by Amy Plum
The musty cave odor mixed in my nostrils with something more sinister. It smelled like death down there. Like rot and decay. The oscillating light of Ambrose’s flashlight cast evil shadows down the rough-hewn walls, and I saw in its farthest-cast beams that we were approaching a larger room.
But before we reached the end of the passageway, we were cut off by two leather-clad numa who lunged from either side of the opening and let out bloodcurdling battle cries as they swung massive spiked maces at us. The short, slight bardia who was at the front of our group was immediately struck down, his body thrown aside like a sack of laundry. Ambrose blocked the second numa’s swing and handily lopped off his head with one stroke of his curved saber.
We stormed out from the tunnel and into the cavern as one of our companions, a tall dark-skinned woman, drove a metal lance through the other numa’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall of the cave. “Talk!” she insisted.
Wincing in pain, the numa quickly rearranged his face into a sneer. “You’re too late,” he said, spitting his words like missiles. “They’re all gone, and they took your wonder-boy’s body with them.”
“Where did they go?” said Ambrose, his voice pitched dangerously low.
“Even if I knew, why would you think I would tell you?”
“Because I might spare your pitiful afterlife and let you go.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” the numa said defiantly.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t,” said Ambrose with a shrug, and swung his saber so hard against the man’s neck that the blade lodged firmly in the soft stone wall as the head above it and the body below fell to the ground.
“Check out those tunnels.” Ambrose nodded toward a couple of passageways leading off from the larger room we were standing in.
“Not you, Katie-Lou,” he called as I fell in line with a group. “Remember, you don’t come back to life if you get killed.”
I turned to face him, my sword in hand. “Ambrose, I want to go. I need to help.” With the adrenaline of the chase speeding through my veins, I ached to move. I couldn’t just sit and wait.
“You can help,” he said, and gestured toward the revenant boy who lay motionless on the floor, his face crushed and bloody. A man had shrugged off his leather duster and was spreading it on the ground next to the body.
I blanched. “I can’t look at that,” I said, looking back at Ambrose.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Gore. It’s gory. Really gory. And I’m . . . not used to it.” As if I needed another difference to point out to him, but I knew my limitations. Fainting or throwing up was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Oh, right,” Ambrose said, and helped the man move the body onto the makeshift gurney, then whipped off his jacket and laid it over the upper part of the boy’s body. I took the end of the duster in my hands and helped the man carry the light load down the long passageway and out of the cave to one of the cars.
As we laid the boy carefully in the backseat, I realized that if I had been a dozen feet farther along, it could be me lying there dead with half my head bashed in. Ambrose was right. Unlike this boy, I wouldn’t reanimate in three days. Once dead, I was gone. Permanently.
And for the hundredth time, I felt an overwhelming sense of not belonging. Anywhere. I had been training with the revenants. I knew their secrets and held their symbol around my neck. I was part of their world now, and they were a major part of mine. But I was not one of them.
Neither was I comfortable in the skin of the human teenage girl I had been a year ago. I had gone too far now—out of the world of believing only what you can see and into one where the mystical was mundane.
Vincent had been my link with the revenants. But—if I were honest with myself—without him I would be drifting between the two worlds with no anchor to ground me and no oars to navigate. I pushed that thought out of my head. We will find him, I promised myself.
By the time we returned to the cave, the search parties had returned. Now that I had time to look around, I saw that the large room we were assembled in was packed with weapons and simple furniture, suggesting that it had been used as a hideout. And from the cavern’s state of disarray, it seemed that the numa sentry had been telling the truth: It had been recently and abruptly abandoned.
Ambrose looked up from the discussion he was having. “The white delivery van you described is parked at a side entrance. There was blood on the floor of the van, Kate. Vincent was here. They must have transferred him to another vehicle and left in it.” He clasped my arm as if to comfort me, and I broke his gaze and stared at the floor.
“If we had gotten here earlier,” I began.
“It’s only been a couple of hours,” he responded, lowering his head to look me in the eyes. “And we’re only getting started.” His phone vibrated and he picked it up. “Yeah?”
He listened for a few seconds, and then sighed in resignation.
“What?” I asked, my body buzzing with alarm.
“Just a sec, Gaspard.” He glanced up at the others, who were listening attentively, and then looked directly at me. “Gaspard’s group got a numa to talk. Violette and some others have taken Vincent’s body out of the city. The guy only knew that they were headed south.” Whispers and murmuring broke out around me.
Ambrose filled Gaspard in on what we had found. “Yep. Yep. Yeah, we’re coming back,” he said, and stuck his phone in his pocket. “We’re regrouping at La Maison,” he announced. “Let’s get back to the cars, but take as many of these weapons as you can carry.” I tried to ignore the fact that his determined expression had been replaced by disappointment.
“What’s this mean? Where do we look next?” I said, unwilling to accept that we were just . . . giving up.
Ambrose jostled a two-handed sword to detach it from the wall. “We have no other leads, and no clue where the numa are taking Vincent. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard are working on a longer-term plan.” His eyes met mine. “Because in the short term, Katie-Lou, there’s nothing else we can do but wait to hear from them.”
We formed a convoy of cars on the way back to Jean-Baptiste’s house. I rode silently beside Ambrose as the sky above the city changed from cotton-candy pink into a rash of brilliant red in one of Paris’s spectacular early winter sunsets. I was transported back to the months after my parents’ death, where at every turn I felt like nature was mocking my despair with its beauty. How could the world go on—how could sunsets and the warm twinkling beauty of Paris at twilight continue—when Vincent was helpless in the hands of his enemies? Nothing made sense.
ALTERNATE ENDING
I awoke in a cloud of grogginess the next morning to hear my alarm beeping softly on my bedside table. I opened an eye to look at my clock. Six a.m. Why is my alarm going off so early? I wondered. And then, realizing it was my cell phone, I was awake in an instant.
Ambrose, I thought as I reached past the clock to grab the telephone. I had called him one last time at two in the morning, just before falling into a dreamless sleep. At that point they still had no news. No one could find a trace of the numa. They had all disappeared.
I picked up the phone to see that it was a blocked number, and pressed the button to answer. “Yes?”
“Kate,” came that familiar voice with the tone of a little girl and the gravity of an older woman. But now it was colored with something else. It had slipped over the dark edge of the vocal spectrum and was now resonant with evil. “Since you’re so fond of supernatural beings, I hope you’ll enjoy snuggling up with a ghost. I have Vincent’s body, but his spirit’s all yours.”
“Where are you keeping him?” I whispered, my throat constricted to the point that I could barely push the words out.
“Somewhere no one can get him. And if they try, it’s poof—up in smoke for poor Vincent. Yesterday I swore I’d kill you, Kate. I sincerely hope to have that pleasure someday. Until then . . .” And she hung up.
I was out of bed in a second, throwing on my clothe
s and dashing out of the apartment and down the stairs. But before I could get to the front door, I stopped motionless in my tracks. An enormous vase of white lilies stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking my way.
I didn’t need a book to tell me that white lilies were for funerals. And I knew without a doubt who had put them there and why.
Shoving the arrangement out of the way, knocking flowers and water the length of the vestibule, I ran out the door into the street. I sprinted the whole way to the rue de Grenelle and, upon arriving at the gate, leaned on the doorbell with all my force. Jules answered, pushing the button to open the gate as soon as he heard my frantic voice.
The early morning sun had turned the fountain into a giant sundial: The statue of the angel cast a shadow that stretched toward me down the length of the courtyard. I ran down its gray path to the door and threw myself, weeping, into Jules’s arms as he opened it.
Wobbling a bit, he whispered, “Careful, Kates. I’m still weak.” And then, leaning up against the door frame, he held me for the longest time, finally pushing me back so that he could see my face.
I struggled to compose myself enough to speak. “It’s Violette,” I sobbed. “She just called. She said she’s keeping Vincent’s body. That if we try to rescue him, she’ll destroy it. What are we going to do?”
Jules raised a hand to his brow. “Oh, Kate.”
Something was wrong. I could sense it before I saw anything different. But when Jules lowered his hand from his face and looked straight into my eyes, there was something there. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something in the way that he was looking at me was different. I took a step back.
Jules grasped my shoulders softly and tilted his handsome, rugged face slightly to the side with a look like he was about to cry too.
“What? What is it?” I said, a sudden fear scraping my heart like a knife.
“Kate. It’s me,” he said, smoothing a tear-drenched lock of hair off my face and securing it behind my ear. “I’m here with Jules. It’s me—Vincent.”
IF I SHOULD DIE OUTTAKES
CHARLOTTE MEETS MAMIE
I sat up cautiously, wincing as I felt a dual pain in the middle and upper part of my chest: grief and my cracked collarbone, both compliments of Violette. I tightened the Ace bandage the doctor had given me and made my way to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I poked at the swollen flesh beneath my eyes and then pulled out a concealer stick and went to work making myself look normal. Even though I didn’t have a plan, I knew I had to do something, and I didn’t want to lose a second sitting around my grandparents’ and mourning.
I headed toward the kitchen.
“So tell me, dear, are you one of them too?” I heard Mamie say.
“One of who?” came a girl’s voice. I recognized it and my heartbeat accelerated.
“One of those . . . you know . . . revenants.”
“Um . . .”
“Charlotte!” I yelled, and threw my arms around her as she rose from the table. “You came back.”
“Oh, Kate. Geneviève and I jumped on a train as soon as we heard what happened,” she whispered. She glanced furtively at my grandmother, who sat at the table behind a tiny cup of espresso.
“I told Mamie,” I admitted. “Everything. I had to.”
Charlotte relaxed, her hair falling in long wheaten strands around her face and her green eyes darkened with sorrow. She and my grandmother exchanged a look of complicity, and then she met my eyes. “I am so sorry about Vincent.”
“So am I,” I said, coughing to clear the lump from my throat.
“What can be done, dear Charlotte?” asked Mamie.
We sat down at the table. Charlotte picked up the coffee that Mamie had set out for her and sipped at it pensively.
“Not much right now,” she admitted, glancing at me curiously. “How much did you tell . . . ,” she began to ask.
“You can say anything in front of Mamie, Charlotte. Jean-Baptiste kind of scoped my grandparents out a few months ago and decided they were trustworthy. Vincent faced off with the numa in Papy’s gallery, so he already knew. And the way things are, I could hardly keep hiding it from Mamie.”
Mamie lifted her chin and said, “After my chat with my granddaughters last night, I don’t think that anything would surprise me. Don’t spare the details: I want to know exactly what’s going on. I’m sturdier than I look.”
Charlotte eyed my grandmother’s ramrod-straight posture, pink tweed skirt-suit, and power hairdo, and said, “Madame Mercier, I can’t think of many people sturdier than you.”
Mamie nodded approvingly. “Then proceed, my dear.”
“Okay. What we’re hoping is that once Violette uses Vincent’s spirit, she will cast him off and he will be able to return to us. But since we don’t know what her plans are once she gets his power, we don’t know how proprietary she will be with him. All we can do now is wait.”
Mamie folded her hands on top of the table and leaned toward Charlotte. “Why don’t you revenants just break into the castle and force Violette to release Vincent’s ghost?”
“Well, that’s what some wanted to do, but Gaspard—he’s kind of our scholar-in-residence—is afraid that Violette might be able to harm Vincent in some other way. Like make his spirit disappear or something . . . I didn’t really understand.”
I hadn’t noticed I was squeezing the tablecloth for dear life until Mamie’s cup rattled in its saucer and she shot me a concerned look. I had thought that the worst had already been done to Vincent. That no more harm could come to him. Now it sounded like I had been wrong. “If a group’s going to the castle, I should go with them,” I said.
“No, you shouldn’t,” insisted Charlotte and Mamie in the same breath.
“It wouldn’t do any good, Kate,” Charlotte said. “There’s nothing you could do. Arthur already took a contingent to Langeais early this morning, and the only thing they can do is keep the castle under surveillance. Watch who comes and goes so at least we have an inkling of what’s going on.”
Something occurred to me. “How about Jules? Was he able to find Vincent last night?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Whatever Violette is doing to bind Vincent’s spirit to her also kept Jules from being able to enter her rooms in the castle.”
The feeble strings supporting the hope inside my heart snapped. I had hoped for some sort of news. Even if Jules hadn’t been able to communicate with Vincent, at the very least I wanted to hear that his spirit was safe.
Charlotte finished her coffee and nodded at my pajamas. “Do you feel like coming over? Geneviève would love to see you.”
My grandmother’s knuckles whitened. She clutched her tiny espresso cup so tightly that I was surprised the handle didn’t pop right off. When she spoke, her voice was strained.
“Katya, I listened to you last night and expressed my sympathy for what you are going through. I told you that if Vincent comes back I will not forbid you from being in contact. But that is a far cry from letting you walk right back into danger.”
Mamie turned to Charlotte. “I will need you to explain this to the rest of your clan.” She searched for words. “How to say this without sounding like I’m speaking out against any certain mortal predisposition?” She paused.
“Okay. Put yourself into my shoes. Last night my granddaughters came home after having been in a violent fight during which both could have easily been killed. Kate’s boyfriend actually was killed, although I realize that that sort of thing isn’t as serious for your kind, being impermanent,” she said crisply.
“But now he is floating around as a ghost and being held captive in a castle by a psychotic medieval zombie. The same psychotic medieval zombie who gave one of my granddaughters a concussion and has been sending the other flowers for the last couple of months . . . at our home . . . because she knows where we live.” Mamie’s face was now red from fighting a battle between politesse and expressing her t
rue feelings.
“And now I am being asked if my granddaughter can join the same . . . people . . . who got her into this mess, under their very own roof? Unless I was completely insane, my response to that request would be an unequivocal no.”
My grandmother took a deep breath to compose herself. “Charlotte, it may be hard for an immortal to understand. But I lost my son just a year and a half ago because of a drunk driver. I refuse to risk losing another family member for a reason that is just as senseless.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Charlotte touched my hand to stop me. “Actually, Madame Mercier, the invitation is for you, too. Jean-Baptiste hoped you would meet with him to discuss recent events and how he intends to keep your family out of danger.”
My mouth dropped open. “But how did he know I would tell her?”
“He didn’t. But he said that if she didn’t know by now, he didn’t want your family’s trust to be compromised by dishonesty and would tell her himself.”
A little light went on in Mamie’s eyes that signaled her respect for Jean-Baptiste’s reasoning. Her chin lifted just an inch as she once again felt her opinion was being respected. “And when was Monsieur Grimod de la Reynière offering to meet with me?” she asked.
“He said he was ready to receive you at your earliest convenience,” Charlotte said, throwing me a look that asked, Is this going to work?
I didn’t dare signal back. Mamie knew each innuendo of my every expression.
Mamie got up and took her cup and saucer to the sink. She walked over to the tiny kitchen window and stared out at the brown brick wall across the courtyard, hands on her hips, lost in her thoughts.
Charlotte leaned over and spoke to me in a low voice. “I got designated messenger since your grandmother’s already met me. JB thinks it would be dangerous for your grandparents to try to protect you themselves. You need to be at La Maison or around us as much as possible. So he’s going to try to convince Mamie without letting her know that he’s worried something might actually happen.” She gave me a quick glance. “Which I’m sure it won’t. It’s just a security measure.”