“Mamie, I promise I won’t do anything unnecessarily . . .”
“Shh, Katya. Stop right there.” She gives me a sad look. “Like your Papy, I don’t want to think about it either. The idea of your being in danger is one I can’t face. But you need to know that we support you and love you just the same as we did before. We’ll figure out the details later.”
She gives my cheek a firm kiss before releasing me. “Jeanne has promised me tea,” she says simply, and heads through the door into the back hallway.
“Are you okay?” Vincent asks, now that we’re alone. He is being overly careful, waiting for me to make a move. Watching to see what I want.
I hold out my hand and pull him out of the wide-open foyer into the privacy of the sitting room and close the door behind us.
He strokes my matted hair with his fingers and looks me up and down. “Charlotte’s assembling everyone for a meeting, and you and I both need to be there. Not that I don’t think you look beautiful caked in mud,” he says, smiling, “but . . . before you see everyone you might want to take that shower your sister suggested.”
“Eau de zombie?” I ask with a smile.
“You actually smell fine,” he says, grinning. “Eau de river water’s more like it.”
“Do I have time for a shower?” I ask, pulling him closer until his face is inches from mine.
“A little,” he responds.
“How much time?” I ask.
He swallows. “Enough for a shower. Not enough to do what you’re thinking about,” he responds hoarsely.
“Ten minutes,” I say. “Let’s just take ten minutes.”
He glances at my lips and presses his eyes shut. When he opens them, his expression is one of longing. “Kate, I don’t want ten minutes. Ten minutes isn’t enough. I want days. If we start something now, I’m not going to want to stop. They’ll have to drag me out of your bed to go to war.”
“A kiss, then?” Before I can finish asking, his lips are pressed to mine. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him like I’ve been longing to.
I lose sense of myself. I lose track of time. All that exists are me and Vincent and the experience of loving each other.
Eyes closed, forfeiting vision to increase sense of touch. Eyes open, staring into wells of blue flecked with gold. Eyes closed, the pressure of his mouth against mine consuming me. Eyes open, watching his lids narrow with desire. Eyes closed, feeling his body hard against mine. Knowing that time is not ours today, and wondering if it ever will be.
As my bathtub fills with hot water, I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I wander the circumference of the bedroom Vincent has appointed for me. I peer at the collection of precious objects and admire the paintings until I start seeing a pattern.
A painting of the Pont des Arts. A tiny red wooden rowboat set on a bookshelf next to a crystal Eiffel Tower. A pair of antique opera glasses. A vintage postcard from Villefranche-sur-Mer. A matchbook from the restaurant where we ate brunch in New York.
I near a small cubist painting hanging near the window, about the size of a hardcover book. I lean in to admire the tiny refracted scene of a glass sitting on a café table, and when I see the signature, I inhale so sharply that it sends me into a coughing fit: Vincent hung a Picasso in my bedroom.
And then I reach the antique footed bathtub and notice for the first time that there is an enormous vase stuffed with branches of white flowers standing on the floor beside it. And my brain suddenly registers the delicious perfume I’ve been smelling ever since I walked into the room: It is lilac.
FORTY-TWO
“I HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, BUT I DON’T agree,” Charlotte says.
Vincent cuts in. “According to our sources, dozens of numa have arrived in Paris over the last twenty-four hours. We have no idea where they’re assembling. Our raids on Jean-Baptiste’s rental properties two days ago succeeded in taking out eight numa. But that small victory cost us, since they immediately evacuated his other apartments. Now we have no idea where to find them. So if anyone has a productive suggestion”—he eyes Charlotte, who holds her hands up in surrender—“please feel free to voice it.”
I can’t focus. I have been feeling progressively stronger as the hours pass, and the last thing my body wants to do right now is sit through a long meeting. I’m actually kind of craving a jog around the neighborhood. Which is pretty strange for me.
My eyes stray to the library’s window while Vincent and the others pore over a map of Paris spread across a table. I can’t help strategize anyway. I don’t know anything about Paris’s numa or where they’ve been spotted. After trying to be interested for a half hour, my brain gives up and I let my thoughts wander.
I notice Ambrose sitting to one side, obviously as distracted as me. But his gaze isn’t out the window. Geneviève sits just across the table from us, as alluring as the day I first saw her with Vincent in La Palette: long platinum blond hair, eyes so light they are almost gray.
I look back at Ambrose and follow his line of sight back to the object of his attention: not Geneviève but Charlotte, with her long wheat-blond hair and rosebud cheeks. She bites her lip as she draws a line on the map from one mark to another. And I see him flinch as she glances up at him and then, with equal attention, at each person around the table as she explains the strategy.
I walk over to sit next to him. “You look kind of distracted, Ambrose,” I whisper.
“Yeah, well, I’m not much into planning. I’m mainly here for the muscle,” he responds, managing to rip his gaze away from Charlotte. He flexes a bicep and winks. “They just use me for my body.”
I laugh and want to hug him, but control myself. “So, it’s nice having Geneviève and Charlotte back, isn’t it?”
Ambrose’s eyes shoot back to Charlotte and he nods. “She’s changed, hasn’t she? Charlotte, I mean.”
“Um, besides growing her hair long she doesn’t seem to have changed much to me,” I say, trying not to smile. “Why?”
“It’s just that she seems so . . . in charge. I mean, she’s always had her act together, but ever since she’s been back she’s seemed more confident or something. And now that she’s Vincent’s second . . . I guess I’ve always thought of her as a little sister. You know, the huggable kind you want to take care of. But now that I see her working with him and taking control . . . I mean . . . the girl is fierce.”
Ambrose’s face shines with respect and a sort of curious awe, and I have to restrain myself from jumping up and cheering for the fact that it has finally happened. He has finally noticed what was right under his nose. The question is—does she still feel the same for him?
I lean my head on his shoulder and gaze around the room, feeling a deep sense of joy in knowing my fate is irrevocably tied to these people I love. Once again my attention is caught by a light outside the window. “So is there some kind of neighborhood party or French festival going on?” I ask Ambrose.
His brow creases. “No,” he says. “Not that I can think of. Why?”
“It’s just those red lights that I keep seeing. Like that one right there.” I gesture toward the window.
“I don’t see any lights,” he says, squinting out the glass.
“See, there it is again. There are two.”
He looks skeptical. “Uh, nope.”
“Oh, come on, Ambrose. It’s like two red lasers pointing straight up into the sky, just at the end of the block. Don’t tell me you can’t see them.”
Ambrose takes my hand and leads me to the window. “Just where do you see them?”
“Right there,” I say, pointing to the two very obvious lights. “In fact they’re a lot bigger than lasers. They’re like flame-colored columns . . . ,” I say, my words faltering as I have a flashback to the riverside. The lights are the same color as those I saw projecting from the two numa who were chasing me. The light I saw when they were a little ways away that disappeared when they got closer.
Something clicks. Heig
htened powers of perception. Can I see something the others can’t? “You don’t see it?” I ask Ambrose once more.
He scans the darkened vista outside the window and then looks at me, worried.
“I think I’ve figured out how we can find the numa,” I call toward the table, and everyone turns my way.
Ten minutes later, the entire group is outside on the street facing two of Violette’s sentries. Charlotte steps in front of them, her hand on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her coat. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
One of the numa dares respond. “Keeping watch,” he says simply, his eyes narrowing as he spots Ambrose standing behind Charlotte scowling and looking twice his already-imposing size.
“Where is your leader now?” asks Vincent.
“Even if I knew, why would I tell you?” the numa responds.
“Because we might spare your pitiful afterlives and let you go,” growls Ambrose.
“No, you won’t,” the numa says defiantly, and he and his companion swiftly draw their swords.
Ambrose leaps in front of Charlotte. “You’re right. I won’t,” he says, and rams his sword forcefully through the numa’s chest. A second passes before he lets the limp form drop to the ground.
The other numa is down almost as quickly, and Vincent wipes his sword on the man’s coat before returning it to its scabbard. “Let’s get them off the street,” he says.
I shudder as Ambrose swings one of the bodies over his shoulder. Two bardia accompanying us pick up the other corpse between them and head toward La Maison.
The danger gone, I drop back and follow them. But something feels wrong to me. It’s not like my kindred killed the numa without provocation. They were armed and wanted to fight. But there is still an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. It isn’t pity—it’s something else. Unable to pinpoint my emotion, I focus on Charlotte, who walks up behind Ambrose.
“You know, there is such a thing as holding people for questioning,” she says crisply.
“Yeah, see, I kind of forget that in the heat of the moment,” he replies, flashing her an apologetic smile. She shakes her head impatiently and runs to catch up with Vincent, who is opening the gates.
Ambrose meets my eyes. “Like I said, she is fierce!” he says, shaking his head in awe.
FORTY-THREE
OUR GROUP LOOKS OVER THE CITY FROM THE vantage point of La Maison’s roof terrace. Paris once again reminds me of a great lady. Tonight she wears a black velvet dress and pearls flash from her buildings’ windows. But for me, the vista is slashed by flaming red lines. A few on our side of the river appear as thick as columns, whereas the ones far off in the direction of Montmartre are as thin as crimson threads.
“How many do you see?” Vincent stands by my side holding my cold hand in his warm one.
“A lot.”
“Like a few dozen?” he asks.
“Like more than a hundred,” I respond. Silence falls over our little group as everyone studies the horizon for something they cannot see.
“They’re not all in one place,” I continue. “There are a group down that way,” I say, pointing toward Chinatown. “Others over there, on the other side of Bastille.” I indicate a forest of red beams far to our east. “More up toward Montmartre.”
Vincent studies the ground at his feet for a moment, and then turns to our group. “We need more bardia,” he says. “If we count all of our kindred in and directly around Paris, we aren’t more than forty. We can take the numa little by little, as long as they don’t group together. But if they do, we’re lost. Who else can we ask to join us?”
“Jean-Baptiste said that he and Gaspard will join us as soon as Gaspard reanimates early this morning,” Arthur says.
“Won’t it take him a while to recover?” I ask.
“No,” Arthur responds. “He wasn’t injured when he went dormant. We old guys are up and on our feet practically as soon as we awake. It’s you newbies that have a harder time in the morning,” he says with a grin.
Arthur’s in a really good mood for us being on the brink of warfare, I think, and wonder if it is because we will soon fight Violette, or something else . . . like my sister, for example.
“I put in a call to our New York kindred a few hours ago,” Vincent admits, reaching back for my hand. I look up at him in surprise. “Jules?” I ask hopefully.
“No, I talked to Theo Gold. But he was supposed to pass the message on. I asked that Jules bring a contingent here as soon as possible.”
The others nod doubtfully. In the time it would take for Jules to bring a group over from New York, the war could already be over.
“It’s been over a week since I talked to Charles, and I’ve left him a million messages telling him we need him,” Charlotte says. “I tried to contact him again today. No response. He and his hippy-dippy in-touch-with-their-feelings kindred are probably still up in the mountains, meditating on leaves or something. I’ll keep trying, but they’ll never get here in time if we engage today.” She is trying to sound lighthearted, but I know she wants her brother by her side if she is going into battle.
Vincent nods. “Okay, I’m putting out a call to all of France’s revenants. Anyone else you know within driving distance, please contact. This is going to go down in the next twenty-four hours. If we wait any longer, their forces can only grow and their defenses become stronger. We have to strike first. And we’ll start tonight while they’re still scattered and in small groups.”
People pull out their cell phones as they head down the stairs. Vincent puts his arms around my waist, presses his lips to my forehead, and leans back to look me in the eye. “Are you going to be able to do this? You don’t even need to fight. If you can just lead us to the groups that will be enough.”
“Believe it or not, I am dying for some action. I feel like I could sprint a whole marathon.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Vincent says, his lips forming a smile. “But you’re not feeling weak? You haven’t even been fully animated for a day.”
“I feel totally wired,” I admit, bouncing up onto my toes. Taking his face in my hands, I pull him close and kiss him.
“Yeah. I’m kind of feeling the same myself,” he says with a sexy grin. “Let’s just try to hold that thought until we defeat the numa.”
We kiss again and his expression becomes serious. “I really don’t want you in the heart of the action, Kate. Even though you’re strong, you’re also new. And, yes, as a revenant you are hard to destroy. But don’t think for a second that Violette has given up on capturing you. You are her prize, and every numa out there will be trying to bring you back to their leader.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“Just because you’re the Champion doesn’t mean you have to act like one,” Vincent says with a ghost of a smile.
“The prophecy says I will lead you to victory,” I tease.
“If you lead us to each of Paris’s numa, I would say that more than qualifies,” Vincent allows. “But victory can be measured in lots of ways. Whether any of us will survive this war isn’t at all sure. I want to see my kindred safely through without loss of life. Especially yours.”
Bran is waiting for me when we step down through the trapdoor. “Kate!” he exclaims, and reaches out as if he wants to hug me, before changing his mind and dropping his arms by his sides. I hug him instead, his skinny frame floppy in my arms.
“I am sorry, my dear, but I can’t look you straight in the face. Your aura was already hard to look at when you were human. Now it blinds me.” He averts his eyes and looks at the floor behind me.
“Bran, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“What might have happened if I had? You could have put yourself in harm’s way just to discover if I was right. Or perhaps Jean-Baptiste would have. He is a good man, but was desperate to have the aid of the Champion.”
Bran tries again, unsuccessfully, to look me in the face. “Now we know why. He need
ed someone to help him get out of this mess he had gotten into. To destroy the numa so he would no longer be bound to his shameful bargain.”
I touch his arm thoughtfully. “Do you know what my powers are, Bran?” I ask.
“I have no information besides what is contained in the prophecy. But you already performed one of your most important roles: You single-handedly reunited the flame-fingered with our bardia wards after centuries of being lost to each other. That role in itself saved your Vincent. Once I master the gifts of ease of bardia suffering and dispersion, our continued alliance in the future can only be beneficial.”
With effort, he shifts his eyes to look straight into mine. His face takes on an unreadable expression: something between sadness and hope.
“Be careful, Kate,” he says. And leaning forward, he gives me an awkward back-patting hug.
Charlotte is waiting in my room when I arrive. She has brought my fighting gear up from the armory, and is already dressed in hers, ready to go. She sits beside a low table helping herself to a tray of food. I pop a cheese gougère into my mouth and savor its flakey goodness as I pull up a chair. “I’m ravenous!” I admit.
“When’s the last time you ate?” she asks.
“On the boat. Violette was feeding me so that I would get my strength back and fully animate. Looks like that worked a little too well for her!” I think back to the strange, sad numa boy, Louis, and something tugs inside me.
Charlotte munches on an apple slice, looking pensive.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“Ambrose,” she responds. “He’s been acting really weird lately.”
“Weird good or weird bad?” I ask, popping a melon ball into my mouth.
“Weird freaky,” she replies, looking troubled. “He keeps watching me. I wonder if he questions JB’s decision to name me as second. Maybe he’s waiting for me to slip up or something.”