Little does she know, her aunt had come by to visit and witnesses the murder. She hides and watches as Therese and Laurent, her partner in adultery, remove the body. Her aunt is horrified, rather than pleased as I was.
The second half of the play shows a downward spiral for both Therese and Laurent as the aunt subtly guides two civil servants to catch Therese, who never does realize her aunt is behind all the drama and setbacks they have as they continue to cover up the murder.
In an ending my friends explain is different than most versions, Therese and Laurent wind up together, but destitute and desperate, both hating themselves and each other for what they've done and the things they did to cover it up. She closes by telling Laurent she'd have been better off if she'd killed herself when she killed her husband—and he agrees.
The telling was powerful, and even without speaking French, it nearly brings tears to my eyes. That poor woman.
After, we get some wine and walk Parisian streets by moonlight, taking in the scenes. At last I understand what they'd meant in telling me we had to see a play to really "get" Paris.
I ask Talon, "So what did you think of it? I loved it. I hated so much of what happened, but the characters are what made it worth watching. It was like a study of real people in unreal circumstances."
He smiles down at me. "I imagine you can relate to that in some ways. I thought it was well done. Zola's Thérèse has always been my favorite example of Naturalism in theater."
Luka spits out a sip of wine, intentionally no doubt. "Ha. Naturalism. Next, you'll say Thérèse was a backlash against the excessive Romanticism that dominated Zola's time."
"Wasn't it, though?" Talon meets his gaze over the rim of his wineglass. "The Naturalist writers were the first to show the misery of life most people experienced themselves."
I grab us a table at a café, and more wine is soon delivered as I eavesdrop their weird discussion.
"No," Luka replies, "it's nothing more than literary realism. Why do some people try to make things sound bigger than they are? Sure, the narrative style was a backlash against Romanticism, but that's the only thing we agree on, I bet."
Talon smiles, his eyes lighting up, and it's good to see him happy and healthy again. I also sometimes forget they grew up together as friends. Watching them banter is fascinating.
Right up until Talon, laughing, says, "So does that mean Ella's going to kill me like Therese did her cousin?"
My heart seems to stop for a moment as I catch my breath.
Luka's retort comes instantly. "Bad analogy, now that we know your dad's not hers, too. Too bad it's Death himself, though. That's more fitting the Romanticism that your Naturalism was rebelling against."
"Dude, our entire lives are more fitting. Magic? Globe-spanning plots? Daddy Death?"
Luka grins and shrugs. "You got me there. But if it's Romanticism, with all its fantastic elements, then she's certainly going to kill me. I'm doomed."
"Dooomed!"
My heart has no problems beating, now. It's beating too fast, in fact, and sweat is making my shirt stick to my back uncomfortably. "Enough!"
They both stare at me like they'd forgotten I was here, too. I cannot believe what I just heard. "Are you two jerks for real? Seriously?"
Talon doesn't do what I expected. Not at all. He turns to Luka with a grin, instead. "If you could kill me without dying, too, you'd have her all to yourself."
I set my wineglass down hard and stand up like a piston firing. "Stop. Just shut up, both of you." My voice rises with each word, drawing looks from those at nearby tables. Attention is the last thing we want, I remind myself, so I purse my lips and turn around, then look back over my shoulder at them. "I'm going to the ladies' room. When I get back, talk about something else or get me home. I'm done listening to you two turning my life and yours into the punchline of a bad joke."
With that, I stride into the café in search of the bathroom. I need a minute to calm down. I know they were letting off steam, in a "gallows humor" kind of way, but I can't take listening to it. They don't know how close to the truth they are. I love them both, in their own ways, but someday soon I may well have to actually do it.
No. I can't. I won't. I'll find a way. If anyone can, it's me. Death said as much—if it was no hallucination, if I can learn how to do it quickly enough, if someone else doesn't figure out how to kill them first.
In my head, I tell myself over and over that I'm just upset that they're "talking shop" on the one day we've had away from all of that—but the argument going through my mind sounds weak, even to me.
Chapter 19
"Oh, you saw Thérèse? That's always been one of my favorite plays, although one is hard-pressed to find it in production, these days. Wherever did you see it?" Birka stands on the kitchen island's far side, chopping carrots and tossing handfuls into the pot of boiling water on the nearby stove.
They look tasty. I reach out and grab a small handful, managing to snatch them back before Birka's fork jabs down on the countertop, right where my hand had just been. I smile at the slight crinkling at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, we went to Paris. I had never been there, and with Talon feeling better, we thought a quick outing might be a good idea."
She nods. "Mm hm. I get that. Sometimes, it's refreshing to get a reminder of what it is we’re fighting for. If Dawson has his way, who knows whether the mortals will be allowed such luxuries?"
Talon, leaning against the counter next to the stove, slowly stirs the pot. "The world will be a lesser place without the mortals' creativity fueling the arts. I'm glad Ella got a chance to experience Paris as it still is. You know, just in case..."
"Just in case Dawson does win." Birka stops chopping long enough to look pointedly at Talon.
I shift uneasily in my seat, keenly and abruptly aware of how hard the stool is. The discomfort matches my feelings about the direction this conversation is going. "So, um. What did you think of the Eiffel Tower? You've probably been there a hundred times."
"Nope. That was maybe my third time. I don't usually go in for the tourist-type attractions."
Still chopping vegetables, Birka looks to me as her knife dances on the cutting board unabated. "It sounds like you had a lovely trip. It's unfortunate that the experience was marred by your vision. As Talon tells me, it was unlike your previous visions."
She pauses, waiting for me to elaborate. I have nothing to add, though, so I merely nod.
"Interesting. So, you got to experience the deaths of so many of the Revenants, did you? Talon says that, in almost every case, they die in an explosion. Do you think it was all the same explosion, or different events?"
The chatter in the living room behind me, where Glenn and Ida and Meredith sit, goes quiet. I can feel their eyes boring into the back of my head as they await my answer. No pressure, or anything.
"Yes, I imagine it was all in the same explosion. It seems hard to believe there could be so many different ones going off, and they would probably all have to happen at about the same time. But I can't be sure, you know." I stuff a piece of sliced carrot into my mouth. Can't answer questions while chewing, after all.
The soft clank of Talon's slotted spoon banging on the sides of the pot resumes, breaking the momentary spell. "I'm more interested in knowing what kind of explosion could take out all the zombies."
Birka's head whips toward him.
He hastily adds, "Sorry, Revenants. What could take out Revenants? We already saw one explosion, and it stopped them, but it didn't kill them."
I shudder, the image of people blown apart, alive and in agony and helpless to even express it as they were in so many pieces scattered across the floor and walls, flashes through my mind. That's a fate worse than death, so I have no intention of trying to blow anyone up. I'll find another way.
Birka interrupts my thoughts. "I'm certain there is a way. The real question is, what was different about the explosion in her vision? The one at the Emporium blew them into pieces in a mos
t spectacular fashion, yet they weren’t dead. I rather wish they were, though. What a way to go."
"No idea." Talon's stirring maintains a constant rhythm, the spoon banging on the pot every half second like a marching cadence, perfectly timed.
They're beating around the bush. I'm sure they're all thinking the real truth, the real solution. There's only one way an explosion could actually kill those Revenants, only one way to make them vulnerable—Talon has to die. I have to kill him. Killing the man I love is the only way to end all of those zombies, ending Dawson's insane power grab and Luka's life at the same time.
My stomach sours, and the bits of carrot in my hand no longer hold any appeal for me. "I'm going to my room. I need to lie down."
The light knocking on my door comes as no surprise. I don't know who it is, but I half expected one of them to follow me up. I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. I do not want to talk about what I'm certain whoever is on the other side of that door wants to discuss. Still, it's not like I can pretend I'm not home. "It's open."
Birka peaks in, offering me a faint smile as she comes in and closes the door softly behind her. "Do you have a minute, dear?"
"Not really. I think I know what you want to talk about, and I'd rather not." I don't know how I can be any clearer than that. I do know, though, that it's not going to stop her. Dammit.
She steps over to the lone chair in the room and sits, facing me. She steeples her fingers together in front of her, elbows on her knees as she considers me. After a moment, she bites her bottom lip and levels her gaze at me. "I know why you left. I know exactly what you're thinking."
I have no doubt that she does. "Oh, really? And what is that?"
She folds her hands in her lap and leans back in the chair, resting her head on the back to look up at the ceiling. "It doesn't take luck or some kind of epiphany to come to the obvious conclusion. You're thinking that you must kill Talon—and Luka with him—in order to slay the Revenants and stop Dawson. And, you're wondering if you can bring yourself to do it."
Yeah, that is the obvious conclusion. I nod slowly but can’t think of a response that doesn't merely restate this.
Birka brings her head off the chair to look at me again, and she gives me the faintest of smiles. "I think, however, that you're missing one key factor that will fundamentally affect the decision you make."
"No, Birka, I don't think I'm missing a thing. I've loved two men in my life, and they both deserve that love. To stop Dawson and save the world, I would have to kill them both in one fell swoop. I will have to bring an end to both Luka and Talon, your son."
I expect her to leap to her son's defense, or to charge into convincing me to do it for the good of all, depending on whether her maternal instinct or her sense of duty to her people is stronger at the moment. Instead, though, she shrugs and says, "But why would it mean that? You control death. So, all you have to do is to control it."
"Are you kidding me? That was a vision. A hallucination. Are you so ready to entrust your son’s survival to so flimsy a solution?"
This time, her smile vanishes. "How dare you? Talon is my son, and I love him. But dear, your vision differed in every way from the prior ones, did it not?"
She has a point, but I'm not sure where she's going with it. "And?"
"And, the evidence of that which I can see for myself only adds proof that your vision was real, not some hallucination."
She has my full attention, now. I find hope rising, and I'm leaning forward, riveted on where she's going with this. "In what way?"
Birka favors me with a quick smile before she replies, "Have you not altered people's deaths? Even those deaths you call 'fated'?"
"Yes, but surely—"
"No. No one has ever done that before you. No one can do that, because our magic doesn't work that way. Fate is fate, and can't be changed. Not by us. But you can do it, and already have."
"That doesn't mean I'm Death's daughter."
Now she's leaning forward, too. "Don't you think that comes as close to absolute proof of your vision as it's possible to get? Does it even matter why you can do it? We can only go off of what we know, and what I know is that you can do things no one with your Gift has ever done before. So yes, I believe in your vision enough to trust my son's life to it, and I think you should, too."
"Then again, you don't have anything better to trust it to."
"Neither do you, dear, so stop dallying. Save the indecision for those times when you have multiple choices. Right now, we do not."
Then, another thought occurs to me, and it drains away any joy I should feel at this prospect. "So I can kill all those Revenants, but somehow save both Luka and Talon."
I can't read her expression as she stares at me for a few moments. When she replies, her tone is guarded. Tense. "That's right. You only have to figure out how to do it, just like you figured out how to change someone's unchangeable demise. Both Talon and Luka can be saved while you're at it. But the Revenants must die. You know this."
The same sobering thought keeps playing through my head, no matter how hard I try to swat it away. "But what if—and I'm not saying I don't—but what if I don't want to kill all those other Revenants?"
She freezes for a heartbeat before she replies, half shouting, "Why wouldn't you want to kill them? Look at everything they're doing. Look at what they're about to do. What is the matter with you?"
I can't even muster any anger at her tone. I don't expect her to understand, but I try anyway. "They are all victims of Dawson and Luna. Victims, Birka. Just like Luka and Talon, they didn't ask for this. They don't deserve to die while my two get to live. Why should our Revenant be special? Surely the others are just as thrilled at the second chance they've been given. Surely some are just praying that Death looks the other way and spares them, too. Why let some live while others die? Why do I have to make that decision? Tell me that."
Why am I suddenly angry? Not at Birka, but at myself and my thoughts. My indecision. Deep down, I know why, though. It's because the whole idea feels like a huge injustice, and there has been more than enough of that going around to last me two lifetimes.
Birka, though, doesn't share my doubts. She sets her chin, jutting it forward like a bulldog as she faces me head-on, her gaze locked with mine like a challenge. She half-whispers back to me, though every word carries to me with crystal clarity, "The reason is simple, young woman. You alone get to decide this. None of them are Death's daughter. You are. End of story."
She spits the last three words at me like daggers, and when she stands bolt upright, the chair scoots back to slam against the wall behind it. The door slamming behind her as she leaves tells me her opinion of my doubts more clearly than any words could have.
I ease back to lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, her words and that door slam echoing over and over in my mind. Is she right? Is it that simple? I have the power—maybe—and I don't need to look at it any more closely than that? Then I don't understand why the idea makes me feel so dirty. Certainly neither Dawson nor Luna would hesitate. They wouldn't feel the need to look at it any deeper than Birka did.
Maybe we aren't so different, after all. What does that mean for the morality of this entire war we're fighting? What is just and right? And if I don't know that, then what does my killing of those who stand in our way make me? Murderer.
Exhaustion washes through me, the result of the day's emotional roller coaster. Lying on my back, I slide one hand under the back of my head and stare at the ceiling as I drift to sleep. The last thing I hear is Birka's last statement, her words repeating themselves over and over.
None of them are Death's daughter... End of story.
Chapter 20
The next morning, I'm stirring a spoonful of sugar into my coffee when Ida joins me, cup in hand, by the "coffee station," a small part of the counter where all the sugar and grounds and the pot itself live.
Pure sunshine, she says, "Hiya, Ella. Can I get in there?"
"Sure." My voice is still raspy, and I'm not yet fully awake. "Help yourself."
"Thanks." She pauses, though, without reaching for the pot.
I make a deep mental sigh and, after swallowing my first sip of heaven, I face her. "Is there something you want to say to me?"
Ida's cheeks turn half a shade redder. "I'm just trying to figure out the best way to ask if you're taking Birka's advice." When I whip around to face her head-on, she hastily adds, "We talked about it before she came up to your room last night. She just wanted to think it through before approaching you, not gossiping. I swear."
“Sure.” I'm fairly certain gossip was involved. "That's good to hear. No, I haven't figured it out, yet. It's not a question of whether I can control death, but whether I can figure out how to control it so much in so short a time as to make any difference."
"But you'll keep trying, right? I mean, until it's too late or we pull it off."
Until we pull it off, she says... She's not the one who may or may not be able to save one or both of the men I love. It's all me. But I guess it's nice of her to try to share some of that burden, so I don't actually say that. "Mm hm," I say as I savor the flavor of coffee hitting my tongue.
Before she can say more, I turn and walk away. There's nothing else to say, really, and it's too early in the morning to go in circles with Ida.
As I come out of the vision, I have to blink a few times to clear away the after-images of Revenants all dying in explosions, a machine-gun burst of slides each showing similar events. Like the one I had at lunch yesterday, a few hours after my "conversation" with Ida, Talon and Luka are both part of this new gruesome mental slideshow.
This one had new images, though—much of Mortals' Landing in ruins and aflame—and this one came with a dire sense of foreboding, like a stern warning of the coming catastrophe.
"You okay, Mirella?" Luka's voice sounds far away. "You had that 'vacancy sign' look on your face."
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