happened so fast. I didn’t mean to . . .”
Be quiet! A voice stabs my eardrums.
Gaëlle scrambles to her feet, eyes wild. “But it’s true, Matthias! I never meant—”
I said be quiet! A man materializes out of thin air, seemingly solid except for his wispy edges.
My bones bolt together, pain radiating from the ring. Holy shit. I’ve seen this dude before, in the art building. He’s the unkempt scholar who looked like he was living his worst life. Now that he’s right in front of me, I realize that he’s not just some pasty, shabby man, he’s seriously messed up. His skull’s caved in at one temple, one of his cheeks looks like cottage cheese, his lip is split and oozing blood, and his glazed eyes are saucers of hatred. Maybe in the past, he was borderline decent-looking, but with bloody stumps for teeth and skin the color of week-old foie gras, it’s hard to give a real assessment.
“He’s here, Papa,” Cadence whispers to Rainier.
Ah. That’s right. De Morel can’t see what we can. I tend to forget he’s not a descendent of the diwallers since he speaks about them as though they were his people.
The already frigid, humid air takes a nosedive. Our breaths fog in front of us. Only Matthias doesn’t have a puff of white leaking from his lips.
“Remember, Gaëlle. Remember what to do.” Rainier’s gaze flits around, as though trying to glimpse the ghost standing by the ramshackle shed.
You hurt me. You sent me away. Matthias moves closer to Gaëlle. His voice is no longer sharp and serrated but soft and sad. Why, chaton? Why did you do this to me? To us?
“I’m so sorry.” Gaëlle’s normally dewy-brown face has turned ashen above her yellow scarf.
Matthias stands inches from her, his bruised and broken skull tilted to the side. You stole my child. My Romain. And the twins . . . I’ll never see them grow up.
“You tried to kill them,” she croaks. “And me. You tried to kill me, Matthias.”
You’re rewriting history to make yourself look like the martyr.
“No,” she screeches. “Liar!”
“What is he saying?” Rainier asks Cadence who stands rigid as a lamppost next to him.
She whispers the words her father can’t hear.
His eyes slam into Gaëlle. “He’s trying to get to you. Don’t give in to the guilt. He deserved what he got.”
“I . . . I . . .” Gaëlle steps back, her boots crunching over one of the sticks.
The ghost looks at Rainier, then back at his executioner. What did you tell them? What did you tell them about me?
“Please, Matthias . . .” She takes two more steps back and raises her palms.
Her dead husband begins to sob, long howls that sound like the mistral when it blows through Marseille.
Is it me or has the wind picked up? I pull my coat collar tighter around my neck, eyeballs stinging from the violent chill.
The ghost runs his hands down the sides of his face, his fingers dipping into his cheeks until one body part becomes barely distinguishable from the other. And then he pulls his hands through his neck, chest, and away from his body again. Did you ever even love me?
As though to hear Matthias, Rainier leans forward a little. Any more, and he risks keeling over into the snow, right at Matthias’s feet. Considering Cadence’s old man was hexed once, he better keep his ass glued to the seat.
“Of course I loved you.” Gaëlle’s tone is fierce.
Matthias lunges at her. Then join me, chaton.
“Now!” Cadence yells, and Gaëlle steps to the side.
Matthias lands on the X of sticks.
Adrien and Cadence pour the contents of their saltshakers over the snow. It takes me a half-second to remember the dispenser Cadence gave me. As they draw a circle with the spice blend, I grab my pot, unscrew the lid, and upturn it, the smell of garlic and the bite of pepper tickling my nose.
Surprise fills Matthias’s empty eyes. Gaëlle grabs the rope. I’m not sure what she’s going to do with it, not having been privy to their little specter powwow.
Matthias throws his head back and laughs. Before anyone can even react, he’s out of the circle. Gaëlle instinctively lifts her arms and ends up poking her hands right through Matthias’s middle. He shoves her to the ground and locks his hands around her neck, just above her scarf. Unlike on his own body, his fingers don’t sink through his wife’s flesh.
I leap forward to tackle him, but just as I’m