rings up a customer, I circle the glass case and head to the back kitchen where I drop my bag and coat, and wash my hands. Before going back out, I tie a red Au Bon Sort apron over my white blouse. I stare at my reflection in the narrow mirror glued to the door. I didn’t fasten the buttons of my shirt all the way to the collar, but close. So much for dressing a little sexier.
I finger the buttons, hesitating to undo one or two. In the end, I leave them be. Walking around looking like a naughty school girl just isn’t me. Besides, I don’t want to hook a guy with a lace bra—yes, I wore one, even though, frankly it’s so itchy I’m dying to take it off—I want to hook a guy with my personality.
Pushing my hair behind my ears, I walk back out and help get the lunch orders bagged or plated. Thirty minutes later, it quiets down. And then another fifteen minutes after that, and Au Bon Sort all but empties out. Only a few people remain, munching on the Magie Noire cookies Gaëlle bakes daily, or sipping one of the homemade caffeinated brews, or browsing the narrow aisles of witchy-inspired products that run the gamut from costumes and spell books to board games and scented candles to jars filled with dried herbs and ointments with supposed magical properties.
“You’re a lifesaver, Cadence.” Gaëlle grabs the last Dark Magic cookie with a piece of waxed paper and hands it over.
“It was nothing.” I take the treat from her and bite into it, moaning.
Her lips arch with pride.
Licking a glob of gooey chocolate off the corner of my mouth, I say, “I remember you promising to teach me how to make these.”
“I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that between the twins, Romain, the shop, and—” She stops herself from mentioning the Quatrefoil out loud. Unless it was Papa she was about to mention.
“Gaëlle, do you have a minute to talk? Not about the . . . leafy thing.”
Her eyebrows jut down low. “Um. Sure.”
After asking Romain to check if anyone needs refills or sweet treats, she grabs a bottle of hand-squeezed orange and ginger juice from the refrigerated glass case and gestures to a table at the very back of the shop, against a shelf bursting with tins of tisanes that can supposedly mend anything from a broken heart to a broken bone.
“Is everything all right, sweetie?” she asks as we take our seats, the old wooden rungs of the chairs creaking.
This place has been in her family forever, which leads me to wonder if it was an actual magic shop back in the day.
Peeling the parchment paper off my cookie, I say, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me.”
She unscrews the top off her bottle and brings it up to her mouth. “Okay . . .”
“Are you and Papa dating?”
She gags midswallow and then pounds her chest, coughing. “Oh, Cadence. No. No, no, no. Your papa and I, we’re just friends.” Her brown skin deepens in color, though, and I don’t know if it’s because of my question or the juice or any feelings she might be harboring for her “friend.” She must sense I’m not convinced, because she reaches across the table and wraps her fingers around mine. “I love your papa, but not romantically. Besides, like I said, I have enough men in my life.” She adds this with a smile. “And trust me when I say this, no man wants a woman attached at the hip to eight-month-old twins who haven’t figured out that nights are meant for sleeping.”
I nod.
“Whatever made you think he and I”—she coughs again—“were together?”
“It’s just something Alma said.”
Gaëlle’s deep brown eyes grow wide. “Oh, gosh, I hope not too many people believe this.”
“I don’t think so. At least, I haven’t heard any rumors.”
She screws the lid back on her bottle, then twists it back off. “Your papa has helped me through a lot of things, emotionally and financially, which has brought us closer, but I promise you that nothing untoward has happened.”
“I trust you, Gaëlle.” And then I reach over, because she’s still toying with the cap of her bottle, and I feel guilty to have made her feel uncomfortable. “And if anything did, I wouldn’t be mad. I guess I would just want to be the first to know.”
I realize that, as I’m speaking these words, I actually mean them. I’d be happy for my father to connect with someone again. Especially since I sense his handicap has a lot to do with him being on his own. Even though he’s never burdened anyone with his condition and is supremely independent, dating someone in a wheelchair cannot be easy.
I pull my hand back to break off a chunk of cookie. As I chew on it, my gaze slides to the shop window where a little girl has her face squashed against the glass, attention riveted to the store mascot: a tarantula named Tracy. The thing freaks Alma out so much that I need to physically drag her into Au Bon Sort to get her inside the shop.
Last spring, when we’d stopped by for iced coffees on one of the rare days not filled with cold rain and mist, we’d found Romain kneeling beside the shelf laden with Ouija boards. When we asked him what he was doing, he said he was looking for Tracy. Alma shrieked so loudly it caused a wave of panic. First, a shopper sniffing a candle dropped it, and glass sprayed everywhere. Then, Gaëlle, who’d been carrying over a platter of drinks, jumped, which knocked the cups over. They splashed her pregnant belly before teetering off the platter and breaking like the candle holder. And then two little girls, who’d come to shop for costumes, clawed at their mother’s legs, bawling.
When Romain had risen back up, face as red as the apron tied around his waist, mumbling “April Fool’s” and pointing to Tracy, lounging about in her tank, Gaëlle, usually an extremely placid person, had turned so livid I was a little afraid she’d go into premature labor. I caught Romain’s eye over his stepmom’s shaking shoulders and had grinned. Feeling bad for him, I’d gone to grab the duster to help clean up. Had Tracy really been on the loose, I would’ve probably pulled an Alma and skipped out of the store, minus the banshee-screaming part.
I frown as I catch sight of a man standing outside the shop, right behind the little girl ogling Tracy’s tank. At first, I think he might be a homeless drifter loaded on too much chouchen, but then my breath hitches because I recognize him. “Gaëlle!”
“What?” The cap of her bottle jerks out of her hand, hits the sugar dispenser, and rolls off the table.
“Matthias! He’s outside!”
Her face turns ashen.
I don’t wave hello to Gaëlle’s ex-husband. Instead, I glance toward Romain, who’s wiping down the glass case. I worry how he’ll react if he catches sight of his father.
A cold stream of liquid drips onto my lap, and I jerk away from the table.
Gaëlle’s spilled her drink and is so shell-shocked that I don’t think she notices. I grab a handful of napkins from the dispenser beside the sugar and blot my jeans as she slowly, slowly turns in her chair.
Matthias looks miserable and pasty, his tie loose, his cardigan buttoned all wrong. Gaëlle goes as still as my mother’s statues. I think she might’ve even stopped breathing. A second later, she stands, walks over to the door of the shop and twists the deadbolt. And then she flips the OPEN/CLOSED sign, croaks something to Romain, which makes him look up but not out, so it’s probably not about his estranged dad showing up out of the blue. The boy nods, then unties his apron and, folding it carefully, heads toward the staircase that leads to their private apartment atop the shop.
Like a ghost, Gaëlle floats toward the three remaining customers and tells them she has an emergency and must close up early. Her spooked look makes them gather their things quickly and without protest. Once lined up at the door, Gaëlle unlocks it to let them pass through. None look toward Matthias; they all walk right past him.
As she locks the door again, a shudder goes through her, making her bun shake so hard the pen escapes. Curly strands fall down her rigid back.
I toss the wet napkins on the table, then walk over to her. “Do you want me to go talk to him?”
“No!” The word snaps out of her mouth.
The mother of the little girl ogling Tracy must notice Matthias, because she holds out her hand to beckon her daughter away. The little girl pouts but obediently backs up. Straight into Gaëlle’s ex. Scratch that. Straight through Gaëlle’s ex.
Oh.
Crap.
Gaëlle slaps her palm against her mouth, stifling another gasp. “C-call Rainier. C-c-c-call him.”
I race into the kitchen where I left my bag. My phone feels lubed up because it takes me three attempts to wrestle it out of the front pocket. Speed-dialing Papa, I run back into the shop. I’m half expecting Matthias to have drifted right through the glass, but he’s still standing outside. His mouth curves into a terrifying smile, terrifying because he’s missing so many teeth and blood is trickling out of his mouth. And what’s wrong with his head? It’s a little concave around his left temple, as though he was hit by a crowbar, and it remolded his skull.
Forget the groac’h.
This man—this ghost—might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
I hear a deep voice seep out of my phone and remember I’ve dialed my father. “Papa,” I whisper. The ghost breaks eye contact with his wife and turns his pale eyes on me. “Papa,” I murmur again.
My poor father yells, “What’s going on? Where are you?” and I’m in such shock that I can’t blubber anything but another few Papas out.
Gaëlle takes the phone from me. There’s so much blood rushing through my ears that I can’t hear what she says. She races to the back of the store, grabs a jar of something, knocking over another. The loud shatter of glass penetrates my eardrums and makes me jump. She sprints back toward me, all but tossing my phone on a nearby table, then unscrews the pot and pours whatever’s inside in a straight line down Au Bon Sort’s façade, peppering the tangle of string lights, plastic vine leaves, and length of black tulle that frames the large square window, heaping some over Tracy’s tank and the quatrefoil made of twisted branches propped next to it, and finally onto the doormat.
“Dried garlic and black pepper.” Her breath rattles.
She sprinkles some of the mixture onto me, and then onto herself. A flake must get into my right eye, because it starts watering.
“It’ll keep unwanted spirits away,” she adds.
I swallow because I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not true. I know what to say, I just don’t know where to start. Again, not true. I know exactly where to start.
“Your husband’s a ghost?”
She’s regained some color, but her eyes are glassy as though she, too, got some of the spice blend inside.
“I thought . . . I thought . . .” I thought he’d boarded a train and headed out of Brume. I definitely didn’t think he was buried six feet under. “If he’s a ghost, then that means . . . that means . . .” Besides the fact that ghosts are freaking real! “He’s dead?”
The gray specter outside pivots a little, and the contours of his flesh curl as though he’s made of smoke. How could I have mistaken him for a real man?
On a breath, she gushes, “He’s my piece!”
I blink.
“My element is Air. He’s my piece.”
My heart misses a lot of beats but then settles. The ghost must be the projection of Gaëlle’s worst fear, not her husband risen from the dead.
I’ve almost recovered from my freak-out when I remember the girl. “Gaëlle, the child made contact with him!”
“I know.”
The chocolate cookie feels like it’s spoiling inside my stomach. “Does that mean she’s cursed now?”
Gaëlle sweeps her lashes over her eyes, up and down, up and down. A tear snakes out. Then another. “Maybe she’ll be okay.”
Papa is in a wheelchair because he touched a piece. I don’t see how she’ll be okay. I’m half-expecting to hear screaming ring through the street, but the piece will probably take its sweet time cursing her.
“What if other people touch him? What if—”
“I know, Cadence!” Her voice is so full of nerves it feels as though it shakes the hardwood floor beneath my shearling-lined boots.
I glance toward the stairs wondering if Romain will come back down, worried by the yelling, but I don’t hear any footfalls.
She clutches the half-empty pot against her heaving chest. “I need . . . to go . . . out there.” She swallows. “I need to . . . draw a circle . . . around him.”
I hike up an eyebrow. “To keep him corralled in? Are you sure garlic and pepper will work?”
“No. But I d-don’t know what else t-t-to do.”
Something begins to vibrate on a nearby table. My phone. When I see Papa’s name flash across the screen, I answer immediately. “Oui, Papa?”
“Cadence, are you still with Gaëlle?” If I thought Gaëlle sounded nervy, my father sounds downright strung out.
“Oui.”
“Put me on speakerphone.”
It takes me two attempts, but I manage to punch my screen in the right place.
“Gaëlle, you need to go to the Rolands’ house.”
Gaëlle’s hand crawls up her chest, then settles on her neck, and she clutches it so hard I worry she’ll strangle herself. “I can’t, Rainier. I can’t.”
“You can. I’m on my way there now, and so are Adrien and Slate.”
“I c-can’t.” She’s shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“You can,” Papa says with such calm that it sloughs off a little of my own fear. “We’ll all be there with you.”
“What if he tries to t-touch you?” she croaks.
“He can’t touch us.”
My skin coats in goose bumps. “Can’t he?”
“The pieces can’t touch you, ma chérie,” Papa explains steadily.
The cookie feels like it’s swimming back up my throat. “But a little girl walked right through him.”
Papa makes a strangled noise. “Because she didn’t see him. Only diwallers can see him.” Papa sighs. “Ma Cadence, you can touch it, but it can’t touch you. Not unless it’s your piece.”
“What about you? You can’t see it. What if you roll right into him?”
“Once I get out there, I won’t move to avoid any risk of contact.”
“What about the little girl? Will she be okay?”
Papa doesn’t answer.
I swallow back the wad of cookie and bile. The groac’h
in the well was crazy, but at least she was contained. Nothing encloses this ghost. Unless the spice blend can truly keep him in place . . .
“And the Rolands’ house?” I watch the ghost study his ex-wife. “Why are we meeting there?”
There’s a beat of silence before Papa says, “Because that’s where Matthias is buried.”
The phone slides out of my fingers and falls onto the blackened doormat.
Papa’s voice rises from the floor. “Adrien thinks Gaëlle needs to lead the ghost back to its bones to defeat it.”
This isn’t just some projection of Gaëlle’s worst fear. This is . . . this is . . .
Her husband isn’t gone. He’s dead.
And Papa knew.
Gaëlle knew.
How?
How do they know he’s dead?
How do they know where he’s buried?
My questions must register on my face, because Gaëlle whispers, “It was an accident. Oh my God, I don’t want to do this.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t want to face him again.”
27
Slate
I stare down at the text ordering me to meet the Quatrefoil crew. There’s a quick explanation about the ghost of Gaëlle’s ex-husband being the Air piece, along with the instructions to go to his resting place. But what gets me are the words at the Roland family home.
Why the hell is Gaëlle’s ex buried at my family’s home?
And also, what the actual fuck: I have a family home? Another thing the Great and Terrible Rainier de Morel failed to mention. Okay. Maybe, just maybe, I could give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the house was sold right after my parents’ deaths and a new family’s living there. Maybe Gaëlle’s ex was part of that new family. Maybe when de Morel says the Roland family home he really means the old Roland family home.
After no luck detecting a piece in the Beaux-Arts building or in town—I walked around Brume holding my middle finger out as an antenna, which didn’t make me any new friends . . . I got lots of tsks and shocked looks from people misinterpreting the gesture—I headed back to the dorms to grab a clean shirt, fresh bandages, and a double dose of painkillers.
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 21