If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

  I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Louis is like Violette. A freak of nature. He must have become a numa by accident, the same way she became a revenant. And now he is doomed to be her partner, at least until she gets bored of him. Which, for Arthur, took about five hundred years.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A MOMENT LATER, I FEEL ANOTHER PRESENCE IN the room.

  Kate, it says. I am used to hearing a voice inside my head, but for the first time it’s not Vincent’s. I scan the room, searching for the source of the voice, but see nothing.

  “Who is that?” I ask in a freaked-out whisper.

  It’s Gaspard, says the voice. And apparently you don’t have to speak out loud. I heard your words before you spoke them. How terribly convenient.

  I can’t help smiling. He sounds the same in my head as in real life. What are you doing here? I thought you and JB left Paris.

  We did. But Jean-Baptiste saw your aura all of the way from Normandy, and insisted on coming back. Everyone’s been searching for you. Jean-Baptiste followed your light and led them all here. I must say, my dear, you look absolutely ghastly. Dried blood caked all over. You’re practically . . . zombiesque.

  I ignore his remarks on my appearance. How are my grandparents? And Vincent?

  They’re all fine. Ambrose and Charlotte got your grandparents safely out of the Crillon and then went back in and rescued Vincent.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. So where are we?

  The houseboat you are imprisoned within is just outside Paris, moving westward, says Gaspard. The voice disappears for a moment, and then is back. How strong are you?

  I don’t know, I admit. How long have I been here?

  Violette killed you almost four days ago, Gaspard says. I can’t stay for long. She and her men will sense that I am here. Vincent doesn’t want to try a rescue attempt until he knows you’re strong enough to fight on your own. There’s no way to creep up on a boat in the middle of the river, but we don’t want to give Violette the time she needs to destroy you.

  His voice disappears again for a good few minutes, and then he is back. Vincent says, and I quote, “Be strong, mon ange.” He says you should do your best to get free, but stay where you are and pretend you are still bound. I will come back in a few hours to check on you.

  Gaspard? I say.

  Yes.

  I’m a revenant. I realize it’s the understatement of the century, but somehow saying it out loud makes me feel better.

  I know. It seems that you’re actually a bit more than a revenant, dear Kate.

  I inhale sharply. How do you know?

  Well, firstly, your aura is like nothing Jean-Baptiste has ever seen before. It’s like a homing beacon for his Seer capabilities. And then, once confronted, Bran confessed. He’s known this whole time, but was bound by his people’s rules not to pronounce you Champion before you actually became such.

  My hunch was right. Bran had known. I can’t decide whether I am grateful or upset with him for not letting me know. But then again . . . maybe he had tried with all of his little hints. In the only way he could “legally” let me know. I had just been blind to it.

  Just be careful, Kate, Gaspard continues. I’ll be back to check on you.

  So. My state—both revenant and Champion—is now common knowledge among the bardia. They all know. Vincent knows. I’m not sure how I feel about that. There is a pang in my heart as I wonder if this will change the way he sees me now. He told me more than once that he would never wish the revenant destiny for me.

  Well, none of that will matter if I can’t get out of here. My body will be ashes and my spirit absorbed into Violette, strengthening her. Making her unstoppable. Just the thought of being a part of her sets me into action. I work on my bonds, moving my hands back and forth and picking at the ropes. All I manage is rope burn and more bleeding. I feel like screaming, but now that I’m in contact with the others, I don’t want to draw more attention to myself than is necessary. I lie back on the bed and wish I could sleep.

  After what seems like forever, Louis is back with another tray. This time he leaves the door open behind him. Lifting my head to help me drink, he places slices of fruit and nuts in my mouth and waits for me to chew and swallow.

  I sense that he hates this guard work. There’s something about the way his jaw clenches when I occasionally wince in pain. And the way his eyes dart to my face every few seconds to gauge my reactions. I’ve been feeling an emotion from him that I finally realize could be sympathy. I have a sneaking suspicion that he would rather be anywhere besides here, helping me grow stronger so I can be destroyed.

  I take a chance that my hunch is right. “Louis, please help me get out of here,” I whisper.

  He acts like he doesn’t hear me and pops a hazelnut into my mouth. I chew and swallow and wonder if there is a trick to this persuasiveness thing. Focusing on what I want from him, I picture him getting up, closing the door, and then untying me. I concentrate all of my energy into that little film reel in my head, watching him go through the motions I want time after time. I feel another nut against my lips, and my eyes pop open to see his gaze flicker quickly away from me as I take the food from his fingers.

  He stands and walks toward the door. I am crushed by disappointment. He is my one chance: Unless I get superstrong superfast, there is no way I’m getting out of here on my own. As I watch him leave, I see something that I haven’t noticed before. Within his bright red aura something gleams, like tiny filaments of gold. I blink a few times, wondering if lying on my back for so long is giving me eyestrain, but when I look again, the golden glint is still there.

  As if he feels me watching him, Louis pauses. And then he turns and comes back. Carefully avoiding my gaze, he leans under the bed and yanks on one of the cords. It bites into my arm as the rope twists against my skin. I am petrified with alarm, wondering what he is doing.

  Without looking back, he takes out a single key and leaves it on the windowsill before leaving the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

  What just happened here? I ask myself. I lift my head to look down at my hands. He has turned the cord around leaving the knot right next to my fingers. I lay my head back down and close my eyes in relief. Then, summoning all of my strength, I prop myself up and begin working the knot with my fingernails.

  It’s a simple knot, but it has been tied so tightly that I have to actually unravel some of the cord using my thumbnail as a knife. I hear footsteps approach the door and freeze, lying back down so that if someone peeks in they might not see anything amiss. The footsteps walk away, and I throw myself into the task harder than before, ripping the skin on my thumbs to loosen the cord. Finally I feel the knot release and I tear the cord free.

  There are three more cords holding me down: across my shoulders, upper legs, and feet. I work these for the next few minutes, each being easier than the last now that I have more mobility, and finally I am free.

  I consider waiting for Gaspard, but it feels like hours since he left. I could drape the ropes back around me, pretend to be tied up in case Violette returns. But if it comes to fighting her, I’m not sure I can win. I have no way to judge my strength.

  Though I don’t feel up to a fight, I do feel desperate enough to move my limbs. Maybe even to attempt an escape. Curious, I touch my chest, pulling my shirt apart where Violette’s knife sliced it. I am covered in a thick layer of dried blood, so it is hard to see the knife wound. I run my fingers over my breastbone, where the blade entered. It is smooth. There is no wound. Not even a scar. I shiver and goose bumps raise on my forearms.

  If I had any remaining doubts about my mortality, they are now gone. I am undeniably supernatural.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there, feeling the blood rush into my thighs. The pins and needles return with full force. I try to stand, but slump immediately to a sitting position until finally I can feel my toes. I stay like that for another moment before trying to stand again. Then I limp painfu
lly across the room to the window.

  Picking up Louis’s key, I slip it into the lock. It fits, and I turn the handle carefully, teeth clenched, trying my best to avoid making noise. I push the window open slowly—an inch at a time—and after nothing happens, dare to stick my head out and look down. There is a six-foot drop to the main deck. No one is in sight.

  I shake out my arms and legs, trying to get my circulation going before easing a still half-limp leg through the window and following it with the other. I hang over the side with my elbows and then ease myself down until I’m holding the window ledge with my fingertips and drop silently to the deck.

  Or at least, that’s what I attempt. My blood-encrusted Converse make a kind of crunching sound as they hit the wood, and the impact—one I could normally spring back up from—has me crouching, unable to straighten myself because my long-unused leg muscles have seized up.

  I’m stuck there for a full three seconds, my heart beating like a drum, panicky that Violette will appear in front of me before I can get safely into the water. Be calm and think, I urge myself, and scan the space around me for anything that can be used as a weapon.

  Just in time. As I push myself, with effort, into a standing position, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I look around to see one of the numa guards from the hotel scowling down at me.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “HEY!” THE NUMA SHOUTS. BEFORE HE CAN ALERT the others, I grab a metal oar attached to the wall next to me and swing it as hard as I can against his head. I am still weak, but seem to have hit him in the right spot, because he releases my shoulder and staggers backward just as another numa arrives on the deck and starts toward me.

  “What is going on?” I hear Violette scream, and then I am diving off the boat’s deck into the frigid water below.

  I swim with determined strokes toward the shore. If I am the Champion, it definitely hasn’t made me any stronger. I am tired and weak, but panic moves me quickly through the water. I thank my lucky stars that I was already a good swimmer when I was human.

  When I was human. My chest constricts, and I falter in my stroke. I’m a monster. No, you’re a revenant, I correct, urging my body forward.

  I hear a splash in the water behind me. And then another. I assume that the numa guards are chasing me, but I don’t take the time to look back. I struggle through the water, my muscles searing with pain, heading straight for the riverbank.

  Suddenly someone else is in my head. Gaspard. Kate, I am leading the others to the point where you are coming ashore. The numa will reach land before the kindred get to you. You will have to fight.

  Can your future-sight tell me if I will win? I ask, fighting to maintain my speed.

  No, I can’t see that.

  Another few minutes and my feet touch the ground. I surge out of the water onto the shore. There are no buildings around, so we must be near one of the national parks outside of the Paris city limits. No one to see me. No one to call to for help, I think. It’s just me against the numa.

  Without looking back, I stumble forward, dripping and waterlogged and leaving a trail of bloody water behind me. Searching for anything I can use as a weapon, I grab a broken tree branch, snap it off, and strip it of its twigs as quickly as I can. It is almost the same size as the quarterstaff I trained on with Gaspard, although quite a bit heavier.

  I turn to face the water and am thrown for a moment. The two men swimming in the water have the same creepy red halo of light shining around them that they did on the boat. But now that they’re farther away, the red is illuminating the inky water beneath them and shooting straight up into the air like a beacon. I blink. The light subsides while my eyes are closed, but it flares back up when I focus on them again. As they approach, the light grows dimmer, until they are upon me, charging up out of the water and the beacon disappears, leaving only the misty red haloes.

  I don’t have time to consider what the strange optical illusion means right now. Gaspard was right to warn me: They are so close that if I run, they will quickly catch me. And I have no idea where I am. No sense of direction. It would be too easy for me to get lost trying to find a way out of the woods.

  Only five seconds elapse between the time I arm myself and the moment they are upon me, and I spend this flash of time furiously peeling bark away from one end of my stick.

  I try to strategize as I watch them approach. Panic engulfs me as I see their lumbering forms and realize I have no idea how to take on two numa at once . . . with only a stick. Don’t think. Just act, I tell myself. I breathe deeply and try to put myself into the zone—the frame of mind I’ve learned to slip into after months of fight training with Gaspard.

  I don’t have time to concentrate. My fingers are bleeding, and a shard of wood is stuck painfully beneath my nail. But the pain helps me focus. Stumbling slightly from the weight of the branch, I swing up and smash it against the shoulder of the first numa to reach me.

  He isn’t ready for the blow. Caught off balance, he stumbles and falls heavily onto one shoulder, crying out in pain as it dislocates.

  The second of my attackers is upon me, and I swing awkwardly again, unused to such a heavy staff. It hits him low, striking his shins, but he is better prepared than his kindred. Though he staggers, he keeps his balance. He lunges for me, and I skip aside, letting him plow by before he turns and charges me again.

  My enemy on the ground is back on his feet. I have two numa upon me at once, but I am ready, feeling the rhythm of the fight now. Everything I learned comes back to serve me, and I am in control.

  I wait, balancing the stick horizontally in both hands, watching the attacker facing me. It seems that the two numa have no strategy besides rushing me individually. As Gaspard explained, one of the numa’s greatest weaknesses is “anarchy in warfare.” Unless they work under a strong leader, it’s every numa for himself. I take advantage of this and focus on one at a time.

  My enemy roars and runs for me, and I hit him squarely in the shoulder with the blunt end of the stick. As he falls back, I spot the other numa charging me from behind. Pulling the sharp end of the stick forcefully backward, under my arm, I wait until he is three feet away and thrust it through his chest.

  Oh my God. I feel wood pass through flesh and am sickened, my throat spasming in an all-too-human reaction. Don’t think about it, I urge myself. If I take the time to feel, I’m dead. Again.

  The numa’s eyes pop wide and he lets out a cry that is more like a groan as he places both hands around the rod protruding from his chest. I jerk the stick backward out of him, and he falls to the ground.

  Bringing the bloody end around, I swing the rod back toward my opponent at the level of his head. He reaches up and grabs it with both hands, wrenching it from my grasp. But his hands slip on the blood covering the staff and, fumbling, he drops the rod to the ground. I am too close for him to bend down and get it.

  Furious, he roars. Raising his fists, he pulls back his arm to punch me. I strike first, bending low to my left, below his punch trajectory, and kick out with my right foot, planting it squarely in his chest. He stumbles back a step, but lunges low and is able to grab the improvised quarterstaff.

  Swinging it like a baseball bat, he lands a powerful strike to my upper back, sending me flying forward. As my face hits the ground, I feel my cheek grind against dirt and rocks, and lie there, bleeding and unable to breathe. I push myself onto my hands and knees, gasping and choking and spitting dirt and blood. My breath has been knocked out, and I see stars and wonder how long I have before I pass out. I hear the numa coming up behind me, and scrabble forward, trying to get away. He catches me by the hair, grabbing my wet, straggly locks with one hand, and uses it to pull me to my feet. With the other, he holds the sharpened end of the rod to my face. With an expression like he will immensely enjoy what he is about to do, he draws my head back to ram it onto the staff point.

  In the split second before I die, I see Vincent’s face before me once again. He’s on the quay o
f the Seine, standing in the sun, hands thrust into his jean pockets, giving me that crooked smile that I now know means, “I love you.” I love you, too, I think, and my fear disappears as I gulp one last breath of air.

  But before the stake meets my face I hear a twanging noise, and the numa is knocked off his feet to the side, landing heavily upon the ground. He twitches once, but the arrow lodged through his temple killed him before he even fell.

  “Kate!” Vincent calls, and then he is clasping me against himself so tightly that I can feel his heart beat against my chest. Gasping for breath, I lean against him for support and let him take all my weight as I revel in the fact that he is here. Finally, he lets go and smoothes my wet, straggly hair off my face so that he can see me. He brushes the dirt and blood off my face with his fingertips. The emotion in his eyes makes my own cloud with tears.

  “You’re alive,” he finally manages to say.

  “Not really,” I respond, my chest still heaving with exertion, and then can’t say anything else because he is wrapping his arms around my shoulders, pulling me to him.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he says. And he takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

  It is tender. It is deep. It is my first kiss in my new incarnation . . . since my heart stopped and started again. I am undead, and yet Vincent is kissing me, and my worries that he wouldn’t want me this way—that this would somehow change the way he felt about me—dissipate.

  I kiss him back, pushing aside the rest of my fears and doubts and sorrow about what has been lost and abandoning myself to the pleasure of touching him again.

  Drawing back from Vincent, I turn to see Charlotte standing nearby with a bow in her hand and a mischievous smile on her face. She’s glowing. Not just in a happy kind of way—the air around her body is actually glowing a golden red, and around her head is the halo of the bardia, “an aura like a forest fire,” as Gwenhaël had put it.