I’m about to curl back up when a jolt of heat runs up my arm. The Bloodstone pulses and glows like an eerie prop in a horror flick. Is it signaling the third piece’s arrival? I keep the ring out of Bastian’s line of sight, already thinking up ways to get him to the train station.
Wind batters the window, then leaks around the wooden frame and whips through the room. Cold air slaps me in the face, bringing tears to my eyes. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I throw on my clothes. “Stay here. I’m gonna go—”
Before I can finish my sentence, the whole room seems to fizz and pop like an old TV. And then, out of nowhere, a little girl of like six or seven is standing on the ancient floorboards in the recess Bastian pointed out, the one beneath the spiderweb. She’s wearing fuzzy pink unicorn pajamas, and her cheeks are slick with tears. She takes one look at me and Bastian and shrieks.
“You see her, right?” Bastian stumbles back into the bedframe.
And presto whamo, the girl disappears.
What the actual fuck?
“You saw her, right? You saw that little kid?” Bastian’s eyes are round as frisbees.
I rack my brain to come up with anything, anything at all that will put him at ease, but I’m not used to pulling explanations for the supernatural out of my ass. Instead, I grab my phone and send a quick text to the Quatrefoil crew: Come to my dorm room. NOW.
“Slate,” Bastian murmurs.
The girl’s there again, wavering like a bad hologram. Panic flares across her face, sapping all the color from her cheeks. Then, zap! A wind kicks up, and I hear a cry behind me. I whip around. She’s now on the other side of the bed, bawling.
My middle finger is toasty, the ring hot as hell, but I don’t have any of the other symptoms I had with the other pieces—no wicked muscle cramps or lit kerosene in my veins.
I feel a weight on my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin. It’s just Bastian’s palm. His pupils have expanded to the edges of his irises.
“Is she a ghost? Like a real one? Or am I the ghost? I thought I was alive, but”—he pats himself to verify he’s solid, and his voice goes up an octave—“I’m dead, aren’t I?”
“What are you babbling on about? You’re not dead.”
“Is she dead?” He lifts his chin to indicate the little girl.
“No. She’s not dead, either.” At least, I don’t think so, but now that he mentions it . . .
“Then, what’s happening?”
“Jesus, Bastian. Nothing!”
“It’s not nothing!” Bastian whirls on me. “You’re scared shitless, too. Something freaky is going on.”
I square my shoulders. “Me, scared? I’m not scared.”
“Your nostrils flare when you’re panicked. And right now, experts could go spelunking in those hairy canyons.”
I put a hand to my nose. Really?
My heartbeat hammers my eardrums as I watch it happen again—the little girl’s standing in one place, then poof, she materializes in another, her body brightening then fading.
Her mouth turns down, and once again, she shows up elsewhere, a howl of wind in her wake. She looks nauseous and terrified. “Help me!”
Bastian—reckless empath that he is—reaches for her. She vaporizes and solidifies someplace else.
Like a goddamn ghost. Like Matthias. This feels like the Air curse all over again, but Gaëlle defeated that curse. Didn’t she?
“Putain de merde.” I grab his outstretched arm and ram it down to his side. “Don’t touch her!”
The kid disappears once more. Then a gust of freezing wind slams into me and Bastian, knocking us both backward, and the little girl materializes right between us.
Snot and tears are thick as slime on her upper lip. “Help,” she whimpers.
I’m not a fan of small humans. They’re loud, messy, and selfish. But a child in tears? It’s a punch to my gut. I see Bastian all over again, and it brings my hackles out.
I need to stop her pain.
Ignoring my own warning, I grab the little girl’s hand. I expect her to teleport away. Instead, her body skips and jumps like an old vinyl record, from solid to transparent and back again, but she stays put, her grip turning viselike, her tiny fingernails leaving crescents in my skin.
“Don’t let go, monsieur.” More tears leak down her cheeks. She flickers, and as she does so, I can see right through her.
Damn it. I swallow and feel my nostrils flare further. “I won’t, kiddo. I’ve gotcha.”
A high-pitched monotone comes from the Bloodstone, grating my ears, and the stone ignites, flaring brighter than molten lava. Still, I keep my hand around hers.
Bastian gasps. “Your ring! Why’s it glowing?”
“Glowing? You got to have that eyeglass prescription of yours adjusted.”
The ring splashes the girl’s face, turns it crimson instead of seasick-white.
“Okay, fine. It might be glowing. A little. I can explain. But first—”
“Brumian magic is real,” he whispers in awe. “All those stories about this place are real!”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose with my free hand and shut my eyes a half-second. “Yes. Yes! Which is why you need to get your ass back to Marseille.”
Bastian shakes his head again, and the girl goes on and off like the WIFI in my apartment before I cornered the cable guy and persuaded him, at knifepoint, to fix it.
I crouch down to her height. “Hey, what’s your name, kiddo?”
She wipes the snot from her nose with the back of her free hand. “Emilie.”
“Where do you live, Emilie?”
“Brume.”
“And what’s the last thing you remember before you showed up here?”
Emilie doesn’t shoot off to a different part of the room, and despite how translucent she gets, her hand never feels less than solid in my own. “I was brushing my teeth.” Her bottom lip starts to wobble.
The doorknob rattles, then Cadence’s voice. “Slate? We’re here!”
“Get the door,” I tell Bastian.
He sprints over and unlocks it. Adrien and Cadence barge in. Cadence’s beanie is askew, and her eyes bruised with sleep. I’m pleased to observe that Professor Prickhead isn’t coiffed with gel, and his hair sticks out like dry hay. I let out a breath, relieved to see both. They, on the other hand, do not look relieved. Their eyes grow round and wide as they take in little Emilie.
Adrien furrows his brows. “Why is there a little girl in your dorm room, Slate?”
What exactly does he think? That I kidnapped some rando kid and am holding her for ransom? I’m about to snap at him when my gaze lands on Cadence’s.
“Oh . . .” Her hand covers her mouth. “Oh, no, no, no, no.” Her voice is muffled, but each vowel is extremely distinct.
Her expression slackens my grip on Emilie, who promptly disappears with another swirl of wind before popping up between Adrien and Cadence. He jumps; she yelps.
Doors creak in the hallway. “We need to contain this.” Adrien spins around, his fancy boots squealing, and trots out of the room. “We have a rabies-carrying bat on the loose! Please stay in your rooms!” His take charge mode usually annoys the shit out of me, but for once, I’m glad for it.
Emilie fades, then reappears on Cadence’s other side. Cadence starts to reach out but snatches her hand back, her complexion so green I’m afraid she might puke.
The girl disappears like a puff of smoke, and then her high-pitched, shaky voice rises from the stairway, “Help!”
Shit. I’m striding toward the door when Cadence’s knees buckle. I just manage to catch her, hooking an arm around her waist. I walk her to the bed and sit her down gently. And then I crouch in front of her and gather her fisted hands in mine.
“Hey, look at me. I know it’s weird. Freaky, even. But we’ve seen weirder. Stay with me, princess.”
Her blue eyes finally lock on mine.
“It’s gonna be okay. Slow, steady breaths. In . . . out . . . in .
. . out.”
Yeah. She’s not following my rhythm at all. She’s never panicked this hard before. Is it because we’re dealing with a child?
“Monsieur?” the little girl wails.
Bastian startles as though from a deep slumber and lunges toward the landing.
“Keep an eye on her but don’t touch her,” I order him.
Flashing me a look that says, I may be playing along now, but I expect a detailed explanation later, he files out of the room just as the professor steps back in.
I friction Cadence’s hands, which feel like hardpacked snowballs. “Come on, Cadence. Deep breaths.”
“Slate . . . the girl . . .” she whimpers. “The piece . . .”
Of course, Prickhead has to get in on the action. He sits on the bed beside her and rubs the spot between her shoulder blades. I didn’t think I was the possessive type, but I want to rip his hand off.
“I don’t think the little girl’s your piece or mine, Cadence. I—”
“N-no! That’s not . . .” She can barely talk between hiccupping breaths.
I pry her fists open, then spear my fingers through hers, pressing our palms together.
“N-not her . . . M-Matthias.”
Adrien frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“A-at Gaëlle’s . . . sh-shop.”
Dread slicks down my spine.
Adrien’s hand stills on her back. “What happened at Gaëlle’s shop?”
She trembles harder than Emilie, and for half a second, I’m worried she might fizz and vanish too.
“Cadence, what happened?” he repeats, louder this time, as though she’s fucking hard of hearing.
“Don’t yell at her! You’re stressing her out,” I growl, before refocusing on her. “Shh. Just breathe. You can tell us in a minute.”
Behind us, little Emilie is teleporting inside and outside my bedroom like a human pinball, Bastian pounding after her. Cadence stares unblinkingly at the ghostly girl, her breaths wheezing in and out. “At Gaëlle’s shop . . . a little girl walked through Matthias. That little girl.”
My stomach flips like the floor just dropped out, and Adrien goes whiter than the rumpled duvet underneath his ass. Oh, fuck. Little Emilie is cursed.
I glance down at the ring on my finger. If I hadn’t been such a selfish, entitled prick . . . If I hadn’t broken into the de Morel crypt . . .
I swallow back bile, and it burns. And here I thought Cadence’s father had been exaggerating the consequences. This shit is real, and this little girl is doomed because of what I started.
“Emilie!” I stand and shout. I don’t know how to help her, but I do know how to give her a bit of respite. If holding her hand keeps her in place, I’ll fucking hold her hand until she’s an adult. “Emilie!”
She zaps to the right of me. I let go of Cadence and lunge toward the child, managing to latch on to her wrist just as she flickers. She stays solid and wraps her skinny arms around my waist, bawling into my stomach, soaking the cotton of my shirt.
“Shut the door, Bastian,” I tell him.
As the latch clicks, Adrien runs a hand through his hair but then zeroes in on the glowing ring. “The Bloodstone. It keeps her in place.”
Bra-fucking-vo, Prof.
A vein throbs at his temple. “But you can’t hang on to her forever.”
“I’ll hang on as long as I have to,” I growl.
“We need to get her out of Brume,” Cadence says suddenly. “Distance—”
“Except I can’t leave Brume, princess. And if I let her go, she’ll just keep flickering.”
A beat of silence settles over the room, punctuated by Cadence’s still too-brisk breathing and Emilie’s thin whimpers.
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor? Or the police?” Bastian’s taut lips barely shift as he speaks.
“A doctor won’t know how to cure her,” Cadence murmurs, “and we can’t involve the police.”
“Then who would know?” Bastian’s tone is as frantic as his gaze which ping-pongs over each of our faces.
“Papa,” Cadence says meekly.
Adrien takes his phone from the pocket of his overcoat and taps on the screen. “Merde.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Prof curse. “My phone’s out of battery. Cadence, do you have yours?”
She stuffs her hands inside her coat pocket, then pats her jeans. “Non. I must’ve left it at home.”
“Use mine.” I tip my head to the nightstand. “Bastian knows the code.”
Adrien’s eyes twitch toward Bastian as though wondering if he’s trustworthy. Hesitantly, he tenders the phone, which Bastian unlocks, giving Adrien and the lot of us the stink-eye. I guess we deserve it.
I sigh. I swore to always protect him, but because of me, because I didn’t have the heart to force him back onto a train last night, he’s at risk.
As Adrien dials de Morel, Bastian’s stare burns a hole in the side of my skull. “Magic is real.” It’s not a question. It’s just a flat, emotionless assessment. But I know my little brother. I know he’s feeling a whole bunch of emotions. I can see it in the sharp tick of his jaw that seems to have lost all of its boyish roundness overnight, or rather, over-Emilie.
“Which is why you need to get back on a train and—”
“Shut up, Slate. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Bastian, we’re not dealing with fun potion-brewing. This is serious. And dangerous.” I nod down to Emilie shaking in my arms to drive my point home.
“Rainier, hold on a sec. Gaëlle’s calling on the other line . . . Okay. We’ll be over in ten minutes. Okay.” And then Adrien taps the phone, and says, “Gaëlle, we’re on our way to the manoir. Meet us there.”
Emilie’s brown eyes swim with tears. “I’m so scared.”
“I know,” I say. “And you have every right to be. But we’ll figure this thing out, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes my waist like it’s a buoy, and she’s in the middle of the ocean.
“What did Papa say?” Cadence asks.
Adrien lowers my phone even though his fingers haven’t uncurled from around it.
“Well?” I could use an answer.
Emilie could use an answer.
We all could use a fucking answer.
“The leaf. Rainier thinks she may need to touch it. Again.”
32
Cadence
Slate hasn’t let go of the cursed child, and she of him.
He held her hand while he put on his coat and boots. And then he scooped her into his arms and carried her over to my house, hiding her inside his coat, so she wouldn’t catch cold and be spotted by the passersby.
Although, can ghosts catch a cold? Is she a ghost? My stomach dips, and all the wine I drank last night gathers at the back of my throat.
The little girl’s being brave, but she’s asked for her maman several times. It’s breaking my heart not to look her up and phone her—she must be worried sick—but the less people know about what’s brewing in our town, the safer they are. Or at least, the safer they should be . . .
I see the little girl step into Matthias all over again, and I shudder so hard my teeth knock together.
“You okay?” I hear Slate ask.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me. I nod to reassure him, but the truth is, I won’t be okay as long as this girl isn’t cured. I pray touching the leaf will help her body stop flickering, the same way it stopped Papa’s curse from spreading to the rest of his body.
I feel Slate’s eyes on my cheek but don’t look over, afraid he’ll spot how frightened I am. I’m trying to think best-case scenarios, not because I’m a particularly fervent optimist, but because it’s keeping my mind off worse-case scenarios.
When we reach my house, Gaëlle’s standing outside, dark circles rimming her eyes. I’m guessing she got as much sleep as I did. Probably not for the same reasons. While I spent way too ma
ny hours replaying the feel of Slate’s mouth on mine, she probably spent her night replaying the feel of her dead husband’s bones against hers.
Her eyes flash to the wrapped bundle of small limbs and pink pajamas peeking from Slate’s jacket, then to Bastian, and all the tendons of her neck rigidify. The door opens before I can take out my keys. Papa rolls backwards to make room for us all. The moment he notices Slate’s brother, he looks at me, and I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too: Bastian shouldn’t be here. We should’ve insisted he stay put in the dorms, not that Bastian would hear of it, and unfortunately, we’re not endowed with the supernatural ability to wipe minds, so there was little point in arguing.
“Upstairs. My office,” Papa says.
Gaëlle goes with him to the elevator while the rest of us take the stairs. Adrien hasn’t said much, but the strain on his face tells me he’s worried. Possibly more than I am, which is worrisome in and of itself.
When we reach the first floor landing, Slate finally sets Emilie down on her slippered feet. The poor child trembles like a leaf, and not the kind made of gold and magic she’s about to touch.
Why didn’t I bang on the shop’s window yesterday? Why didn’t I yell? I should’ve gone outside instead of cowered inside. Heat replaces the chill that’s enveloped me since morning. I yank off my hat and peel off my jacket, then dump both on the iron handrail and barge into Papa’s office before the elevator doors have even released him and Gaëlle.
Adrien touches my arm. “Cadence, it’s going to be okay.”
“Okay?” I shriek, and he flinches. “I saw her walking into Matthias. And I just stood inside the shop and did nothing.” The tears that didn’t come earlier well up and spill over.
Adrien gathers me in a hug, and I let my head drop in the crook of his neck, dampening the fabric of his beige jacket with my guilt and inhaling the familiar scent of his peppery aftershave.
“This isn’t your fault,” he says softly, then repeats it twice more.
I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself. “I was there. Right there.”
Of Wicked Blood: A Slow Burn Romantic Urban Fantasy (The Quatrefoil Chronicles Book 1) Page 27