by Amy Plum
“You saved yourself,” he murmured. “I was just there to lend a hand.”
He swooped me up into an eternal hug. I closed my eyes and let his affection soak through me like honey.
Finally releasing him, I held his hand and leaned my head on his shoulder as we took in the scene around us. In the flickering candlelight, Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard stood proudly side by side at the front of the room, their elbows practically touching in their yes-we’re-the-hosts-of-this-grand-event pose. Gaspard leaned over to whisper something conspiratorially, and Jean-Baptiste responded with a loud guffaw. The tenseness created by his speech had all but disappeared in the romance of the enchanted evening.
Ambrose was hugging a delighted Charlotte, holding her like a rag doll about a foot off the ground in his tree-trunk arms. Jules stood near the bar, watching me and Vincent. When my eyes caught his, he puckered his lips and gave me a sarcastic air-kiss, before turning to the sultry young revenant talking to him. Violette was standing next to Arthur, her head leaned affectionately against his upper arm as they surveyed the crowd. And I noticed several other couples among the revenants who were hugging or kissing.
Some do find love, I thought.
Charlotte had told me that Ambrose and Jules were players, dating human girls but never getting serious with anyone. Jean-Baptiste didn’t exactly encourage revenant/human relationships—he banned all human “lovers,” as he put it, from the house. Besides a few police officers and ambulance drivers the revenants had in their pocket—and a few other human employees like Jeanne, whose families had worked for Jean-Baptiste for generations—I was the only outsider who had been taken into their confidence and allowed into their home.
Since the enforced secrecy of their existence pretty much ruled out the possibility of their dating a human, finding someone among their own kind was the only possibility for love. And, as Charlotte had said, there weren’t a lot of revenants around to choose from.
An hour later the crowd began thinning, and I told Vincent I was ready to go home. “We have to wait for Ambrose,” he said, draping my coat around my shoulders. My heart fell a little. I had been dying to ask him about being Jean-Baptiste’s second and the whole “Champion” thing. But it looked like that would have to wait, since I doubted he would want to discuss it in front of Ambrose. Jules was right about Vincent’s modesty. Bragging wasn’t his style.
“Do I need two bodyguards?” I joked as we headed out the front door toward the gate.
“Three,” Ambrose responded. “We’ve got Henri, an old friend of Gaspard’s, along playing guard-ghost.”
“Oh, right. Bonjour, Henri,” I said out loud, thinking, Okay, that felt weird.
As I had learned a few months ago, for three days each month the revenants returned to a dead state, which they called being “dormant.” The first of those days they might as well be stone-cold dead. But for the next forty-eight hours their minds were awake and could travel. This was being “volant.” When they were out looking for humans to save, revenants walked in pairs accompanied by a volant spirit who, seeing a few minutes into the future, could tell them what was about to happen nearby.
“All this security for me?” I said, smiling as I took the arms of my two embodied escorts. “I thought Gaspard said I was getting better at fighting.”
“Ambrose and Henri are here for my safety as much as for yours,” Vincent reassured me. “Tonight might be the moment the numa finally decide to attack. It would make tactical sense, with most of Paris’s revenants grouped together in one building. But even if they don’t, there are enough drunk weirdos wandering around on New Year’s Eve to make things interesting.” Vincent smiled his crooked smile and pressed a button next to the gate.
The automatic lights flicked on, and I looked up and waved at the security camera. If anyone ever bothered to look at the video, they would see me wearing an evening dress worthy of a red carpet, accompanied by two handsome men in tuxedos. Not bad, I thought, for a girl who never had a real date until a few months ago!
The moon was like a spotlight, casting molten silver onto the ancient trees lining Paris’s streets. Couples in formal dresses and suits made their way home from their own celebrations, giving the town a festive, holiday feel. The mouth-watering smell of baking pastry dough wafted from a boulangerie whose pastry chef was conscientious enough to stick to his early-morning baking hours on a holiday. Danger was the very last thing on my mind as I squeezed Vincent’s arm.
But a couple of blocks from my house, the casual manner of my companions suddenly changed. I glanced around, failing to notice anything dubious, but both were on the alert. “What is it?” I asked, watching Vincent’s features harden.
“Henri’s not sure. Numa would be heading straight for us, but these guys are acting weird,” he said, exchanging a glance with Ambrose. They immediately picked up the pace. We jogged across the avenue, my high heels making me decisively more wobbly than my usual Converses would have. As we headed down a side street toward my grandparents’ building, I wondered what would happen if we were set upon by the revenants’ enemies.
“Numa wouldn’t do anything in public, would they?” I asked breathlessly, yet remembering how a couple of them had stabbed Ambrose outside a restaurant a few months earlier.
“We never fight in front of humans … if we can help it,” said Ambrose. “Neither do the numa. Our secret status would be a bit compromised if we started pulling out battle-axes left and right in front of mortal witnesses.”
“But why? It’s not like people are going to hunt you down and destroy you.”
“The human radar isn’t the only one we want to stay off,” he continued, one of his long strides matching two of my own. “Like I said, there are others—and no, I’m not going into a discussion of which supernaturals actually exist outside of fantasy novels. We all have our own code of honor, you know.”
“Henri says that whatever they are, they’re headed this way,” Vincent said, his grave tone erasing all further questions from my mind.
We sprinted the last few yards to my front door, and I speed-typed my digicode as if all our lives depended on how fast my fingers could fly. Vincent and Ambrose stood behind me like overdressed bodyguards, their hands on the hilts of whatever weapons they wore beneath their coats.
As the security lock released and I pushed the front door open, the noise of a speeding car came from the direction of the avenue. Headlights lit up the dark street, as the three of us turned to face the oncoming vehicle.
With radio blasting, an Audi full of teenagers pulled up in front of us. The door opened to allow a guy and a girl to spill from the passenger seat. The four partygoers sitting in the back let out a whoop as my sister picked herself up from the sidewalk and made a dramatic bow. “Good night, y’all,” she drawled in her best Southern belle impression.
The boy on whose lap she had been balancing stood, brushed himself off, and gave her a peck on the lips. “Door-to-door service. Only the best for Georgia,” he said, and leapt back into the car. “Bonne année! Happy New Year!” rang a chorus of voices as they sped out of sight.
Ambrose and Vincent let their coats drop back down over their weapons, so Georgia didn’t even notice our heightened state of alert.
“Hi, Vincent! And hello, Ambrose, you handsome thing,” she cooed, striding over to us in her short, lacy dress. Her pixie-cut strawberry blond hair was gelled into a dramatic style, feathering down around her freckle-dusted skin. “Just get a look at you boys in black tie. If only the Chippendale dancers we ordered for the party had been as handsome as you, then it might not have been a complete disaster.”
She glanced at her watch and gasped in horror. “It’s not even one thirty in the morning and I’m already home! How humiliating! Why the police think they have the right to close down a party for being too noisy on New Year’s Eve, I will never understand. This was the lamest night ever!”
She looked at where I was half-hidden behind the door. “Kate, what
in the world are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, she smiled her most dazzling smile at the boys, and then, giving my arm an affectionate squeeze, brushed past me into the building’s foyer.
“Is it just me, or is she in Georgia Overdrive?” chuckled Vincent.
“She’s making up for lost time after taking a five-week break,” I responded, remembering how Georgia had sworn off men after almost getting us killed by her then-boyfriend, numa leader Lucien.
“Well, we could definitely hire her as extra security. She and her entourage could scare off every shady character in the neighborhood,” Ambrose said with a smirk.
Which reminded me … “What happened to whatever was following us?”
“The mobile New Year’s party scared them off,” Ambrose responded.
“Listen, Kate,” Vincent said, peering warily down the darkened street. “Jean-Baptiste was right in saying that we don’t know when the numa will strike. And with whatever it was back there following us around, I’m wondering if maybe you could use a chaperone once in a while. I have some projects that JB has asked me to take care of”—he exchanged a look with Ambrose—“so I can’t be around all the time.”
“A chaperone?” I said with a different kind of alarm.
“What’s wrong with a guardian angel? Or two?” Ambrose asked. “You date a revenant, Katie-Lou, you better count on being followed around.”
“Well, if I’m not hanging out with you moving targets, I’m not of much interest to the baddies, am I?” I retorted. Walking around with my boyfriend was one thing. The idea of being trailed around Paris by other revenants was something completely different. I shook my head. “Do I get a good-night kiss or would that interfere with your chaperoning?”
I lifted my face to Vincent and he obliged with a slow, tender kiss that made my body turn to marshmallow.
“Bye, Katie-Lou.” Ambrose gave me a little salute and turned to leave.
“Good-bye,” I called as the two revenants walked away from me into the dappled moonlit shadows. When they were out of sight, I turned to follow my sister up to our grandparents’ apartment.
Georgia had already stripped off her party dress and replaced it with an oversize T-shirt by the time I got to her room. “What’s the deal with the two-man escort?” she asked.
“Three,” I responded. “Some guy named Henri was floating around above us. Vincent’s paranoid about me being leapt upon by bad zombies. With their leader gone, the numa are in hunker-down mode, and the revenants are waiting for a surprise attack.”
“Disappearing numa sounds like a good thing to me.” She leaned in toward her mirror and wiped her lipstick off with a tissue. “Personally, I’m happy I haven’t run into a murderous killer since, well … since you chopped my ex’s head off with a sword.” Although my sister was playing lighthearted, a shadow of fear still lurked behind her practiced carefree demeanor.
“Vincent’s talking about giving me a bodyguard when he’s not around.”
“Cool!” Georgia said, eyes wide with expectation.
“Nyet to the coolness,” I responded. “I don’t want someone following me everywhere I go. That’s so … weird.”
“Don’t think ‘following.’ Think ‘accompanying.’ And what difference would it make? You’re already with Vincent or one of his friends on a pretty consistent basis.”
I studied her face. She wasn’t saying it as a criticism. For my super-social sister, it was normal—even preferable—to have people surrounding you 24-7.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Georgia? It’s me. Your one and only sibling. Who is not queen of the Paris nightlife and actually likes to spend some of her waking hours alone.”
“Well then, just tell Vincent you don’t want a babysitter. He worships you as is. Your word should be his command.”
I rolled my eyes. If only. “He actually used the word chaper-one.”
“Vincent’s so hot when he talks like a grandpa,” she joked. “Next thing you know, he’ll ask Papy if he can start courting you, then everything will be downhill after that. False teeth. Saggy Y-fronts.”
“Eww!” I laughed, fake-punching my sister on the arm.
From somewhere inside her purse, Georgia’s phone started buzzing. She pulled it out and began texting. Then she looked up at me and said, “By the way, Katie-Bean, you look gorgeous in that dress.”
I leaned over and hugged my glamorous, social butterfly of a sister and left her to continue her New Year’s Eve socializing.
FOUR
BEING NEW YEAR’S DAY, THE GARE DE LYON TRAIN station was practically abandoned. Kamikaze pigeons soared in eccentric looping flight patterns under the massive glass-and-steel ceiling. Our small group of six stood dwarfed in the colossal space, watching Charlotte and Charles board the ultramodern high-speed TGV train that would take them from Paris to Nice in just under six hours. Ambrose loaded a small mountain of suitcases onto the luggage compartment of their carriage as the twins leaned in for hugs from Jules, Vincent, and me and more formal cheek-kisses from Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste.
As a digitized woman’s voice announced the train’s imminent departure, Charles broke away from Ambrose’s crushing bear hug and climbed onto the train without looking back. Charlotte brushed away tears as she turned. “You’ll return before long,” stated Jean-Baptiste, a rare trace of emotion tingeing his voice. She nodded mutely, looking like she was struggling not to burst into full-fledged sobbing.
“Email … and phone!” I reminded her. “We’ll keep in touch—I promise!” I threw her a kiss with both hands as she stepped onto the train and disappeared behind the darkened windows. Vincent draped his arm supportively around my shoulders. I turned so that the twins wouldn’t see me cry.
Charlotte was the only girl I had gotten close to since we moved to Paris almost a year ago. It was my fault: I hadn’t actively been looking for friends. For half of that time I had been a hermit. Then along came Vincent, and it was like he brought a prepackaged group of friends with him. It hadn’t escaped my attention that I preferred to spend time with the undead rather than the living. I tried not to think about what that said about me.
The sound of the conductor’s whistle pierced the frigid air. The train shuddered once and then pulled away. Our mismatched group waved at the darkened windows before wordlessly ambling back toward the station entrance. Everyone seemed lost in thought as Vincent’s phone started to ring. He checked the display and answered, “Bonjour, Geneviève.” After listening for a moment, he stopped in his tracks, his face ashen. “Oh, no. No.”
Hearing his mournful tone, everyone froze and watched him, waiting. “Just stay there. We’ll be right over.” He switched the phone off and said, “Geneviève’s husband died this morning. He went to bed last night and never woke up.”
The group inhaled as one and stood there, stunned. “Oh, my poor Geneviève,” said Gaspard finally, breaking the silence.
“Has she notified—” Jean-Baptiste began.
“The doctor already certified Philippe as dead, and his body was picked up by the coroner. She would have called earlier, but was afraid that if Charlotte knew, she wouldn’t have gotten on the train.”
Jean-Baptiste nodded.
Although Geneviève lived halfway across town and wasn’t often at La Maison, she and Charlotte had been friends for decades. Charlotte had once told me that it was hard hanging out with guys all the time. Before I had arrived, Geneviève was the only girlfriend she had, and Charlotte would run off to her house every time she and Charles had a brother-sister spat.
“She hoped that a couple of us could come over to help with the funeral plans. Kate, do you want to come with me?” Vincent asked. I nodded.
“I’ll come,” Jules and Ambrose said as one.
“Ambrose, I had hoped to have your services moving Violette and Arthur into their rooms,” Gaspard said. “But of course …” He held up a quivering finger, as if he was unsure of the fairness of his request.
; Ambrose hesitated, torn, and then relented. “No, you’re right, Gaspard. I’ll follow you back to the house. Give Geneviève my love, and tell her I’ll stop by later,” he said to us, and then, shifting his motorcycle helmet to his other hand, clapped Vincent on the shoulder and strode out, with Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste following close behind.
Jules, Vincent, and I hopped into one of the taxis parked outside the station and within fifteen minutes were at Geneviève’s house on a tiny street in the Mouzaia neighborhood of Belleville.
As we climbed out of the car, I looked around in amazement. Although we were still within the Paris city limits, the streets were lined with little two-story brick houses complete with tiny front yards—instead of the typical multi-floor Paris apartment blocks. We walked through a white picket fence and across a tree-shaded yard to the front porch, where Geneviève waited, leaning on the door frame as if she couldn’t stand without its support.
As Jules and Vincent approached, she fell into their arms. “He died in his sleep. I was reading when he went, and didn’t even notice,” she confessed in a dazed voice. Her pale blue eyes were shiny with tears and fatigue.
“It’s going to be okay,” Vincent soothed, handing Geneviève over to Jules. We followed them down the hall and into a bright, spacious living room. Jules seated her on a white couch as carefully as if she were made of spun glass and then settled in next to her. She cuddled up to him and dabbed at her swollen eyes with a tissue as Vincent and I sat on the floor at their feet.
“What needs doing?” Vincent asked softly.
“Legally? Nothing. Philippe and I have been preparing for this for a while. The house and money is mine—you took care of that paperwork for me a while ago,” she said, nodding tearfully to Vincent.
“A law degree does come in handy when you have to register property and a bank account in a dead woman’s name.” He smiled grimly.
“Philippe had already decided on his own funeral arrangements. No church service, no announcement, just a small ceremony among our own at Père Lachaise.”