As Jules was talking to the doctor and handing him cash in exchange for the treatment, I whispered, “Vincent?”
Yes, came the immediate reply.
“Have you been here the whole time?”
How could I leave you at a time like this?
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine his arms around me.
We returned to a house that felt like a general’s headquarters post-battle. There was a muffled movement from room to room as people visited one another and helped tend to the others’ wounds.
I had explained to Georgia that we had to spend the night at Vincent’s house. We couldn’t go home like this. I led her up the stairs and helped her into Charlotte’s bed, guessing that Lucien’s body was still burning in Vincent’s room. Even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t imagine going back to the scene of that gory bloodbath. Still mute from shock, Georgia was asleep by the time her head hit the pillow.
My shoulder was starting to burn again, now that the anesthetic used to stitch up my wound was wearing off. I headed downstairs to the kitchen for some water to swallow the pain pills I had been given.
Does it hurt? came Vincent’s voice in my head.
“Not much,” I lied.
Jules walked through the swinging doors, looking much more himself in torn jeans and a formfitting T-shirt. He flashed me a smile that conveyed both tenderness and respect. “House meeting,” he said. “Jean-Baptiste wants you to be there.”
“He does?” I said with surprise. Jules nodded and handed me a clean T-shirt. “I thought you might want to be a bit more presentable,” he said, pointing to my blood-soaked clothes. He turned his back as I quickly changed and threw the ruined garment into the garbage can.
We walked together down the hallway and past the foyer into a massive room with high ceilings and two-story windows. A fug of old leather and wilting roses hung thickly in the air. A colony of leather couches and armchairs were arranged at the far end around a monumental fireplace.
Near the large fire burning in the hearth, I saw Charlotte lying down on a couch and Ambrose stretched out on the Persian carpet in front of the chimney. He had changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans, and though his wounds had been cleaned and there was no blood in sight, he had enough bandages on to qualify as a mummy. He saw me staring and said, “Don’t worry, Katie-Lou, just a couple more weeks till dormancy and I’ll be as good as new.”
I nodded, trying hard to change my expression from freaked to reassured.
“Here they are,” said Jean-Baptiste, who paced back and forth in front of the fire, holding a poker in one hand like a walking stick. “We waited for you and Vincent to get back before starting,” he said, motioning me to a chair with his eyes. I sat down.
“There are some decisions that have to be made, and I need to hear what happened, in detail, from each of your perspectives. I’ll start.” He set the poker against the fireplace and stood with his hands behind his back, looking every bit like a general debriefing his troops.
Charlotte, Ambrose, and Jules began to recount their own parts of the story, with Jean-Baptiste “translating” for Vincent. The group, with Vincent’s help, had recovered Charles’s body before finding themselves trapped inside the Catacombs by a small army of numa. An army without a leader. It took a comment from one of their captors to alert them to what was happening: Lucien had forbidden the numa to kill any revenants until he returned with “the head.” Suspecting that the head in question was his own, Vincent was off in a flash. The revenants took advantage of the numa’s hesitation to kill them and fought their way out, then rushed back to assist Vincent.
“It doesn’t seem we were followed,” Jean-Baptiste concluded. “Kate”—he turned to me officiously—“would you kindly take over the narrative here?”
I told the group what had happened, starting with my sister’s text messages, up to the moment where Vincent arrived and took over my body.
“Impossible!” Jean-Baptiste exclaimed.
I looked at him wryly. “Well, it sure wasn’t me who chopped a giant numa’s head off with a four-foot broadsword!”
“No, not impossible that he possessed you. Impossible that you survived with your sanity intact.” Jean-Baptiste was silent for a second, and then nodded. “If you say so, Vincent, but I just don’t see how it is possible for a human to experience that and come through it as untouched as Kate seems to be. Besides a few ancient and unfounded rumors, there is absolutely no precedent.” He paused again, listening. “Just because you can communicate with her while volant doesn’t mean that everything else is possible. Or safe,” the older revenant scolded. “Yes, yes, I know . . . you had no other choice. It’s true, if you hadn’t you would both be gone.” He sighed, and turned to me.
“So you killed Lucien?”
“Yes, I mean Vincent . . . um, the knife we threw lodged all the way through his eye, deep into his head. That one stroke must have killed him. At least, his face looked dead. Then we chopped his head off with the sword.”
“And his body?”
“We burned it on the fire.”
Ambrose spoke up. “I watched it after they left for the clinic. Nothing remains.”
Jean-Baptiste relaxed visibly and stood immobile for a second, holding his forehead before looking back up at the group.
“It’s clear, then, that the plan was to lure the rest of us, with Vincent volant, away from the house, clearing the way for Lucien to come here and dispose of his body. Knowing our old enemy, he probably planned to come back with the head to burn it in front of us before destroying us as well. That’s the only reason I can think of that we weren’t slaughtered as soon as we arrived in the Catacombs.”
The room was silent.
“I would have preferred that Charles be here to join us for this conversation”—he paused, exhaling deeply—“but because of the circumstances I leave it up to you, Charlotte, to break the news to your brother that I have asked you both to leave.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
EVERYONE LOOKED AT ONE ANOTHER IN SHOCK.
“What?” Charlotte murmured, shaking her head as if she didn’t understand.
“This isn’t a punishment,” clarified Jean-Baptiste. “Charles needs to get out of here. Out of Paris. Out of this house. Away from me. He needs some time to get his head together. And Paris, in the wake of this battle, this”—he searched for the right term—“declaration of war, if that is what it turns out to be, is not a safe place for someone who doesn’t yet know their mind.”
“But . . . why me?” Charlotte said, shooting a quick, panicky look in Ambrose’s direction.
“Can you live separated from your twin?”
She hung her head. “No.”
“I thought not.” His face softened as Charlotte began to cry. He walked over and sat next to her on the couch, displaying a tenderness that, in my limited experience of Jean-Baptiste, seemed completely out of character.
Holding her hand in his, he said, “Dear girl. It’s just for a few months while we figure out what Lucien’s clan will do without him. Will they attack us? Will their lack of a leader force them to go underground for a while? We just don’t know. And having Charles around, confused and indecisive, will make us weaker when we need to be our strongest.
“I’ve got houses all over, you know. I’ll let you choose where the two of you will go. And you will return. I promise.”
Charlotte leaned forward and threw her arms around Jean-Baptiste’s neck, sobbing. “Shhh,” he said, patting her back.
Once she had quieted he stood again and, addressing Ambrose and Jules, said, “When Gaspard can communicate, I will confer with him as to our plans. We must invite others to replace Charlotte and Charles during this hazardous time. You are welcome to make suggestions.
“And as for you, Kate,” Jean-Baptiste said, turning to me. I sat stiffly in my chair, not knowing what would come next but steeling myself for the worst. He couldn’t banish me; I didn’t live under his roof. And he could
n’t stop me from seeing Vincent; I would refuse. Although I had never felt physically weaker in my life, my will had never been stronger.
“We owe you our gratitude. You protected one of our kindred at the risk of your own life.”
I sat there, stunned, and finally said, “But . . . how could I have done otherwise?”
“You could have taken your sister and run. Vincent was the one Lucien was after.”
I shook my head. No, I couldn’t have. I would have preferred to die myself than leave Vincent to his destruction.
“You have earned my trust,” Jean-Baptiste concluded formally. “Henceforth, you are welcome here.”
Jules spoke up. “She was already welcome here.” Ambrose nodded his agreement.
Jean-Baptiste looked at them mildly. “You both know how I struggle to protect our group. And though I trust you all, I don’t always trust your decisions. Has anyone else been allowed to bring a human lover into this house?”
The room was quiet.
“Well, this one is now given my official welcome.”
“And it only took hacking off an evil zombie’s head to earn it,” Ambrose mumbled sarcastically.
Jean-Baptiste ignored him and continued. “However, I would appreciate it if you would find some way of explaining this to your sister that would prevent her from having access to all our secrets. And if you have the slightest suspicion that she is in contact with any of Lucien’s associates, I would ask you to tell me immediately. In any case, she will not be allowed within the house again, for the security of all of us. I realize it was against her will, but her presence permitted the only security breach we have ever experienced within our gates.”
I nodded, thinking about how Georgia had almost been the end of the story for me and Vincent . . . for us all.
Chapter Forty
“OLÉ!” PAPY SHOUTED, AS THE CORK LEFT THE bottle like a gunshot, causing all of us to jump and then cheer as he carefully poured the bubbly into tall, fluted glasses. He held his glass up in a toast, and the rest of us echoed his gesture.
“I would like to wish a happy seventeenth birthday to my princess, Kate. Here’s hoping that seventeen will be a magic year for you!”
“Hear, hear!” piped up Mamie, clinking her glass against mine. “Oh, to be seventeen again,” she sighed. “That was my age when I met your grandfather. Not that he seemed to pay any attention to me for the next year or so,” she said in a manner that was almost flirty.
“It was all part of my plan,” he retorted, winking at me. “And anyway, I’ve made up for lost time since then, haven’t I?”
Mamie nodded and leaned over to give him an affectionate kiss before clinking his glass. I leaned over to touch glasses with Papy, and then turned to Georgia, who held her drink in her left hand, since her right was still in a cast.
“Happy birthday, Katie-Bean,” she said, smiling warmly at me, and then looked down at the table, as if embarrassed. Georgia hadn’t been the same since “the accident,” as my grandparents called it. Though my wounds were easily hidden under winter clothes, Georgia had to explain the cast on her hand.
As she told it, she had stepped into the middle of a fight at the nightclub and had been knocked down and trampled. Papy and Mamie were so horrified that they had forbidden her to go to any more bars or clubs. Funnily enough, she didn’t seem to mind, and spent her nights now comparatively quietly, going to dinner parties or the cinema with a small number of friends. Since that night, she had sworn off men, vehemently vowing that she could no longer trust her instincts, but I knew that wouldn’t last for long.
She had come to my room a few times late at night, awaking me either for a cry or to distract her from one of her frequent nightmares. She wanted to know everything about the revenants. And I told her. I didn’t care about Jean-Baptiste’s injunction—I knew I could trust her. Now that there were no secrets between us, Georgia treated me with a newfound respect and acted like Vincent had hung the moon.
“Here’s to it being a happy year for both of us.” I smiled at her, and then turned to Vincent, who was awaiting his turn. He had shown up that night wearing a vintage black tuxedo, and I had almost fainted when I opened the door.
“Um, did I forget to tell you that, for once, my family isn’t wearing black tie to dinner?” I said, my sarcasm falling flat since I was bedazzled by his appearance. He looked like an old-fashioned movie star, his black hair flowing back in waves from his chiseled face. He just smiled mysteriously and refused to answer me.
Now our glasses touched, and he leaned over to give me a chaste peck on the lips, before saying, “Happy birthday, Kate.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he gazed at me with that look that always made me melt: as if I were edible and he could barely restrain himself from taking a bite.
“You kids better get going,” said Mamie finally.
“Going where?” I asked, confused.
“Thanks for keeping my birthday plans a secret,” Vincent addressed my family. Then, turning to me, he said, “You’ll need this first,” and pulled a large white box from under the table. Blushing, I unfastened the ribbon and opened the package to see, carefully couched inside layers of tissue, a midnight blue silk fabric embroidered in an Asian pattern with tiny silver and red flowers and vines. I gasped. “What is it?”
“Well, take it out!” Mamie said.
I pulled the fabric out to hold it up. It was a stunning sleeveless gown, floor-length, with an Empire waist and straps that tied behind the neck. I almost dropped it, it was so exquisite.
“Oh, Vincent. I’ve never owned anything nearly this beautiful. Thank you!” I kissed his cheek. “But when am I ever going to wear it?” I said, placing the dress carefully back into the box.
He beamed. “Well, tonight, for starters. Go ahead and change. Georgia told me your size, so it should fit.”
Georgia had her smug grin back for once. It was good to see her looking like her old self, if just for a second. “I’ll come with you,” she said, and the two of us walked back to my room.
“When did he ask you about this?” I quizzed her as I pulled my clothes off and slipped the dress over my head.
Georgia buttoned the bodice up the back and tied the straps around my neck into a knot behind my hair. “Up, I think,” she said, twisting my long hair and attaching it with clips behind my head into a simple but elegant updo.
“A week ago,” she answered. “He called me from this really chichi new designer’s studio and asked me for your size. Looks like I got it right,” she said, appraising the dress with obvious envy. She touched the scar on my arm and disappeared into her room, coming back with a cobweb-thin shrug. “That hides it,” she said, nodding with approval. “Holy cow, this thing is gorgeous.” She ran her fingers down the silk as we gazed at my reflection in the mirror.
“Wow, with you looking like that, I can’t believe you’re the same girl who was doing a perfectly convincing Uma Thurman–Kill Bill imitation not even two weeks ago,” she said. I hugged her as we left the room.
Vincent was waiting for me in the entranceway. The fire in his eyes when he saw me revealed exactly how I looked to him.
“Oh, darling, aren’t you stunning!” exclaimed Mamie, beaming as she handed me a long black hooded coat. “You’ll need this to keep warm. It’s always been too big for me but should fit you perfectly,” she murmured.
“You’re beautiful, just like your mom was,” whispered Papy emotionally, kissing my cheeks and telling us to have a good time. Georgia waved us off, and closing the door, we walked down the staircase.
Once we stepped outside into the nippy air, I was happy for Mamie’s coat, which was so well insulated that I was able to leave it open, showing off the dress. Halfway down the block, Vincent stopped, turned toward me, and whispered, “Kate, I feel so”—he paused, seeming lost for words—“so honored to be with you. So lucky. Thank you.”
“What?” I replied incredulously. He leaned in to kiss me, and I lifted my mouth to meet
his.
As our lips met, my body molded itself to his. I felt his heartbeat next to my own, and a luscious heat rose inside me as I responded to his kiss. Vincent held my face gently as his lips pressed more insistently against my own. The warmth inside me transformed into a flow of lava.
Finally breaking our connection, he gathered me into his arms. “More. Later,” he promised. “When we’re not standing in the middle of a city street.” He looked at me as if I were his own personal miracle and, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, pulled me tight as we walked toward the river.
Once there, we headed down the long flight of stairs to the quay. I laughed when I spotted a familiar figure standing a few yards away. “What are you doing here, Ambrose, in the middle of my birthday date?”
“Just part of the plan, Katie-Lou. Just part of the plan,” he said as he bent down to kiss my cheeks. “Let’s see you, now.” He stepped back and gave a low whistle as I let the coat fall halfway down my arms to show off the dress.
“Vin, you are one lucky man,” he said, giving Vincent a playful but painful-looking punch on the shoulder. Vincent rubbed the spot, laughing, and said, “Thanks. Just what I need, bodily injury while I’m trying to impress my girlfriend.”
“Oh, you’re going to be impressed.” Ambrose smiled. “You’d better be!” He motioned to the water with one hand. “Look at what I’ve been babysitting for you for the last hour and a half.”
A small rowboat, painted bright red, rocked gently in the waves of the river.
“What is this?” I gasped.
Vincent just smiled and said, “Normally I would say, ‘Ladies first,’ but in this case . . .” He climbed down the steep stone steps in the side of the quay and leaped nimbly into the boat. Ambrose helped me down halfway, and then Vincent grasped my hand and I stepped carefully into the rocking craft.
Ambrose gave us a salute before walking away. “Text me when you need me, man,” he called behind him, as he made his way up the steps to street level.