Nightfall (Devil's Night #4) - Penelope Douglas Page 0,84

grandmother called again.

Will’s rigid stance relaxed a little, and his eyes softened.

I dropped my gaze and shook my head, managing no more than a whisper. “Please, just leave.”

I left the room, turned right, and headed to my grandmother’s bedroom, the late evening breeze making her white curtains billow.

She tried to push herself up in bed, her bulky pink robe wrapped around her.

“Hey, hey,” I said, rushing up and lifting the cord to the oxygen mask so she wouldn’t snag it. “I got it. I’m here.”

She sat up farther, leaning back on her pillows as I helped her take off her mask.

I put it up, listening to her breathe and making sure she was alright for now.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I just needed water.”

I picked up her cup and refilled the water, handing it to her as I held the straw in place.

“You forgot to light my candle,” she said as she took a sip and peered up at me.

I stared at her, my brow still tense from a moment ago. Everyone was out to try my patience today, it seemed.

“Don’t give me that look,” she warned. “Go light it. It’s my last, no doubt.”

I pursed my lips, knowing there was no way to argue with that. She may not be here next EverNight.

Fine.

I turned and walked to the mantel, grabbing the matches we kept for the fireplace she no longer used and took one of her midnight patchouli-scented candles to the windowsill. I set it down and lit it, making sure the flame was visible through the glass.

Such a stupid tradition.

Although, there was something more alluring about it now, since Will told me more of the story. Every October 28, since 1955, a year after the Cold Point murder, the residents of Thunder Bay lit candles in their bedroom windows for Reverie Cross on the anniversary of her death.

While the basketball team made their annual pilgrimages to Edward’s grave, everyone else honored his victim, convincing themselves that if they didn’t, not even death would withhold her vengeance. If your candle was still lit by morning, you were in her favor.

If not, something bad would befall you before the next EverNight.

It made about as much sense as throwing salt over your shoulder to ward off bad luck.

I watched the reflection of the candle flickering in the window and then reached over, closing her other window. If she wanted the candle to stay lit, then she’d have to do one night without her beloved wind.

I cast one quick glance out the window, wondering if Will had left.

Walking over to her side, I took the cup and set it down, smoothing her hair away from her face. Eighty-two years old, and she looked five hundred.

Except for the eyes. In her eyes, she still looked sixteen and secretly planning to steal the old man’s car for a joy ride with her friends.

“Do you have a boy here?” she asked.

I stilled. “No, Grand-Mère.”

“Menteuse,” she retorted, calling me a liar in French. “Qui c’est?”

“Who’s who?”

She jerked her chin behind me, and I whipped around to see Will standing in the doorway.

Dammit. I told him to leave.

But he just walked in, smiling gently. “Allô,” he said. “Je m’appelle Guillaume.”

I gaped at him, hearing French spew out of his mouth like it was nothing. Guillaume was the French variant of William.

Seriously?

Frankly, I’d been surprised he even spoke English. Figured him for someone who communicated solely in emojis.

But my grandmother smiled. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Un peu,” he said, measuring about half an inch with his fingers. “Très, très peu.”

She laughed, and that same smile that made him look like he was built for hugs spread across his face.

He looked down at her, and I rolled my eyes.

Un peu, my ass.

My grandmother had been born here, but her parents came from Rouen in France. They fled in the thirties under the growing threat from Germany, and even though she’d grown up speaking English at school here, her parents made sure to preserve her heritage.

In turn, she raised my mother to speak French, as well. I didn’t speak it as well as I’d like, but I understood it.

More French poured out of Will’s mouth as he talked with her, and I listened.

“I hope we didn’t wake you.” He looked thoughtful. “Your granddaughter was giving me the verbal beating I deserved. I apologize.”

My heart pitter-pattered a little, but then my grandma laughed.

“Perhaps deserved,” she said. “And perhaps she has my short temper.”

I leveled her a look.

Settling back down into her bed, she took her