Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,82
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.”