Die Once More (11 page)

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.

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.

“No. Way,” breathes Ambrose, taking in the scene before us. He turns to Charlotte. “We're moving here.” She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Jules?” Ava asks, and I put my fingers to my lips and let out a sharp whistle. The room falls silent, and all eyes turn to where we stand at the top of the stairs leading down into the garage.

“Our strategy is solid,” Ava says, her voice echoing through the vast hall. “And from what I can see, we will easily outnumber the numa group assembled. We are ready for this battle. A victory tonight will mean a lethal blow to their infrastructure. Come fight with me, kindred.”

She unsheathes her sword and swings it in a slow arc across the room, meeting every person's eye before lifting her sword toward the ceiling and saying in a slow and steady voice, “Let's. Do. This.”

The place goes berserk, two hundred bardia cheering and hugging and high-fiving like they've already won. Ambrose stares at Ava, gobsmacked, while a proud smile stretches across Charlotte's lips. She leans over to Ava and yells over the noise. “You are
amazing
!”

Ava smiles broadly and nods to me. I give another whistle, and people jump into their cars, SUVs, and motorcycles, and begin pulling out of the garage and onto the Brooklyn streets.

She takes my hand as we make our way down the stairs into the room and toward a waiting car.
Merci, mon chevalier,
she says in my head, and leans in toward me for one last prebattle kiss.

I oblige, cradling her head in my hands, and let my lips express what my heart cannot say: that I am hers, body and soul. And when we finally part, she smiles in that way that makes me know I've found my true home.

My home is not a place. It's not a fixed location on the map;
not Paris or New York. It is with Ava. Wherever she is—that is where I belong. I look at her and my heart is full. I respond, “You are welcome,
mon coeur
.”

Read on for a look at Amy Plum's
AFTER THE END

I CROUCH LOW TO THE GROUND, PRESSING MY
back to the ancient spruce tree, and raise my crossbow in one hand. Keeping my eye on the precious shard of mirror embedded in my weapon, I inch it out from behind the tree. In the reflection, I spot something moving behind a cedar across the snowy clearing.

From the cracking of branches to my right, I sense that another foe lurks nearby. I can't see him. Can't see his inevitable scars and pockmarks—damage from the nuclear radiation. But I know he's there. I'll have to take my chances. You have to be tough to survive an apocalypse.

I leap from behind the tree, duck as I see a missile hurtling toward me from a low scrub of holly bush, and simultaneously shoot in front of me. I hit the ground and roll, leaping back to my feet.

“I hit you!” yells a voice from the bushes. I hear a rustling of leaves, and then my friend Nome pops out, her hair glowing like burnished gold against the green and red holly.

“No you didn't!” I yell back, but then I look down to where she's pointing. Gooseberry pulp drips off the sleeve of my buckskin parka. “It's just my arm. It wouldn't have been lethal,” I say, flicking off the fruit sludge. But I know that though it wouldn't have killed me on the spot, I would have been injured. And any injury would slow me down. Nome's gooseberry would have meant my eventual death in the case of a true attack on our village.

Kenai steps from behind the cedar with a moose antler in his hand. He has painted an evil face on the wide part of the horn, and my arrow protrudes from its forehead.

“Bull's-eye,” he says, and begins to make gurgling sounds as his homemade brigand suffers a painful and drawn-out demise. Trust Kenai to lighten a heavy moment.

The antler's death throes are interrupted by Nikiski, who runs up with his hands in the air. “Cease-fire,” he yells, and then grins widely to show two missing front teeth. “Juneau, Whit wants you to come see him in the school. Something about hunting. Something about being low on meat. And Dennis wants you two”—Nikiski gestures to Kenai and Nome—“to drop by the library for something about a project he wants you to do.”

“Thank you for that precise and informative message,” Kenai says, ruffling Nikiski's hair with his hand as he walks past the boy toward the village. “Battle officially over,” he calls behind him. “Brigand slain, but Junebug injured. Ten points to Nome.”