If I Should Die (23 page)

I lay my head back down and taste blood in my mouth. And smile.

THIRTY-SEVEN

THE DOOR REOPENS ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, AND
Louis enters with a tray. Although his raised eyebrows hint of curiosity as to what just happened between me and his mistress, he says nothing. Setting the tray down, he wordlessly pours a glass of water. He lifts my head and helps me get some of it down before replacing the glass and feeding me an orange segment.

My fury slowly cools as I study him for the first time. I see what must have been an awkward boy of thirteen or so, before he took on the deceptively charismatic facade that is part of the revenant transformation.

As Vincent explained to me last summer, when revenants animate, they become more physically alluring than when they were human. It is their superstrength: People are attracted to them, and thus more prone to trust them.

In the bardia's case, this is a good thing—more lives saved. But in the numa's case, it is to their victim's peril. When the numa want to be scary, they sure as hell are. But when they are in con-man mode, they can be as poisonously charming as Lucien was when he tricked my sister into falling for him.

What could this boy have done at such a young age to animate as a serial betrayer?
I wonder.

Louis avoids my eyes as he stands to go. And although I know he's only following Violette's orders, I thank him as he leaves the room. He pauses in the doorway, looking curiously back at me before shutting the door and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Time passes snail slow and my limbs ache so much that tears leak from my eyes. I'm not crying; it's just my body's response to the intense pain. Which makes sense: My dead human tissue is coming to life again. I shudder with horror. Vincent didn't tell me this part of his story.

He didn't tell me a lot of things. Because he never thought I would be in this situation. Neither of us suspected me of being like him. Although, now that Violette has enumerated the reasons, I realize we should have seen it. If there hadn't been the belief in Vincent's being the Champion clouding the issue, we probably would have.

And if we had, well, things would have been different. We wouldn't have had to deal with the issue of my mortality and his living forever. Because I had the chance to become immortal. That's the cruel irony: Now that I have the possibility of spending eternity with Vincent, someone is going to take it away from me. Is going to kill me—again—and burn my body.

Just let her try
, I think, my rage making me feel all-powerful. I struggle violently with my bonds, convulsing like a madwoman in my despair, but the only result is bleeding arms.

I measure time with the beat of my slowed-down heart and the change of light outside the boat's window. It must be mid-morning when Louis enters the room and begins the feeding routine again. Eating and drinking while flat on my back is difficult, to say the least. But I am so famished that I manage to chew and swallow everything he gives me—and keep it down.

“How old are you?” I ask finally.

His eyes widen, and then narrow. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head. Quickly folding up the tray, he leaves the room.

I close my eyes and try to relax, but every muscle in my body is jumping. I am desperate to move, but only my feet and hands are free to rotate. So I work them. And then I flex my fingers and toes and try to relax. There's nothing else I can do, besides imagining what my family must be thinking right now. They believe I'm dead. They are mourning. Once again. My heart actually physically hurts as I picture them, so I cast the image out of my mind and begin thinking of escape.

I study the locks on the windows and memorize the layout of the room. I don't know what I'm capable of, so it's hard to strategize. I wish I had asked Vincent more questions about revenant powers.

And what if I
am
the Champion? What was it that Vincent told me . . . besides the “anterior powers” that Violette had described. Strength. Endurance. I wonder if I have superpowers. I strain against the bonds again and nothing happens. They don't snap like threads. Okay . . . I'm not the Hulk. I can only hope the endurance part is right. Because if not, being tied to this bed is going to drive me insane.

As the sun outside the window reaches the zenith—
midday
, I think—my desperation grows. Violette said that my strength would be back in a day. I have to get out of here before then. More than my fear of being killed again is my determination not to be her key to becoming a Champion-fueled supervillain and wiping out the bardia.

I remember the story about that numa who absorbed the Indian Champion's power and the destruction he managed to wreak before he was stopped. Violette doesn't need any more persuasion to tempt people to follow her. And add, I'm just guessing, more than double a revenant's strength, endurance, and all that, she could have Paris under her control in no time at all. Not to be comic-book-hero dramatic, but if I have the fate of Paris . . . and eventually France or even beyond . . . resting on my shoulders, I better the hell find a way to get out of here.

Louis is back, doing the whole silent nursemaid routine once again. But this time, I'm determined to get him to talk.

“I know you're not supposed to speak to me. But I'm guessing you're not much younger than I am. And I'm also guessing you might not want to be here.”

I watch the practiced blankness of his expression drop for a second, as his eyes meet mine, and then he puts the mask back on and continues to feed me. But I have seen what I was looking for: sadness. Despair.

I swallow the bite of apple he's feeding me and think of what to say. Where are those supernatural powers of persuasion when I need them? I decide to tell the truth. “I never asked for this, Louis. I don't want to be the Champion. I don't even want to be a revenant. I just want to go back to being a normal human girl and never see that scary medieval freak again.”

Louis freezes, not knowing what to do. My anger seems to make sense to him, but my honesty leaves him confused. I can see that what I said touched something in him.

Standing, he walks to the door and shuts it carefully, and then comes back to sit next to me. “She doesn't want me to talk to you,” he whispers. “I'm supposed to tell her the second I think you're trying to persuade me to help you.”

“Well, I guess that's normal if she believes I have enhanced powers of persuasion,” I say. “She must trust you a lot to leave you alone with me.”

“Trust?” he guffaws. “Why do you think she's here on this boat, never more than a few yards away from you?”

My nose is running, and the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is a Kleenex. I sniff a few times, trying to wipe my nose on my shoulder, and Louis jumps up to get a towel and dabs at my face.

“Thanks,” I say. And then something occurs to me. “Back in the hotel room . . . why did you apologize when you grabbed me from behind?” I ask as he folds the towel and places it on a side table.

He watches me from across the room. Deciding. Then squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he rubs his forehead worriedly. “I was almost fourteen when I died—just a few months ago,” he says in a voice so tight it sounds like his throat will burst.

Exhaling, he walks over to me. “I didn't mean to kill anyone. Okay, yes, I did. But I was just temporarily . . . insane I guess. I hated the guy so much for what he had done to us and my mother.” He shudders and shakes his head. That's all he's going to say about his past.

“I'm just . . . I'm sorry about all of this. I don't want to be this way. She found me and made me her favorite, and all I want to do is die. But that's not even possible for me anymore.”

I don't know what to say.

“I have to go,” he says, and begins to leave the room.

“Wait!”

“What?” he asks, turning to me.

“Thanks.”

“For what?” He looks suspicious.

“For talking to me. For wiping my nose. Just . . . thanks.”

“I didn't do anything,” he says, narrowing his eyes. And turning, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Louis is like Violette. A freak of nature. He must have become a numa by accident, the same way she became a revenant. And now he is doomed to be her partner, at least until she gets bored of him. Which, for Arthur, took about five hundred years.

THIRTY-EIGHT

A MOMENT LATER, I FEEL ANOTHER PRESENCE IN
the room.

Kate
, it says. I am used to hearing a voice inside my head, but for the first time it's not Vincent's. I scan the room, searching for the source of the voice, but see nothing.

“Who is that?” I ask in a freaked-out whisper.

It's Gaspard
, says the voice.
And apparently you don't have to speak out loud. I heard your words before you spoke them. How terribly convenient.

I can't help smiling. He sounds the same in my head as in real life.
What are you doing here? I thought you and JB left Paris.

We did. But Jean-Baptiste saw your aura all of the way from Normandy, and insisted on coming back. Everyone's been searching for you. Jean-Baptiste followed your light and led them all here. I must say, my dear, you look absolutely ghastly. Dried blood caked all over. You're practically . . . zombiesque.

I ignore his remarks on my appearance.
How are my grandparents? And Vincent?

They're all fine. Ambrose and Charlotte got your grandparents safely out of the Crillon and then went back in and rescued Vincent.

I breathe a sigh of relief.
So where are we?

The houseboat you are imprisoned within is just outside Paris, moving westward,
says Gaspard. The voice disappears for a moment, and then is back.
How strong are you?

I don't know
, I admit
. How long have I been here?

Violette killed you almost four days ago,
Gaspard says.
I can't stay for long. She and her men will sense that I am here. Vincent doesn't want to try a rescue attempt until he knows you're strong enough to fight on your own. There's no way to creep up on a boat in the middle of the river, but we don't want to give Violette the time she needs to destroy you.

His voice disappears again for a good few minutes, and then he is back.
Vincent says, and I quote, “Be strong,
mon ange
.” He says you should do your best to get free, but stay where you are and pretend you are still bound. I will come back in a few hours to check on you.

Gaspard?
I say.

Yes.

I'm a revenant.
I realize it's the understatement of the century, but somehow saying it out loud makes me feel better.

I know. It seems that you're actually a bit more than a revenant, dear Kate.

I inhale sharply.
How do you know?

Well, firstly, your aura is like nothing Jean-Baptiste has ever seen before. It's like a homing beacon for his Seer capabilities. And then, once confronted, Bran confessed. He's known this whole time, but was bound by his people's rules not to pronounce you Champion before you actually became such.

My hunch was right. Bran had known. I can't decide whether I am grateful or upset with him for not letting me know. But then again . . . maybe he had tried with all of his little hints. In the only way he could “legally” let me know. I had just been blind to it.

Just be careful, Kate,
Gaspard continues
. I'll be back to check on you.

So. My state—both revenant and Champion—is now common knowledge among the bardia. They all know.
Vincent
knows. I'm not sure how I feel about that. There is a pang in my heart as I wonder if this will change the way he sees me now. He told me more than once that he would never wish the revenant destiny for me.

Well, none of that will matter if I can't get out of here. My body will be ashes and my spirit absorbed into Violette, strengthening her. Making her unstoppable. Just the thought of being a part of her sets me into action. I work on my bonds, moving my hands back and forth and picking at the ropes. All I manage is rope burn and more bleeding. I feel like screaming, but now that I'm in contact with the others, I don't want to draw more attention to myself than is necessary. I lie back on the bed and wish I could sleep.

After what seems like forever, Louis is back with another tray. This time he leaves the door open behind him. Lifting my head to help me drink, he places slices of fruit and nuts in my mouth and waits for me to chew and swallow.

I sense that he hates this guard work. There's something about the way his jaw clenches when I occasionally wince in pain. And the way his eyes dart to my face every few seconds to gauge my reactions. I've been feeling an emotion from him that I finally realize could be sympathy. I have a sneaking suspicion that he would rather be anywhere besides here, helping me grow stronger so I can be destroyed.

I take a chance that my hunch is right. “Louis, please help me get out of here,” I whisper.

He acts like he doesn't hear me and pops a hazelnut into my mouth. I chew and swallow and wonder if there is a trick to this persuasiveness thing. Focusing on what I want from him, I picture him getting up, closing the door, and then untying me. I concentrate all of my energy into that little film reel in my head, watching him go through the motions I want time after time. I feel another nut against my lips, and my eyes pop open to see his gaze flicker quickly away from me as I take the food from his fingers.

He stands and walks toward the door. I am crushed by disappointment. He is my one chance: Unless I get superstrong superfast, there is no way I'm getting out of here on my own. As I watch him leave, I see something that I haven't noticed before. Within his bright red aura something gleams, like tiny filaments of gold. I blink a few times, wondering if lying on my back for so long is giving me eyestrain, but when I look again, the golden glint is still there.

As if he feels me watching him, Louis pauses. And then he turns and comes back. Carefully avoiding my gaze, he leans under the bed and yanks on one of the cords. It bites into my arm as the rope twists against my skin. I am petrified with alarm, wondering what he is doing.

Without looking back, he takes out a single key and leaves it on the windowsill before leaving the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

What just happened here?
I ask myself. I lift my head to look down at my hands. He has turned the cord around leaving the knot right next to my fingers. I lay my head back down and close my eyes in relief. Then, summoning all of my strength, I prop myself up and begin working the knot with my fingernails.

It's a simple knot, but it has been tied so tightly that I have to actually unravel some of the cord using my thumbnail as a knife. I hear footsteps approach the door and freeze, lying back down so that if someone peeks in they might not see anything amiss. The footsteps walk away, and I throw myself into the task harder than before, ripping the skin on my thumbs to loosen the cord. Finally I feel the knot release and I tear the cord free.

There are three more cords holding me down: across my shoulders, upper legs, and feet. I work these for the next few minutes, each being easier than the last now that I have more mobility, and finally I am free.

I consider waiting for Gaspard, but it feels like hours since he left. I could drape the ropes back around me, pretend to be tied up in case Violette returns. But if it comes to fighting her, I'm not sure I can win. I have no way to judge my strength.

Though I don't feel up to a fight, I do feel desperate enough to move my limbs. Maybe even to attempt an escape. Curious, I touch my chest, pulling my shirt apart where Violette's knife sliced it. I am covered in a thick layer of dried blood, so it is hard to see the knife wound. I run my fingers over my breastbone, where the blade entered. It is smooth. There is no wound. Not even a scar. I shiver and goose bumps raise on my forearms.

If I had any remaining doubts about my mortality, they are now gone. I am undeniably supernatural.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there, feeling the blood rush into my thighs. The pins and needles return with full force. I try to stand, but slump immediately to a sitting position until finally I can feel my toes. I stay like that for another moment before trying to stand again. Then I limp painfully across the room to the window.

Picking up Louis's key, I slip it into the lock. It fits, and I turn the handle carefully, teeth clenched, trying my best to avoid making noise. I push the window open slowly—an inch at a time—and after nothing happens, dare to stick my head out and look down. There is a six-foot drop to the main deck. No one is in sight.

I shake out my arms and legs, trying to get my circulation going before easing a still half-limp leg through the window and following it with the other. I hang over the side with my elbows and then ease myself down until I'm holding the window ledge with my fingertips and drop silently to the deck.

Or at least, that's what I attempt. My blood-encrusted Converse make a kind of crunching sound as they hit the wood, and the impact—one I could normally spring back up from—has me crouching, unable to straighten myself because my long-unused leg muscles have seized up.

I'm stuck there for a full three seconds, my heart beating like a drum, panicky that Violette will appear in front of me before I can get safely into the water.
Be calm and think
, I urge myself, and scan the space around me for anything that can be used as a weapon.

Just in time. As I push myself, with effort, into a standing position, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I look around to see one of the numa guards from the hotel scowling down at me.