Instead of calling me up on my derision, Cadence becomes pensive.
“So, why do classes start on the full moon?”
Even though her mind seems a mile away—in the library meat-locker to be precise—she says, “Full moons are conducive to learning. It supposedly makes everything clearer, more powerful. Even spells.”
“Is that in the university handbook?”
“Just part of the local lore.” Her eyes lose focus for a second, and I imagine she’s thinking how everything she once considered lore is now up for reinterpretation.
“So then, why do we need to get the pieces together by thenewmoon?”
“Because the new moon is for new beginnings.”
Or crap endings.
The sinuous street turns upon itself, and we suddenly find ourselves at the edge of the town square, which is lit up like an airport runway. Besides the strings of twinkling lights and glowing window panes, there’s a large spotlight focused on the well. Four tall guys in shiny helmets and navy coats withSapeurs Pompiersemblazoned across the back are fencing off the area with yellow tape and shooing away curious bystanders.
It takes me a moment to understand why they’re here . . . the square has transformed into a skating rink. An inch-thick layer of ice coats the cobbles.
“The water overflowed.” Cadence points to the frozen cascade rimming the side of the well.
“Whoa.” I wonder if the water is frozen only on top. Maybe I’ll need to ice-fish for my piece. And how the hell am I going to get into the well with the fire department blocking the damn thing?
The low chatter of rubberneckers is the only sound in the square. Then, all of a sudden, a high-pitched keening fills the air. Like an animal in pain.
An angry animal in pain.
A giant, angry animal in pain.
Cadence and I both slap our hands against our ears, but the curious lurkers don’t even flinch. Did no one else hear what sounded like an orca being slaughtered while calving?
When one of the firemen lumbers toward the well, Cadence presses a fist to her mouth, eyes flaring with terror. “He’ll get cursed. Or killed.”
“He’s just looking.” My voice is calm, but Cadence’s worry makes my gut twist.
She shakes her head, staring wildly around the square. “We’ve got to do something. Where are Adrien and Gaëlle? I called them over twenty minutes ago. Adrien will know what to do.”
At the mention of Adrien’s name, I clench my hands into fists. I don’t check Cadence’s eyes for hearts and stars, but I bet they’re in there, popping right out of her pupils. She thinks her beloved professor is some sort of superman. Super Douche is more like it, or Professor Prickhead.
Professor Prickhead. The right side of my mouth tilts. I like that.
The keening intensifies as the firefighter reaches the well. I’m guessing he’s heard it.
Cadence bounces on the balls of her feet. When she says, “Oh, hell,” and takes a step onto the ice, I shoot my arm out to block her.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Slate, he’s going to . . .”
I don’t hear the end of her sentence over the rushing in my ears. I back up several feet to get a running start, then dive under the yellow tape, skidding across the square on my belly like a seal, whooping and hollering the whole time.
It’s not my finest moment, but it distracts the firefighter, who turns away from the well and swears, then swears some more as other idiots follow my lead and pull their own little skating stunts. There is no better distraction than mass stupidity and no better crowd for it than college students.
Now the square is like a spoof ofDisney on Ice. One dude barrels into the firefighter clomping toward me, bowling him over. Two other firefighters are busy trying to push back a guy who’s spinning like a top and another who stands and falls, stands and falls.
Stomach numb with cold, I do the breast-stroke until I reach the base of the well—can’t fall when you’re already down. The frozen waterfall is a suspicious shade of urine that makes my nostrils flare. It smells cold and tinny, but ice cloaks smells. Even noxious ones. Hoping the rusty grate tinted the water, and it’s not sewer overflow, I grip one of the yellowish bulbous layers and pull myself up. The lug-soles of my boots slip like they’re buttered, and I land face down once again, whacking my forehead, right on my goose egg.
Putain de merde.I hate Brume.
