Slate’s jaw tightens. Although he doesn’t say anything, the hard edges of his face speak volumes. He’s not his usual confident, happy-go-lucky self. He’s nervous.
I am, too.
One of Adrien’s eyes keeps twitching, a sure sign that he’s not as confident as he’s pretending to be. But is he anxious because Slate might die or because magic might be gone forever?
Once Adrien closes the door, I study Slate’s sharp profile—his straight nose that dips a little at the tip, his scruffy jaw, his wild black curls. I can’t imagine him gone, which is weird, because yesterday I desired nothing more.
Before I can look away, Slate turns and catches me staring. I wait for him to say something lewd or teasing, but he’s silent and grim, which makes my heart pinch. A current passes between us, charged with words and emotions that seem outrageously strong considering we’re both still such strangers to each other.
Empathy.
That’s what it is.
I’m feeling empathetic, because he doesn’t deserve to die so young. Yes, the old adage says we must pay for our mistakes, but the cost of stealing a ring shouldn’t be his life.
“Bronze daggers can apparently paralyze sirens.” It’s the only thing I’ve read that feels useful.
“Any idea where I can purchase one of those?” He’s still looking at me, and I’m still looking at him.
“Maybe Gaëlle carries one in her shop . . .”
Saying her name makes my stomach contort. But no longer in irritation. Doesn’t my father deserve a second chance at happiness?
Plus Alma was right . . . I do love Gaëlle.
I sigh long and loud.
So long and so loud that Slate asks, “Don’t think it’ll work?”
“What?”
“The bronze dagger.”
“Oh. No. I do.”
He frowns.
Even though I don’t especially want to talk about it, I think that airing my problem—which really isn’t one—will take Slate’s mind off his—which truly is one. “My best friend insinuated that Gaëlle and Papa might be seeing each other, and it bothers me.”
“Because Gaëlle’s married?”
I shake my head. “Her husband left her last spring, when she was pregnant with twins.”
“Bastard.”
I chew on my bottom lip. “What if he left because she cheated on him with my father?”
“Huh. Who knew Brume was so full of amorous intrigue?”
I find myself smiling. “You make it sound like we’re living on the set of a Spanish soap opera.”
He smiles, not with his lips . . . with his eyes. They curve and shine. “I wish. Then my greatest challenge would be figuring out how to get the girl instead of the malevolent leaf.”
My humor disintegrates, and the weight of reality settles back atop my shoulders like the heavy soup pot over the well.
“Oh, Slate . . .”
“Remember what I told you the first day we met? That a person makes their own luck. Well, I still believe it. Besides a bronze dagger and a playlist, what else would you suggest I bring to face a shapeshifting water sprite?”
