Of Wicked Blood (The Quatrefoil Chronicles #1) - Olivia Wildenstein Page 0,88

has cohabitated with some creepy-ass people.

Three hours go by, and Matthias is still a no-show. We’ve all morphed into popsicles, and the sky’s turned a deep gray. But on the upside, the dirt’s finally soft enough to dig into. Under the beam of the snowmobile’s headlights, Adrien and I take turns, and sure as shit, I’m the one with the shovel when we reach the body. I don’t even have to say anything. I just lift my eyes to the rest of the group when the edge of the metal hits that first bit of bone.

They all watch as I scrape away the dirt with a spade. Whatever kind of cloth Gaëlle buried Matthias in is decayed to a greenish black in some places and completely disintegrated in others. The body’s mostly bone, except where the cloth sticks to it. Soil cradles the skull, and I observe that, like the ghost, most of its teeth have been knocked out.

Note to self: never mess with a woman making pie.

“I know you don’t think the rope will hold him, but I’d get it ready anyway, Gaëlle. Lay it out underneath the bones,” Rainier advises.

“Oh. No.” She sways, going pastier than the ghost she’s supposed to fight. “Oh, I don’t think I can—”

She turns and vomits into the snow. The air’s thankfully so cold it masks the stench.

“Cadence, can you give me the rope?” After she hands it over, nose crinkled, I lift the rotten cloth, the bones rattling inside, and lay the rope underneath. All Gaëlle needs to do now is tie it into a pretty bow. “All done.” I dust my hands to rid them of frozen dirt and dead person.

Cadence rubs Gaëlle’s back, whispering soothing words into her ear, while I dump a shovelful of fresh snow over Gaëlle’s half-digested lunch.

The sky darkens some more, and the temperature plummets. I’m betting the North Pole feels tropical in comparison to Brume.

Movement beside Rainier’s snowmobile catches my eye, and my heart kicks up a beat. I tighten my grip on the shovel as my blood burns and Matthias takes form.

“Don’t move, Rainier. He’s right next to you,” I say, keeping my voice low. Hell, I don’t think screaming would make Matthias flit away, but I’m still not taking the risk. I want to get this over with.

The ghost’s face is inches away from Rainier, his glassy eyes boring into Cadence’s daddy. Matthias clearly wasn’t a fan of De Morel. Never thought I’d have anything in common with a mad professor. Then again, I never thought I’d be stuck in a town fighting off monsters because of a ring.

“Matthias,” Gaëlle croaks.

The ghost turns his face toward the woman who slayed him.

“I order you to leave me alone.” She’s not fooling anyone with her shaky voice, least of all the dead dude standing beside Rainier.

The ghost’s split lips lift into a terrifying smile. You order me, chaton? You cut my life short. I intend to return the favor.

He moves, the outline of his body curling and disassembling like smoke before repairing and tightening. Suddenly, he’s on her again, one palm clamped over her mouth and nose; the other wrapped around the back of her skull.

She wriggles about, trapped in his hold, struggling to breathe. I will my feet to stay planted, because every single cell in my body wants to help. She’s suffocating, damn it.

Finally, she wriggles enough that they both tumble into the shallow grave and crunch onto his bones. She rolls until she straddles him and his back is to the skeleton. His hands fall away from her body and his eyes pop outward as though he just saw a ghost.

Ha. I fight off my smile because now’s not the moment. However spooked the ghost looks. Shit. I’m smiling. I rub my mouth until I realize I’m still wearing gloves that came in contact with bones. That quiets my mirth.

“Bind him!” Adrien shouts.

Gaëlle’s crying. Her fingers slip repeatedly as she kneels and attempts to knot the rope around the sack of his remains and his rigidified spectral form. “I can’t!”

“You can!” Rainier barks.

Just as she manages to loop the cord, the ghost vanishes.

Shit! I’m really not smiling anymore. Did someone lob the tea strainer on him again?

The cloth catches fire, and Gaëlle jolts back, burrowing in the corner of the grave, slapping her thighs which smoke with flames. In seconds, the flimsy burial fabric smolders out of existence, leaving behind the skeleton. The clingy bits of desiccated skin begin to weave together,