If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

  Jules rushed over to help me lower Vincent’s unconscious body to the ground. I held his head on my lap as Mr. Gold checked his blood pressure. “How stupid of us,” he chided, “We should have planned to have food and water here for him. He’s probably in a state similar to awakening from dormancy—terribly weak and in need of nourishment. Let’s get him home quickly.”

  “We can’t take him out on the street naked,” Papy said.

  Jules pulled off his T-shirt and I helped him shuffle it over Vincent’s arms and head. Pulling on the sweater he had set aside while he was bloodletting, Jules said, “Give me your keys, Theodore. I saw some workmen’s overalls in the restoration studio where we got the clay.”

  Within ten minutes we were making our way out of the giant hall, weaving up and down passageways until we reached a tiny service door where there was no guard to witness an unconscious Vincent being carried between Jules and Mr. Gold. We managed to get him across the street and into Gold’s building with only a few curious looks from early-morning passersby.

  Once inside the safety of the apartment, Jules and Mr. Gold laid Vincent down on one of the living room couches. “Oh. I’m bleeding again,” Jules said simply, staring at the blood coursing from his arm. Our host was off in a flash, and returned with a linen bandage. He wrapped it tightly around Jules’s wound before leading him to another couch and persuading him to lie down.

  Vincent was breathing but still not conscious. Bran sat down next to him and studied his paper-white face. “His aura is very weak,” he commented.

  “Quickly. Get some sustenance for Vincent. Kitchen’s that way,” Mr. Gold barked from Jules’s side. Papy and I bustled down the hallway and began combing through an impeccably clean all-white kitchen in search of food and drink. I grabbed a tray off the counter and loaded it with a bowl of almonds, a few bananas, some jars of French yogurt, and a loaf of whole-grain bread, and Papy added a carton of orange juice and bottle of water from the fridge.

  When we got back to the living room, Mr. Gold was on the phone, telling his doctor to come immediately; that it was an emergency. I sat down on the couch next to Vincent and, propping his head forward with one hand, poured some water through his lips. As soon as the liquid hit the back of his throat, he sputtered and sat up, opening his eyes and looking around wildly. “Where am I?” he asked, and then seeing my face, he immediately relaxed.

  And finally, now that the crisis was over, it was as if a switch had been thrown and the room erupted into a frenzy of joy. “We did it!” Mr. Gold exclaimed, breaking into a funny celebratory jig. “Thank the gods,” Jules said with a look of overwhelmed relief, and flopped back onto the couch.

  Papy started clapping, which encouraged Mr. Gold to add a little kick to the end of his dance, before running over to Bran and clasping him in his arms, patting his back firmly. “You did it!” Mr. Gold cheered.

  Bran stood there looking shy, but his eyes shone in victory. “I can’t believe it!” he said. “My first action as a guérisseur was a re-embodiment of a revenant spirit. If only my mother could have seen that.”

  “The whole line of guérisseurs before you would be proud of you, and those who come after you will speak of this event with awe,” Mr. Gold said.

  Bran managed to look fiercely proud while at the same time like all he wanted to do was go somewhere to hide.

  I just sat there beaming with joy and relief, my love brimming over as I touched Vincent’s face and stroked his hair. “How do you feel, mon amour?” I asked, stealing his nickname for me.

  “My sight’s really blurry,” he said, blinking. “We’re back in Gold’s apartment, right?”

  “Right,” I confirmed. “We are back in Gold’s apartment and I’m touching your hair and looking into your eyes and hearing your real voice and . . . I can barely believe it.” As I leaned forward to brush my lips against his, my heart felt like it would burst.

  “I’m no doctor, but I assume he needs more sustenance than kisses,” teased Mr. Gold.

  Blushing, I held the glass of water for Vincent as he drank deeply, then scooped some almonds from the bowl and poured them into his hand. Popping them into his mouth, he laid his head back on my lap as he chewed, never taking his eyes off me. He clutched my hand like he was afraid of being swept back into the ether. Using my free hand, I gave him a banana and more water, and some color started showing in his cheeks.

  After waiting a little while, Bran asked, “Can you talk?” He and Papy had pulled chairs next to Vincent’s couch and watched him with curious stares.

  “Maybe you should wait,” I suggested, but Vincent squeezed my hand. “It’s okay,” he said.

  “So what exactly was happening when the ancient one tried to pull you back to her?” the guérisseur asked.

  Vincent stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember. He exhaled deeply. “I was there above you, just kind of hovering,” he said. “Then all of a sudden, I was pulled up and swept over the city toward the Atlantic Ocean. And then I heard Kate’s voice,” he said, shifting his gaze to me, “and suddenly I had the strength to slow the motion down, then stop it, and move in the opposite direction until I was back with you.”

  “Maybe the great physical distance between you and Violette reduced the power of the bond,” suggested Papy.

  “Maybe,” Vincent said. “She couldn’t have known I was halfway across the world when she called me back to her.”

  “In any case, you’re back,” said Mr. Gold, leaving Jules’s side. “And we have achieved something that hasn’t been done—to my knowledge—for centuries. A groundbreaking event in the freshly renewed relationship between the bardia and the flame-fingered,” he said, directing this last statement to Bran.

  “Thank you . . . all of you,” Vincent said, looking around the room, “for your help and”—he looked at Jules—“for your devotion.” I would have cuddled up to him then and there if my Papy hadn’t been sitting right across from us. Also, I was afraid of breaking him. He was so weak.

  “No need for thanks,” Mr. Gold said. “We’re all in this together. Now we must plan for your recovery and assess when you will be strong enough to return to Paris. But, first things first.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Gaspard,” he said after a short wait, “yes, Theo here. I have very good news.”

  Do you want to talk? Mr. Gold mouthed to Vincent, who nodded and took the phone from him.

  “Gaspard? Yes. It’s me.”

  An exclamation of surprise was audible from the other end of the line.

  “I hope you mention my extreme sacrifice,” yelled Jules from across the room.

  As Vincent began recounting the story to Gaspard, Papy took the opportunity to make his own call. “Emilie chérie, the re-embodiment ceremony that I told you about last night? Well, we tried it again just now, and it worked.” He smiled broadly at me. “Yes, we’re all extremely relieved. Of course you can talk to her.”

  Papy handed me the phone, which I took with one hand because I wasn’t letting go of Vincent for a second. “Darling, what wonderful news!” exclaimed my grandmother. “When will you come back?”

  “A doctor’s on his way now,” I said as the doorbell rang. “We’re just waiting to see how long it takes for Vincent to be strong enough to travel, and we’ll be back.”

  As I spoke, a man with a doctor’s bag walked in. I wasn’t surprised to see he had the bardia-aura thing going on around him: I had doubted that Mr. Gold would ask a mortal doctor to tend to Vincent.

  They shook hands and the doctor headed over to Jules first. “Didn’t I sew this up yesterday?” he asked with consternation.

  “Yeah, well, let’s just call it ‘repetitive stress disorder,’” Jules replied, then winced as the doctor gave him a shot near the wound site.

  “I better go, Mamie,” I said.

  “I’ll be sure to tell Georgia your news, and we can’t wait to see you and Vincent back here at home. Give him a big hug for me.”

  I hung up the phone, be
mused. A hug for Vincent—from Mamie? That gesture in itself reminded me of how much she loved me. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my lips, and seeing it, Vincent smiled back at me. But since he hung up with Gaspard, there was something else in his eyes: worry. I was about to ask what Gaspard had told him when the doctor interrupted.

  “So what do we have here?” he asked.

  Vincent raised an eyebrow at Mr. Gold, who responded. “Vincent here was dormant following quite a violent death, and didn’t receive sustenance for a good while after awakening.”

  Not completely a lie. I suspected that the re-embodiment story wasn’t something Mr. Gold wanted to spread around. Who knew what ties Violette still held in the revenant world? It had only been a few days since her treason had been uncovered.

  I got up so the doctor could sit and take Vincent’s blood pressure. Bran moved across the room and began making notes in one of his leather-bound books. Adding a groundbreaking event to the flame-finger records, I thought.

  Mr. Gold and Papy stood next to a window talking. “During the time we must wait for Vincent to recover, I would be delighted to return to the museum and show you the collection in more depth, now that we don’t have more pressing issues on our minds,” Mr. Gold was saying as I walked up to them.

  “That would be an honor that I could not pass up, Theodore,” Papy said.

  “Please call me Theo. You too, Kate,” he said, winking at me.

  “Only if you call me Antoine,” said Papy, and grasped Theo’s arm warmly.

  “You’ll be fine,” I heard the doctor saying to Vincent. “But I would strongly recommend bed rest for the next couple of days.”

  “Two days?” Theo said.

  “Two or three,” the doctor clarified, folding his instruments and putting them back into his bag.

  Vincent waited until Theo closed the door behind the doctor before speaking. “That won’t be possible,” he said, trying to sit up.

  “Why not?” Theo asked, looking surprised.

  Vincent leaned his head back on the couch pillow and said in a weak voice, “Because back in Paris, war has begun.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” ASKED Theo, horrified. He strode over and sat at the foot of the couch.

  “Gaspard just informed me that numa have been arriving in Paris in large numbers. Our kindred from all over France have reported them leaving their own cities and heading toward the capital. There hasn’t been a sign of Violette, but no one questions the fact that she’s orchestrating an offensive against the bardia.” Vincent’s voice was fading.

  “All right. I will call Gaspard back to get more details on the happenings in Paris. But you would be of no help in this state. You have got to recover before we can even think about putting you on a plane.” Vincent didn’t even try to fight Theo. He didn’t have the energy.

  Jules had sat up upon hearing Vincent’s announcement. Theo asked, “How about you? Are you feeling better?”

  “Still weak, but nothing a good sandwich couldn’t cure,” he said, although he looked a bit woozy to me. Theo picked up the phone and placed an order at a deli and then phoned Gaspard to inquire about the state of affairs in Paris. Fifteen minutes later, we were all digging into an assortment of enormous sandwiches, crispy dill pickles, and salty potato chips.

  Vincent stopped after a couple of bites. “I’m too exhausted to eat,” he told me. “Although I don’t want to take my eyes off you for a second, I’m going to need to rest, mon amour,” he said, his eyes blazing as he touched my cheek with his fingertips.

  I twirled a lock of raven hair in my fingers and smiled at him, feeling like seventeen years of Christmases, birthdays, and wishing on falling stars had all been combined into this one moment. I was the luckiest girl on earth.

  “Feel free to use my bedroom,” offered Theo.

  “Too exhausted to walk, too. Couch is fine,” responded Vincent. And then he turned over on his side facing the couch back and closed his eyes. I covered him with a blanket Theo had brought in, then left my chair next to the couch to join the others at a table near the window.

  “Tell me what happened with Violette,” Theo was asking Jules, who launched into the story starting at the moment Violette and Arthur had moved into La Maison and continuing until I discovered that she had been betraying the bardia all along and was now the leader of the Paris numa.

  “She told Kate, here,” Jules said, nodding at me, “that her plan was to overthrow Jean-Baptiste and his kindred using the force of the numa and the stolen strength of the Champion, who she believed was Vincent. She had been priming him for destruction—had convinced him that following the Dark Way would help ease the pain of resisting death, when it was actually weakening him to the point that she could easily defeat him.”

  “And you are sure that Vincent is not the Champion?” Theo asked Bran.

  “One hundred percent,” Bran affirmed, holding up a dill pickle and studying it carefully before nibbling off one end. He grimaced and placed it as far away from him as possible on his plate.

  “How can you be so sure?” Papy asked, but then looked abashed at having barged in on a supernatural discussion.

  Theo shook his head. “You now bear our signum, Antoine. You participated in the most mystical revenant ceremony I’ve ever witnessed. And your daughter is the beloved of a bardia. You have a right to ask questions.”

  “Thank you,” said Papy.

  “It’s because of his aura,” Bran answered. “He has the revenant aura, which the flame-fingers describe as ‘an aura like a forest fire.’ But our prophecy says that the Victor’s aura ‘blazes like a star on fire.’ Vincent’s aura is no different from that of Jules. Or your own,” he said, nodding to Theo.

  “So how do we know that the Victor is even here?” Theo asked.

  “He is not here. He is yet to come,” Bran said, pushing his plate away with a curt gesture.

  “But weren’t you going to let Jean-Baptiste parade all of Paris’s bardia in front of you to check?” I asked. “Why would you do that if you were sure the Victor wasn’t yet here?”

  Bran shrugged. “That was his suggestion, not mine. And he seemed very determined.”

  “But how do you know the Victor is coming?” Theo insisted.

  “Because I’m the VictorSeer. I wouldn’t have become so if there wouldn’t soon be a victor to see,” Bran replied testily.

  A silence settled on the room as everyone stared at Bran. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “How do you know you’re the VictorSeer?” Jules asked, leaning forward on his elbows and clasping his hands together.

  “I felt it happen when I touched your leader’s hand. At that point, I received the gift. I know I have it just as clearly as my mother knew she didn’t have it,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “So that’s how you know the Champion is coming during your lifetime,” I said. “But why was Violette so sure he was coming soon?”

  “The revenants’ prophecy is the same as that of the flame-fingers,” Bran responded. “It’s the revenant calendar’s Third Age, and has been since the Industrial Revolution. So she’s obviously been waiting since then. She must have thought she saw the Champion’s characteristics displayed by Vincent.”

  “My ears are burning,” called Vincent from across the room. “As is my throat. Could I have some more water, please?” I leapt up and pulled the coffee table with the refreshments on it closer to Vincent’s couch so it was within reaching distance.

  The men stood and Theo began clearing the table. “We should really leave Vincent to rest in peace so that he will heal as quickly as possible,” he said.

  “I want to stay with him,” I insisted.

  “Of course, my dear,” reassured Theo. “But would the rest of you like to join me for a more expansive tour of the revenant collection at the museum?”

  Papy and Bran quickly agreed, but Jules walked back to his cou
ch and flopped down on it. “Now that my bloodletting responsibilities are over, I think I’ll stay here too,” he said, closing his eyes.

  Once the other men were gone, I sat watching Vincent for a while. His breathing was shallow, and although I knew he wasn’t sleeping—couldn’t sleep . . . until his next dormancy—it seemed he wasn’t quite here either. I left him to rest and went to dig through Theo’s bookcase, settling for a coffee table book about Edith Wharton’s New York. I wasn’t surprised in the least when I saw mention of a Theodore Gold being one of Wharton’s circle, and smiled when I spotted him among a crowd of people at a society ball, wearing tails and a top hat.

  I kept checking on Vincent, but after a couple of hours, when he hadn’t budged, I put my book aside and went to look out the windows. I heard movement from the other side of the room and turned to see Jules watching me from his couch.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

  “Oh, nothing,” he responded. “Just that you come all the way back home and spend your whole time here cooped up in an apartment. Kind of depressing, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I did see a secret collection of supernatural-themed art hidden in the basement of the Met. That’s not too bad,” I retorted with a mock frown.

  “Wanna take a walk?” Jules said, pushing himself up off the couch and walking toward me. “It’s my first time in New York, and if I don’t pass out from blood loss, I’d like to see a little bit. Would you do me the honor of being my tour guide?”

  “But I shouldn’t leave . . . ,” I began.

  He took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Vincent will heal faster without you hovering around worrying over him. Right, Vince?” Jules called as he grabbed our coats.