If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

“We still need to get her body back in order to burn it,” says Vincent finally. “That is, if this isn’t just a ruse and Violette actually brings the body with her. In any case, Kate will not be going.”

  “What do you mean, not going?” I exclaim.

  “I’m not saying that to protect you, Kate. I’m saying it to protect us. Violette’s goal has not changed. She wants to trap you in order to get the Champion’s power. As things stand now, she could defeat us even without that extra strength. Her men at least double our numbers. But for her, the desire for power trumps common sense. She wants you and will risk an on-the-spot, unorganized battle in order to get you. You can’t go.”

  I shake my head, furious. “You can’t make that decision for me,” I say.

  “Could everyone please leave us?” Vincent asks tersely. He is determined to have his way. Too bad I am too.

  The room empties until it is only me and Vincent and Charlotte standing in the dappled light of the crystal chandelier.

  “If we are making a tactical decision, I need to be here,” Charlotte explains apologetically.

  We stand in a solemn triangle, no longer lovers and friends. Our feelings don’t matter anymore. We must be rational; a decision needs to be made—one that will affect everyone we know.

  “I am one of you now,” I begin. “And I will not hide here to protect myself. I became the Champion for a reason. And whatever the prophecy actually means—whether I am to lead the bardia against the numa to my peril or to a victory that I actually survive—I know I am supposed to do this. I have to face Violette. I feel it here,” I say, and place my hand on my chest, inadvertently pressing the signum into my skin. I look into sad blue eyes. “Vincent, I have never felt more certain about anything.”

  He continues to meet my gaze, as if waiting for me to change my mind. And then suddenly his shoulders slump and his head drops. He shuts his eyes and touches his fingers to his forehead.

  “You win,” he murmurs, not looking at me. And then, all business, he says, “Charlotte, call everyone together. Tell them to phone the kindred they contacted earlier this evening. Everyone will assemble, fully armed, at the northeast corner of the park surrounding the arena.” Charlotte nods and goes to inform the others.

  Vincent and I are left alone in the foyer. He looks at me like I’m a stranger. As if he is seeing me for the very first time. The three feet between us feels like a mile. “This could be it, Kate. It could be the end of all of us. It could very likely be the end of you.”

  “I know,” I say, raising my chin.

  He is quiet. “My first feeling when I heard you had animated was joy,” he says finally. “I thought that this was the answer to all of our problems. That we could be together forever. Even though I ached that you would be forced to follow such a difficult path, I thought that together we could make it something good and beautiful.”

  “Vincent, I . . . ,” I begin, but he holds a hand up, asking me to let him finish.

  “Then Bran told us you were the Champion. And I lost that joy. Because I knew you would never be allowed to be yourself again. You would always carry a great responsibility—the survival of our kindred as well as the protection of the city. The country. That is . . . you would carry that responsibility until the day you were called into action against the numa. And I knew that when that day came, the victory you led us to might prove a tragedy for you. For me and for your family. You can so easily be destroyed. You are the target.”

  I take a deep breath, knowing he is right. “My grandparents and sister know what a revenant is and the dangers that go with it. They have had a couple of days to accept that.” I pause. “It’s as if my country were at war and I was going to defend it in battle. Mamie and Papy wouldn’t want me to be a soldier. But now that I am one, they will understand any sacrifice I make.”

  “And me?” Vincent asks. “Does what I feel count for anything? The girl I love is offering herself up like . . .” He sighs, looking miserable as he searches for words. “Like a virgin to the dragon.”

  “No, the girl you love isn’t offering herself to the dragon. This virgin”—a smile forms on my lips as I say the word—“is heading out to kick some dragon ass, not to swoon and perish.”

  Vincent throws himself on me, enveloping me in his arms. “No self-sacrifice,” he breathes into my hair. “You won’t die for us.”

  “Not on purpose,” I promise. “Plus, Vincent, I’m not going anywhere without you. If we go down, we’re going down together.” I lean back and attempt a smile.

  His eyes are red and glassy. “Together,” he agrees, and leans down to kiss me.

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Vincent says, as Ambrose struggles to get up off the bed.

  “I have one good arm,” Ambrose retorts, and then grunts in pain as Charlotte pushes him back down.

  “See? You can barely move,” she says. “You’ll only be a liability.”

  “The fight of the decade—maybe even the century—and I won’t be there? You have got to be kidding me,” he moans.

  The doctor leans over and gives him an anesthetizing shot in the arm. “We’ll give it a couple of minutes to get numb,” he says, and goes to the other side of the room to dig through some instruments.

  “I’m your leader and I say no,” Vincent insists, and leaves the room.

  Charlotte begins to stand, but Ambrose catches her hand before she can walk away. “Wait,” he pleads.

  “You’re not going to talk me into it,” she says, giving him a warning look.

  He glances at me. “Katie-Lou, you’ll give it to me straight. This is the real deal, isn’t it? What’s going to go down with Violette is happening now, right?”

  I meet Charlotte’s eyes, and she gives a slight shake of her head. I exhale. “Yes.”

  “Aww, man,” Ambrose groans, and closing his eyes, he lays his head back against the pillow.

  “Listen, Ambrose,” says Charlotte, “we’re going to do our best to get Geneviève’s body back, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ll just slow us down if you go along. I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

  Ambrose’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you think I want to go?” he asks. “Because of Geneviève?”

  Charlotte gives him a confused look.

  “Listen, baby.” He rubs his thumb nervously up and down the back of her hand. “You guys are walking straight into one of the most dangerous fights we’ve seen. It could be the Fight. Besides being extremely upset that I can’t have a piece of that, it’s going to make me crazy knowing you are there, possibly getting yourself killed. Possibly getting yourself destroyed.”

  “Vincent and I will . . . ,” Charlotte begins to argue.

  “I’m not worried about Vincent,” Ambrose says, cutting her off. “I’m worried about you.”

  Here it comes, I think, and grinning, I inch slowly backward toward the door so neither of them notice I’m fleeing the scene. Not that they would anyway; they’re totally wrapped up in each other.

  “I can fight as well as the rest of you,” Charlotte retorts, pulling her hand away from him and pushing her fists to her hips.

  “I never said you couldn’t,” Ambrose insists.

  “Then why—”

  He interrupts her again. “I will stay without complaining . . .”

  “You have no choice!”

  “. . . if you’ll do two things.” The teasing has long left his face. He is dead serious.

  I should leave but I can’t. I know I’m about to witness a historic event, and I lurk next to the door, my eyes glued to Charlotte and Ambrose.

  “Okay,” Charlotte says, matching his gravity.

  “Promise me you’ll come back.”

  Charlotte is silent.

  “And give me a kiss good-bye.”

  “What?” Charlotte blurts.

  “You heard me.”

  She stands stock-still for a good couple of seconds before raising her fingertips to her mouth. Her eyes glitter with
tears as she sits back down on the side of his bed. And taking his good hand in hers, she leans forward and kisses him. It is a slow kiss. It is a lingering kiss. It’s the kiss she’s been waiting for for years.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  GEORGIA IS WAITING IN THE HALLWAY AS I CREEP out of Ambrose’s room. “What’s up?” she asks, making me leap a foot into the air.

  “I didn’t see you there,” I say, holding my hand to my racing heart.

  “So, where’s the party?” She folds her arms across her chest.

  “Why are you even awake?” I ask.

  “Couldn’t sleep. And then I look out my window and see the Sex Pistols parking their cars in the drive. So I figure something’s up.”

  I look at Georgia, the bed-tossed condition of her short strawberry-blond hair making her more beautiful than ever. I realize there’s a chance that after tonight I might not see her again. Throwing my arms around her neck, I squeeze her to me.

  She pats my back. “What, Katie-Bean? What’s wrong? I mean, besides the fact that you are supposedly the undead Wonder Woman or something . . . I mean, is that why you’re crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” I say, sniffing and surreptitiously wiping my eyes before letting her go. “I just want you to know that I love you.”

  Georgia’s eyes narrow and she stares at me suspiciously before pointing her finger at me. “You guys are going to do something dangerous. What is it?”

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Georgia.”

  She makes a disgusted noise and says, “Oh, don’t give me that. You wouldn’t be acting like this unless you were worried you weren’t going to come back. It’s why Jeanne’s here in the middle of the night and half of punk Berlin is hopping around the house like it’s some kind of zombie mosh pit? Right?”

  I just look at her and bite my tongue.

  “Fine, I’ll go ask Arthur,” she says, and stalks off.

  Charlotte steps out of Ambrose’s room and closes the door behind her. Her face glows and her naturally rosy cheeks are flushed scarlet. She takes my hand and we make our way down the stairs. “Did you know?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I admit. “But just recently. I think Ambrose only loved Geneviève when she wasn’t available. Once it was actually possible, I think he realized she wasn’t the one he wanted.”

  She smiles like a girl whose five-decade wish has finally been granted and, skipping down the rest of the stairs, heads toward the armory.

  Back in my room, I throw some water on my face and brush my hair back into a long ponytail. Then, fishing a piece of paper and a pen out of the desk, I sit down to write a note to Mamie and Papy. My pen hovers above the page as I agonize over what to say. But before I can write anything, there is a knock at my door.

  Mamie sticks her head in and asks, “Can we talk with you?”

  “Yes,” I say, covering the unwritten note with my hand and then, seeing her concerned expression, give up the pretense. It might be the last time I see my grandparents, and I’m grateful they came to find me.

  “I was writing you a note, but I’m glad you’re here. I’d rather talk to you in person.”

  “Where are you going?” Papy asks, walking in to stand behind my grandmother.

  “We’re going to battle against Violette,” I say honestly.

  “And do you plan on coming back?” Mamie asks, her voice catching for a second before she stops herself and puts on her brave grandmother mask.

  I rise and walk to them. My grandparents. Besides Georgia, they are my last remaining family, and I love them fiercely. But our struggle against the numa is not just for them as people—as residents of a city that can easily be overrun by the evil undead—but as targets of Violette’s wrath. If I fail, I know she will not hesitate to go after them. She won’t pass up such an enticing chance for vengeance.

  “This is something I need to do,” I respond, avoiding Mamie’s question.

  “We know that. Reassure me again, though, that you’re really hard to destroy,” Papy says with a forced smile.

  “I’m a revenant now, Papy. If I die, I will resurrect.” Unless the numa have a giant bonfire blazing at the battle site or kidnap my dead body and take it somewhere else to burn. I don’t speak this thought, but I don’t have to. Papy knows the rules as well as I do.

  Mamie gives me a hug. “I brought these from your dresser,” she says and holds out my parents’ wedding rings. “You know the importance I place in symbols. Take these with you as a reminder of your parents’ love and support. They would be very proud of you right now, Katya.”

  My eyes filling with tears, I pull out my necklace and add the rings to my signum and the empty locket that I’ve kept even though it no longer has a purpose. Jeanne had snipped off more of Vincent’s hair as soon as we got back from New York, and I gave her a sample of mine after my bath today. It was a little bit of insurance—in case the worst happens.

  I slip the cords back under my shirt and pat the rings to feel that they are there. “Thank you, Mamie,” I whisper.

  She nods and smiles, wiping a tear away and moving aside so Papy can have his turn. He clasps me tightly in his arms and whispers, “Take care of yourself, ma princesse.”

  “I will, Papy,” I promise, now gulping back the tears.

  My grandparents give me one last look-over, nod at me proudly, and then leave. I grab a tissue off the bedside table and take a minute to compose myself. As I start out of the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a full-length mirror and, not recognizing myself, I pause. In my black leather pants, knee-length boots, thin chain-mail-like body armor overlaid with a black suede top, and long leather coat, I look like an action hero.

  My cheeks are flushed from fear and anticipation, but my eyes shine like dark stars and I look older with my hair pulled back. I don’t know what will happen, but I know beyond any doubt that this is my fate: Facing Violette. I am ready.

  As I reach the grand foyer, I see Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard step through the front door.

  “You’re here!” I cry.

  “I had planned on taking a couple more hours to rest up,” Gaspard explains with a grin, “however, we received this almost indecipherable text message on our mobile telephone . . .”

  Jean-Baptiste holds up his cell phone like it’s a piece of alien machinery. “And I quote, ‘Dudes, it’s going down now. Get your sorry asses over here stat.’ With such an eloquent request, how could we resist?” he remarks drily. But there is a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, and I know that he and Gaspard wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.

  “Woo-hoo, I knew you’d come!” whoops Ambrose from the landing at the top of the stairs.

  “You get back in bed this minute,” Jeanne scolds, scurrying out from behind him, and pointing imperiously back toward his bedroom door, “before you hemorrhage all over my nice clean rug.”

  Ambrose grins widely and throws us all a salute, before turning and being ushered back to his bedroom.

  “So . . . shall we?” I say, placing my hands on JB’s and Gaspard’s arms and stepping with them out the door. In the courtyard, I see a stream of cars and motorcycles lined up in front of the gate, motors idling. Two figures stand beside the fountain, bodies pressed tightly together, desperately kissing before stepping back and becoming Georgia and Arthur. Georgia walks away from him and, passing me without slowing her stride, she says, “You better the hell come back, Katie-Bean.” And entering the house, she slams the door behind her.

  FORTY-NINE

  IT IS JUST BEFORE FOUR A.M. WHEN WE PULL INTO the Place Monge neighborhood. Vincent parks the car, and I step out onto the sidewalk as Arthur, Charlotte, and Louis scramble out of the backseat. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard park nearby and join us. My stomach is in knots. But the calm that comes with the focus of a fight begins to settle over me, infusing me with the confidence I’m going to need. And the fact that Vincent has taken my hand and is holding it firmly in his doesn’t hurt.

  A
few dark figures across the road shine with golden bardia auras, and one raises a hand in greeting. Groups that assembled in Paris over the last few hours have been waiting for us to arrive. We have sixty revenants in all.

  But when I glance toward the park hiding the Roman arena, my vision burns with at least a hundred red columns flaming up toward the predawn sky. We are outnumbered. As we feared.

  Vincent sees it on my face. “That bad?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yep. More than a hundred, I’d guess—some within the park and others scattered around the neighborhood.”

  He turns and cups my face with his hands, gliding his thumbs over my temples. “You don’t have to do this,” he says softly enough that the others don’t hear. “We can bring the fight to them without you ever having to face Violette. You heard Bran. Geneviève wanted to die.”

  “There’s always the chance that they’ll keep her until she’s volant and then destroy her, like they did you. She wants to be free. Not trapped as a wandering soul.”

  “If that actually happens, Bran can disperse her.”

  “Okay, you’re right,” I admit. “But I have to face Violette, Vincent. I know it. We both do. And I’d rather do it now, when we know she’s not going to slip through our fingers, than living our lives wondering when she’s going to turn up next and do something even worse.”

  “I know.” He leans down to kiss me briefly. Firmly. We stand locked in each other’s gaze while small groups begin to move into place around us.

  “If I should die . . . ,” I begin to say.

  Vincent cuts me off. “Stop, Kate!” And then he sighs and his shoulders hunch slightly. He knows it’s dishonest to pretend we’re all going to make it out alive. He shuts his eyes and, when he opens them, he looks resolute. “Whatever happens, remember that I will love you forever,” he says. “Even if my spirit is dispersed and my consciousness released to the universe . . . whatever is left of me will never stop loving you.”

  Vincent won’t possess me like he did when I fought Lucien. And there’s no sign of whatever superstrength was mentioned in the prophecy. But I am suddenly unafraid, knowing I will face Violette with a powerful but invisible weapon: love. The complete and unconditional love of another being. That is something Violette does not have. It won’t win me the battle against her. But it has already made me the victor over my fear.