This man—thisghost—might be the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
I hear a deep voice seep out of my phone and remember I’ve dialed my father. “Papa,” I whisper. The ghost breaks eye contact with his wife and turns his pale eyes on me. “Papa,” I murmur again.
My poor father yells, “What’s going on? Where are you?” and I’m in such shock that I can’t blubber anything but another fewPapasout.
Gaëlle takes the phone from me. There’s so much blood rushing through my ears that I can’t hear what she says. She races to the back of the store, grabs a jar of something, knocking over another. The loud shatter of glass penetrates my eardrums and makes me jump. She sprints back toward me, all but tossing my phone on a nearby table, then unscrews the pot and pours whatever’s inside in a straight line downAu Bon Sort’s façade, peppering the tangle of string lights, plastic vine leaves, and length of black tulle that frames the large square window, heaping some over Tracy’s tank and the quatrefoil made of twisted branches propped next to it, and finally onto the doormat.
“Dried garlic and black pepper.” Her breath rattles.
She sprinkles some of the mixture onto me, and then onto herself. A flake must get into my right eye, because it starts watering.
“It’ll keep unwanted spirits away,” she adds.
I swallow because I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not true. I know what to say, I just don’t know where to start. Again, not true. I know exactly where to start.
“Your husband’s a ghost?”
She’s regained some color, but her eyes are glassy as though she, too, got some of the spice blend inside.
“I thought . . . I thought . . .” I thought he’d boarded a train and headed out of Brume. I definitely didn’t think he was buried six feet under. “If he’s a ghost, then that means . . . that means . . .” Besides the fact that ghosts are freaking real! “He’s dead?”
The gray specter outside pivots a little, and the contours of his flesh curl as though he’s made of smoke. How could I have mistaken him for a real man?
On a breath, she gushes, “He’s my piece!”
I blink.
“My element is Air. He’s my piece.”
My heart misses a lot of beats but then settles. The ghost must be the projection of Gaëlle’s worst fear, not her husband risen from the dead.
I’ve almost recovered from my freak-out when I remember the girl. “Gaëlle, the child made contact with him!”
“I know.”
The chocolate cookie feels like it’s spoiling inside my stomach. “Does that mean she’s cursed now?”
Gaëlle sweeps her lashes over her eyes, up and down, up and down. A tear snakes out. Then another. “Maybe she’ll be okay.”
Papa is in a wheelchair because he touched a piece. I don’t see how she’ll be okay. I’m half-expecting to hear screaming ring through the street, but the piece will probably take its sweet time cursing her.
“What if other people touch him? What if—”
“I know, Cadence!” Her voice is so full of nerves it feels as though it shakes the hardwood floor beneath my shearling-lined boots.
I glance toward the stairs wondering if Romain will come back down, worried by the yelling, but I don’t hear any footfalls.
She clutches the half-empty pot against her heaving chest. “I need . . . to go . . . out there.” She swallows. “I need to . . . draw a circle . . . around him.”
I hike up an eyebrow. “To keep him corralled in? Are you sure garlic and pepper will work?”
“No. But I d-don’t know what else t-t-to do.”
Something begins to vibrate on a nearby table. My phone. When I see Papa’s name flash across the screen, I answer immediately. “Oui,Papa?”
“Cadence, are you still with Gaëlle?” If I thought Gaëlle sounded nervy, my father sounds downright strung out.
“Oui.”
