by Amy Plum
“Man, it’s good to have you back,” said Ambrose, clapping him on the shoulder before turning to greet Papy and Bran. He scanned the doors behind us. “Where’s Jules?”
“He decided to stay in New York for a while. Said he could use a change of scenery,” Vincent said, throwing me a warning glance as he gave his kindred the same story he told Bran and Papy on the plane.
“He ditches now? When Violette’s plotting Paris domination?” Ambrose asked, looking confused. When Vincent nodded, the big revenant just shrugged. “Jules in New York? Man, he is going to have himself a ball.” He shook his head at the thought. “Here, let me take those,” he said, picking up a couple of suitcases.
“Did you have a good time?” Charlotte asked, joining me as we headed toward an enormous SUV. “I mean, did you get to do anything else besides re-embody Vincent?”
I smiled. “Yes, actually. I went to see my old friends.”
She grabbed my arm and started jumping up and down. “Hurray! That’s fabulous news, Kate! One step back into the world of the living,” she cheered, and then quickly added, “I mean . . . not that you absolutely have to include humans in your social circle. But it made me sad that you had cut ties with everyone from your former life.”
“I know,” I said. “I actually feel like a huge weight has been lifted.”
“Well, you’re glowing,” she said. “It looks like the trip back home was good for you.”
I grinned and hugged her tight.
Once we were on the road, Ambrose and Charlotte caught Vincent up on news. We had been gone for three days, but it felt like weeks.
Although Vincent told his kindred all about Theodore Gold and our experience in the Met’s crypt, he didn’t bring up the subject of JB. So I had to wait until we were alone, saying good-bye at my front door, to ask about it.
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to JB on my own,” he said with an uncomfortable shrug. “See what he has to say.”
“Good luck,” I said, and leaned up on my tiptoes to kiss him.
“I hope you’re not too lonely tonight,” he whispered, and gave me a wink that made a whole swarm of bees start buzzing in my belly. I closed the door behind me, and heard him say through the glass, “Bonne nuit, ma belle,” before turning and disappearing from view.
During the night everything changed.
I was awakened by the repeated ringing of my phone. Finally I picked it up and saw that Georgia had called four times. I dialed her back.
“What is important enough to wake me in the middle of the night?”
“It’s ten a.m., Katie-Bean.”
“Not in New York it’s not.”
“Listen. I’m over at La Morgue. You have to get over here. Now.” My sister sounded breathless.
“What’s going on?”
“When I got here for my fight training, Gaspard was gone. He and Jean-Baptiste took off. As in left town. For good!”
“No!” I gasped, sitting straight up in the bed.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said. Jumping out of bed, I dialed Vincent’s number as I threw some clothes on.
“Mon ange. You’re up.” He sounded so calm, I wondered if my sister had been mistaken.
“I just got this freaked-out phone call from Georgia, who claimed that JB and Gaspard have left.”
“Yes, I was going to tell you myself, but I thought you’d want to sleep in. Clearly Georgia didn’t agree.”
“Well, here I am, wide-awake. You can tell me now,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear while I pulled my jeans on.
“Trust me—it’s not an over-the-phone kind of conversation,” he replied. “I’ll send Ambrose over to get you.”
I left a note for Papy and Mamie telling them where I was going, and raced down the stairs. Ambrose was already there, standing outside my door discussing something serious with Geneviève when I emerged. “You’ve got to tell me what happened!” I said as they fell into place on either side of me.
“No can do, Katie-Lou,” Ambrose said, scanning the streets for signs of numa as we made our way to La Maison. “With news this big, Vincent’s going to want to tell you himself.”
I wanted to push him for info, but didn’t know how much Vincent had revealed to his kindred. Would he try to cover for JB? Or had he told the bardia about their leader’s betrayal?
We arrived to find a house full of revenants. It felt like a flashback to one week ago, when Paris’s kindred had assembled to await news of where Violette had taken Vincent. But instead of the grave atmosphere of the previous gathering, a feeling of shock hung heavy in the air. Some faces showed disbelief and others bitter disappointment, and people were talking in whispers.
Ambrose led me upstairs to the library, where Vincent waited. As soon as the door shut, Vincent’s stiff pose relaxed. Shoulders slumping, he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my hair.
“What happened?” I asked. Not knowing how to comfort him, I combed his tousled black locks back from his face.
“I confronted him. And he confessed. It’s exactly how Theodore explained it. JB made a deal with Lucien, and has been paying for protection ever since in the form of his Paris properties.”
“Oh, Vincent,” I said, my throat clenching as I saw how upset he was.
“He said he only did it for us. That he felt we were on the brink of defeat. That the losses we had taken were too drastic and he wanted to protect the kindred that were left: his chosen few family members, among them me, who he thought was the Champion. He thought I would rise up and lead the kindred to a final defeat and that his compromise would be justified in the end. He admitted that after a few decades he regretted it, but he was in too deep and couldn’t bring himself to tell us about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, wrapping my arms back around him.
“You should have seen Gaspard,” Vincent continued, running his fingers distractedly up and down my spine and nuzzling my hair. “I think he was hurt the most, discovering that JB had hidden something from him for all those years. But he stuck with him. They’ve gone into self-imposed exile, and JB named me the head of the bardia,” Vincent said flatly.
I drew back to look him in the face. “What?” I exclaimed.
“He named me head and Charlotte my second.”
It shouldn’t have felt like such a shock. Vincent had been Jean-Baptiste’s second. It was a foregone conclusion that he would one day become leader. But so quickly? And I hadn’t even considered that Charlotte might be next in line of bardia hierarchy.
“Charlotte?” I asked, glancing at Ambrose, who stood blocking the door with his massive frame. He cracked his knuckles and unleashed a sly smile.
“Well, it wasn’t going to be me. I like to pick fights, which unless you’re Attila the Hun isn’t considered the healthiest leadership characteristic.”
Turning back to Vincent, I asked, “Are you okay with this?”
His expression was troubled. “I have no choice,” he responded. “Someone must begin assembling our troops. If Violette hears about the sudden change in command, she’ll take the opportunity to strike before we can get ourselves organized. And we’ve just gotten word of where she is, so the time to act is now.”
“What can I do?”
“Keep the details to yourself. I have only told our Paris kindred that JB chose to leave. And Kate . . . please stay close. Not only do I feel better knowing you’re within the safety of these walls, but just having you nearby gives me more confidence.” These last words were in an almost-whisper.
As I watched him, my heart felt like it was expanding—blowing up like a balloon. I brushed his rough, stubbly cheek with my fingertips. “You were made for this, Vincent,” I said. “Champion or not, you will have everyone’s support. I’ve seen how the others respect you, and they will follow you to the very end.”
Vincent smiled ruefully. “Okay, Ambrose, you can tell everyone to come
in,” he said.
A dozen or so of Paris’s most important bardia filed in—a fraction of the people I had seen downstairs—and sat in rows of chairs before the library’s fireplace. Vincent and Charlotte took two chairs facing them, and I grabbed a comfy leather club chair in the back.
Vincent briefed everyone, asked the revenants to call up every contact they had, and ordered them to arm themselves and wait at the ready. I almost choked when he explained that Violette had been spotted coming and going from the Crillon Hotel for the last few days. Trust her to choose the place where heads of state and movie stars stay as her headquarters. She wasn’t about to join her minions in hiding out in the catacombs or caves under Montmartre or, as we now knew, JB’s protected residences throughout Paris.
Vincent called upon one of the revenants to speak. The woman reported that she had news from Bordeaux that the numa had emptied from the city and were said to have headed to Paris. Others spoke up with similar news from other French cities, confirming what we had heard while we were in New York.
“Violette is obviously trying to force things to a head,” said Charlotte, speaking for the first time. Although she was dressed in her regular tomboyish jeans and T-shirt, she had tied her blond hair back into a chignon, making her look older than her fifteen years.
“It isn’t surprising. This is the Third Age that the prophecy specified—in fact, over a century has passed since it began,” said Bran, who I hadn’t noticed sitting on the far side of the group. “It is high time for the Champion to manifest. He will come, whether Violette orchestrates a situation that necessitates him to appear, or whether he is already here.”
“What does your prophecy say?” asked Charlotte.
“I compared my text with Gaspard’s: the bardia’s version and that of the flame-fingers are basically the same.” He scrabbled through his book, lifted it a couple of inches from his eyes, and read:
In the Third Age, humankind’s atrocities will be such that brother will betray brother and numa will outnumber bardia and a preponderance of wars will darken the world of men. In this time a bardia will arise in Gaul who will be a leader amongst his kind.
He will possess anterior powers of perception, persuasion, and communication and preternatural levels of endurance and strength. His aura will blaze like a star on fire. He will lead his kind to victory against the numa and they will be conquered. This will usher in the Fourth Age, which will be an era of peace before the clouds of hatred once again gather over the earth.
The revenants began whispering between themselves. “It sure sounds like you, bro,” remarked Ambrose from his position by the door.
“Our Monsieur Tândorn has assured me that that honor is not mine,” Vincent responded, and then addressed Bran. “Among all of our kindred you have seen, you have not identified him?”
“No,” responded Bran.
Vincent began handing out orders, placing the bardia present in charge of their lower-ranking kindred downstairs, as well as those who hadn’t yet arrived. One team was given the responsibility of watching the Crillon, and others were divided into a spy network throughout Paris and its environs. People began to stand, and I made my way over to Bran.
“Hello, dear Kate,” he said, instinctively reaching toward me, and then awkwardly withdrawing his hand. I smiled. He was like a ghost, so slight and withdrawn that he felt somehow intangible, and avoiding human touch seemed to be right in line with his otherworldly aura.
“You look tired,” I said.
He shrugged. “This is my first experience with jet lag. Of course, those who do not sleep are not affected,” he commented wryly, inclining his head toward Vincent, “which is quite unfair. Speaking of sleep, if I’m not needed I think I’ll go take a nap,” he said with a yawn, and shuffled out of the room behind the others.
I felt an arm twine around my waist and turned to see my sister. “So . . . was it worth waking up for?” she asked.
I nodded. “Thanks, Georgia.”
“I hear your boyfriend’s the king of revenants now. Does that make you the Queen of the Dead?”
I rolled my eyes. And then noticing Arthur standing behind Georgia, I said, “Hi.”
He gave me a broad smile and tucked his blond hair behind his ear. “Thanks for bringing Vincent back,” he said. “Now that he’s once again corporeal, I feel a little less guilty about having been Violette’s stooge.” Leaning over, he gave me cheek-kisses and his stubble prickled my skin.
“Ow,” I laughed, rubbing my face. “Excuse us, please,” I said to Arthur. “We need a sister-to-sister chat.”
“Of course,” he said, making an effort to smile at me but unable to keep his eyes off my sister.
Catching Vincent’s gaze, I mouthed, Do you need me? He shook his head. I pulled Georgia over to a secluded corner of the library where no one could hear us, and we flopped down on armchairs in front of a window. I pressed my cheek with my fingertips. “How do you not get razor burn?”
“Because I’m playing hard to get,” my sister responded.
“What? You haven’t even kissed him?” I stared at her while she smiled beatifically. I eyed her suspiciously. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”
“God, Kate, you make me sound like a total slut.” But the way she said it sounded like she considered it a compliment. “He’s medieval. I figure I should act like one of those maidens from his time and protect my innocence.”
I burst out laughing. “Georgia, you really like this guy, don’t you?”
“Yes, and now that Violette has replaced him with someone else, I feel like I’m no longer her Public Enemy Number One.”
“Violette has replaced Arthur?” I repeated. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, Arthur says that every time she’s been spotted, she’s had the same numa guy with her.”
“That would be Nicolas,” I said, waving my hand. “He was Lucien’s second. That’s not news.”
“No, silly,” said Georgia. “I’m not talking about fur coat guy. This is another numa. A really young one. Like adolescent. No one’s ever seen him around before. They think he’s either new or one of the recent imports from another city. Whatever, Violette doesn’t go anywhere without him.”
“That’s creepy,” I admitted.
“Yeah, he’s like her prepubescent lapdog.”
I wrinkled my nose, and Georgia nodded, agreeing with my sentiment.
“Anyway, that leaves Mister Hunky Medieval Author Guy all for me!” She lifted her eyebrows and got comfortable in her chair. “But my adventures in boyland aren’t important. What I really want to hear is . . . what was it like to be back in New York?”
It was dark when Ambrose dropped me off at home. Georgia had won her freedom and went out with some friends for dinner—friends who were probably unaware that they were being trailed by Arthur and another guard-revenant.
I let myself in. “Mamie? Papy?” I yelled, throwing my coat over the hall chair. The apartment was unusually silent. Most nights at this time Mamie was getting dinner ready and jazz or big band music accompanied her cooking. I hesitated in the dining room, feeling a little creeped out.
“Back here in my study,” came Papy’s voice.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I hung up my coat and headed back to his office. My grandfather was sitting in his favorite position, tucked in a corner in an old leather armchair with his lit pipe in one hand and a book in the other.
“Where’s Mamie?” I asked, perching on the edge of his desk.
“On a house call,” he replied, puffing a stream of smoke as he spoke. The room filled with the citrusy odor of Papy’s pipe tobacco, a smell I always associated with him.
I glanced at the marble clock on the mantel. “At seven p.m. on a Thursday?”
“It’s a foreign client, in town for a few days. Your grandmother’s gone to their hotel to inspect a painting they have out on approval from a Parisian art dealer.”
“She went to someon
e’s hotel room?” I asked doubtfully, picking up a glass paperweight and inspecting the iridescent beetle trapped eternally inside. “I can’t imagine Mamie meeting a client in a hotel.”
“Not just any hotel. The collector is staying at the Crillon, so Emilie felt it was worth it,” Papy replied, looking back down at his book and thumbing through the pages.
The paperweight crashed loudly against the hardwood floor, breaking into splinters and releasing its prisoner, who lay gleaming in the lamplight.
Papy leapt up from his chair, the alarm on his face echoing mine. “What is it, Kate?” he asked.
“The Crillon. Are you sure?”
“Yes. Kate. What in the world is the matter?”
“Violette is staying at the Crillon,” I said. My voice sounded like someone else’s, hollow, as if I were hearing myself from the outside.
“Violette?” my grandfather asked, confused.
“Violette. The medieval revenant who destroyed Vincent.”
“No,” Papy gasped, suddenly looking his seventy-two years.
From across the room came a string quartet ringtone. Papy strode over to his desk chair, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. His hand shook as he held it up to see the caller’s name. He raised the phone to his ear and sank down into his desk chair with a sigh of relief. “Oh, Emilie, thank God you’re there. Kate and I were . . .”
His face suddenly changed, and as he listened, the blood drained from his face. “What? No! But how . . .”
I could hear the tone of my grandmother’s voice through the earpiece. It was careful—measured and slow. Papy hung up the phone and lifted his eyes to meet mine.
I shivered, as if a gust of air had just rushed through the study and clasped me in its frigid fingers.
“Violette would like to speak to you and Vincent at the hotel. She’s keeping your grandmother as a guarantee that you will show.”
THIRTY-FIVE
OUR ARGUMENT TOOK ALL OF A MINUTE. PAPY didn’t want me to go. I didn’t want him to go. In the end, we both dashed out of the apartment, throwing our coats on and running down the stairs, too rushed to wait for the ancient elevator.