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.
