It is a beautiful wedding, held in the stained-glass jewel box that is La Sainte-Chapelle. Charlotte wears a vintage wedding gown from the 1940s, the era she was human. And Ambrose wears a custom-made tux, since not a shop in Paris had one big enough to fit him.
Charles has brushed his burgundy Mohawk down and even forgoes eyeliner in order to give his sister away. He is as radiant as the bride—his new life suits him well.
After blessing the wedding, the revenant priest steps aside and lets Gaspard officiate—which he does with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. And when he says to kiss the bride, Ambrose lets out a whoop and swings Charlotte around before planting the kiss of the century on her rosy lips.
There isn’t a dry eye in the house.
On my way out, I spot Arthur and Georgia sharing a private moment behind a column in the lower chapel. Kate had told me they were on-again, off-again. This must be an on day.
Back at La Maison, the reception is in full swing, with Faust and Uta hitting the dance floor before anyone else has their jackets off. He picks her up and flips her around in some kind of crazy swing number that I’d never imagined he could do. Faustino Molinaro is a never-ending surprise.
As the rest of the guests file into the ballroom, Ambrose lifts Charlotte up onto the dais and stands on the ground beneath her as she clinks her spoon on a champagne glass. She seems lit up from within, like there’s a thousand-watt bulb beneath that creamy skin. This is everything she’s ever wanted. For decades. The room falls silent, and everyone turns to face her.
“Ambrose and I said we weren’t going to allow speeches. We’ve all known each other too long, and there are way too many incriminating stories that could surface.”
Laughter rolls over the crowd, and winks and nudges are exchanged.
“But I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here today. Welcome, kindred. I especially want to thank the members of La Maison . . . my house. Gaspard, Jules, Vincent . . . and Ambrose. You were already here when Jean-Baptiste recovered Charles’s and my bodies and invited us to stay. You have been my fathers, my brothers, my world. I have never known better men than you. And now I am marrying one of you.”
“It’s a done deal, baby,” Ambrose remarks, looking up at her with a wink.
“Finally!” Charlotte teases, nudging his broad shoulder with her hip. Everyone laughs.
She lifts her glass. “Thank you for joining us on this day where our joy is truly complete. Santé!”
“Santé!” the crowd cheers, sipping their champagne in honor of the happy couple, and as the music starts back up, people crowd onto the dance floor. I look around for Ava, who I had only briefly glimpsed at the wedding, since I had to be there early and was seated in the front row with Vincent, Kate, Charles, and Jeanne. She must have been one of the first to leave the chapel, because I didn’t see her afterward.
But now, there she is across the room, wearing a full-length ruby-colored gown, her hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She is stunning. My heart and throat do this simultaneous squeeze-and-choke thing, and I can’t breathe for a full second. Which is one second too long, because some dashing guy from Geneviève’s house steps in, gives her this gallant and totally annoying bow, and sweeps her onto the dance floor.
FIFTEEN
“HOW’S YOUR DANCE CARD LOOK?” SAYS THE voice I know better than any other—it’s been haunting my mind for months. And there is Kate, standing in front of me in her golden-auraed glory.
“Double-check your century, Kate,” I respond. “And stop stealing my lines.”
She gives me a sassy curtsy. I roll my eyes, and then, lunging, grab her around the waist and whisk her out onto the dance floor, making her laugh in delight.
“I’ve seen that dress before,” I say of her Asian-print silk gown.
“It’s my birthday dress,” she replies.
“Ah, yes. The one Vincent had custom-made as a surprise for your sweet seventeenth.”
“The very one,” she says.
“That was a truly brilliant boyfriend move,” I comment.
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s pretty good at those things.”
We dance in silence for a moment, and then I say softly, “I hope you know how lucky you are. How lucky you both are.”
She leans back to look at me, her face open with compassion. She doesn’t need to say anything—we both know what the other is thinking. I measure the pain in my heart, and it is still there, but it is less. “I’m going to be okay,” I say.
“I know,” she replies, and lays her head on my shoulder. Other couples move around us, but for a few moments time stops and it’s just the two of us, and my heart is calm and things are good.
And then Kate speaks and the magic is broken. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Ava. She’s pretty amazing, you know.”
I stop and stare at her. “You’re not going to try that old pass-the-guy-whose-heart-you-broke-onto-someone-else-so-you-won’t-feel-guilty routine, are you? Because that is so beneath you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kate quips. She places her hands back on my shoulders and forces me to dance. “You’re too smart for that.”
“I accept that compliment and beg you to stop talking before you say anything else that could come across as pitying or demeaning.”
“Deal,” says Kate, and throws her arms around my neck. The song is ending, and she gives me a hug. “We’re going to miss you,” she says, and leaves me standing face-to-face with Ava, having craftily deposited me inches away.
I have no time to think. “Um, dance?” I ask.
“Lose your suave somewhere on the dance floor?” Ava asks, cracking a smile.
“Uh, yeah. I think Faust trampled it under those size twenties of his.”
She laughs. “Let’s go.” She gives me her hand, and I lead her to a far corner of the room, away from the direction Kate wandered.
“You okay after that dance?” she asks, as I place one hand on her waist and grasp her hand in the other.
“Fighting form,” I respond. She doesn’t push the point, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t want to Talk, with a capital T.
We dance for a moment, and I’m just beginning to realize that I’ve actually got Ava in my arms for the very first time. I’m starting to enjoy it . . . immensely, when she says something. I try to focus. “What?” I ask, and point at the speakers. “I can’t hear you. The music . . .”
She moves her lips closer to my ear—I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried. “I’ve seen the way you are with your kindred. They all love you. Respect you. You seem so at home here—you are at home here. Are you sure you want to come back to New York?”
Oh God. She does want to Talk. Please, not here. Not now. I hold her to me for one more moment and then pull back and tap my ear. “It really is too loud. Do you want to go somewhere else?” I say, hoping she’ll just drop the whole subject.
“Yes.”
I sigh. “Okay, follow me.” I take her hand and weave through the crowd. We head toward the front door and step outside to see the garden crowded with guests. Georgia and Arthur are sitting on the edge of the fountain, bodies entwined and lips locked. God, do they ever give it a break?
“Back in,” I say, and lead her up the winding front staircase, down the hallway past the library, and up the second set of stairs.
“Are we going to your room?” she asks.
“No. Better,” I say, and passing my door, climb a few more steps and push open the trapdoor to the roof. It’s pitch dark. I breathe a sigh of relief—no one else has had this idea—and I help her step out onto the dark roof before switching on the fairy lights.
“Oh, Jules!” she breathes, and raises her hands to her mouth, gazing around in wonder. Paris lies before us, lit up in all its nighttime magical glory. I smile. She’s happy. I’m happy. If only it could last.
I open a cupboard near the door, pull out a few cushions and a blanket, and carry them over to a
couch positioned at the edge of the roof that has the best view. “Milady?” I say, holding a hand out to her.
Speechless, she settles onto the couch, and I drape the blanket around her shoulders and sit down next to her.
“So . . . you were saying?”
She laughs, and takes a moment to reorganize her thoughts. “Right. Okay. I was saying . . . you seem so good here. Your kindred want you here. Are you sure you want to go back to New York tomorrow?”
“Yes, and I’m going to tell you why.”
Ava watches me, head cocked to one side, waiting to hear what I have to say. My heartbeat accelerates under the scrutiny of her gaze. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Should I . . . oh hell . . .
“I have a reason. You see, there’s this girl.”
“Girl?”
“Woman, rather, who I’m just getting to know. Who I would like to know better.”
“What’s she like?” Ava asks, a broad smile spreading across her lips.
“You’re fishing!” I say, pointing at her and narrowing my eyes.
“Innocent curiosity, I swear.” She makes the smile disappear and tries to look serious.
“Well, for one thing, she’s drop-dead gorgeous and has the most interesting, unique look. A look that makes you want to keep on looking. Like your eyes are glued to her, and you can’t rip them away.”
“Ripping glued eyes, got it,” she says.
“But I’m not the kind of guy who thinks that beauty’s skin-deep. There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye. You see, this girl’s damaged”—Ava recoils slightly, and I put my hand up—“like most people who have lived through traumatic events. But she’s taken that pain and done something beautiful with it. She let it make her stronger. And people love her for that.”
Ava just sits there, eyes wide, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
I drape my arm across the back of the couch and lean toward her. Here goes nothing. “Ava, I need you to know that this is very uncharacteristic of me . . . being this straightforward. But you have suffered in the past from someone deceiving you, so I am making it a point to be honest. Painfully so. The pain being all mine, I assure you.” I exhale and massage my temples with my fingertips.
Ava shakes her head in awe. “I thought I knew you, before I even knew you . . . and it turns out I didn’t know you at all.”
“I’m not the same person I was before,” I say, and I mean it. “I’ve changed.”
Her gaze drops. “A broken heart can do that.”
“Hearts mend,” I say. “Especially when they have a good reason to.”
Ava looks up and studies my face like it’s one of her art books, like she’s trying to see me from every possible angle, through all the layers into my core. Finally she tips her head and asks, “Are you saying that you like me, Jules Marchenoir?”
“I am saying that I like you very much indeed, Ava Whitefoot.”
With a delighted grin, she crosses her arms and looks out over Paris.
I wait.
Are my palms actually sweating? I rub them on my pants and try not to think about what’s going through her mind.
And then, with no warning, she leans forward, closes her eyes, and presses her lips to mine. My heart stops beating. She’s kissing me. Ava is kissing me. My brain can’t process what’s happening, and my body responds automatically, arms circling her to draw her in toward me. She responds, placing her hands on my shoulders and running them down my arms, pushing them away, wriggling out of my grasp.
“No,” she says, shaking her head, an amused smile on her lips. She leans forward and breathes next to my ear, “This is me. Let me.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “You, mademoiselle, are completely, one hundred percent, in control.”
Her mouth quirks up on one side. “You don’t know how good that sounds,” she says, her words thick like honey. Then she takes my head in her hands and proceeds to electrify every inch of my body with the most perfect, warm, delicious kiss in the history of surprise rooftop kisses. No, I take that back . . . make that of any kiss ever. It’s just long enough to turn my insides to jelly, but oh man, is it sweet.
“What was that for?” I ask, when I’m able to breathe again.
“It’s a promise,” she says, a playful twinkle in her eye.
“What’s the promise?” I ask.
“That if you’re good, you’ll get some more.”
“I don’t think I’ve had such a compelling motivation in my life,” I say, putting my hand on my heart in only half-joking earnestness.
“Then let’s see how we do,” Ava says.
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her in close and keeping her there. Together, we look out over the lights of Paris, where, just beyond, is a wide, rolling countryside that ends at an ocean. And on the other side of that ocean lies a bright, shining city of dreams. A city of promise.
EPILOGUE
I’M IN MY ROOM IN THE WAREHOUSE, LACING UP my steel-toed boots, when there’s a knock on the door. “It’s open,” I yell, and Theodore Gold walks in, dressed in a black tuxedo. Black. Not white. I barely recognize him.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to fight in that,” I say. “It looks like you just came from having dinner with the mayor.”
“Funnily enough, I did just come from dinner with the mayor, and yes, I am fighting in this. I happen to find wool blend surprisingly comfortable in battle.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking until he undoes a couple of pearl buttons to show the Kevlar vest he’s wearing underneath.
I shrug. “Suit yourself, you’ve been in this game longer than I have.” I strap the weapon belt around the waist of my leather jeans and, reaching for my own Kevlar vest, ease it over my black T-shirt.
Gold thrusts his hands in his pockets and does his strolling thing around my room. “I haven’t been in here since your trip to Paris. What would that be . . . six months ago? I must say . . . I approve of the change in decor.” He points up to a life-size portrait of Ava hanging on my wall. In it, she sits on a couch on a rooftop in a crimson evening gown, looking out over a moonlit Paris.
I snap the vest up the side. “It seems I’ve got myself a new muse.”
“Yes, well,” he says, trying to suppress a grin, “I’m actually not here to browse your newest works. I come as a messenger. You’ve got visitors. In the armory.”
I pull on a lightweight chain-mail shirt and top it with a long-sleeved black jersey. “Visitors?” I ask, slipping my Glock and sword into their holsters. I pat myself down, verifying I’ve got everything, then grab my leather jacket. Gold holds the door open for me, and we head out into the hallway toward the stairs.
“I actually put a call out to a few other areas, since this skirmish has the potential of escalating into all-out war,” he says. We follow other black-garbed kindred down the stairway and emerge through industrial metal doors into the Warehouse’s lower level.
We take a quick right into the gym-size armory, and there he is, standing in the middle of the room, swinging around a massive battle-ax like it’s a child’s aluminum baton. My heart skips a beat. It’s Ambrose. Here. In New York. “Lightweight American play toys,” I hear him grumble, and then he sees me. Dropping the ax, he charges over and tackles me, nearly picking me up off my feet with his bear hug.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to squeak.
“Thanks to Gold, we heard about the big skirmish going down in Queens tonight. Since you yourself seem to be so . . . communication challenged.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been a bit busy.” I turn, hearing a familiar squeal coming from the changing room.
Charlotte, dressed in battle gear, hurls herself across the room toward me and leaps into my arms. Dropping back to the ground, she kisses my cheeks and says, “Shame on you for not telling us about the battle. Ambrose has been going stir-crazy in Paris. He says there’s no more action in France.”
“
Kate, Vincent, and Arthur wanted to come, but Gaspard insisted that it would be the perfect opportunity for a surprise attack from any numa ‘stragglers,’” Ambrose says, using air quotes.
“So we brought a dozen of Paris’s bardia with us,” Charlotte says. “Everyone’s suited up and ready to fight.”
“I’m glad you came,” I say, not quite believing that they’re standing there with me, an ocean away from where they’re supposed to be—safe behind the walls of La Maison.
The room has been emptying as we talk, and Gold slips out without saying good-bye. I hear the door open, and from behind me comes a voice. Her voice.
“Are you guys going to stand around all night chatting, or are you ready to fight?” Ava strides into the room, looking like a Hollywood costume designer’s vampire-hunting dream girl: tight black leather, faux-fur vest, knee-high Doc Martens, and some serious metal strapped to chest, back, and waist.
I try to swallow, but it seems there’s a baseball lodged inside my throat.
Ambrose whistles and Charlotte grins. Ava walks up to us. I clear my throat and say, “Although you’ve already met, I’d like to present to you Ava Whitefoot”—I get down on one knee and hold my hand up to her—“Champion of my heart, as well as of the American Eastern Seaboard.”
Ava laughs and takes the hand I’m offering. “That started out romantic and then kind of fizzled out at the end.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to work on downplaying the literalism,” I say, and allow her to lift me from my courtly position before grabbing her and pulling her to me for a five-second heart-thumping kiss.
“Watch the blades,” Ambrose suggests, “or this could go down as most dangerous make-out session ever.”
“Worth it,” I say, letting go of her with a twinge of regret.
“If we win,” Ava murmurs, with a twinkle in her eye, “there will be more later.”
“Then let’s go slay some numa!” I grab her hand and lead the group out of the armory, down a hallway, and into a parking garage that holds a veritable army of vehicles. Next to each car, a small group of kindred stands at the ready, dressed for battle and armed to the teeth. There must be close to two hundred bardia assembled in this one room.