If I Should Die (25 page)

FORTY-ONE

AS WE DRIVE INTO PARIS, THE SKY CHANGES FROM
cotton candy pink to cantaloupe. Thin red beams appear amid the white lights of the city that begin to flicker on as twilight approaches. They look like lasers pointed into the clouds, and I wonder if the carnival has returned to the Tuileries Gardens.

We turn a corner and the Seine appears, and upon seeing it, my heartbeat steadies like it does every time I see the river. It is a blue flag of continuity for me, symbolizing the continuous flow of time in an ageless city. Comforted, I take Vincent's hand in mine and close my eyes until we arrive at La Maison.

The gates swing open, and I see three figures seated on the side of the fountain. They stand as we drive into the courtyard, and I leap from the car into their arms.

“Oh, Katya,” says Mamie, pulling me to her and wrapping her arms around my neck.

“
Princesse
,” Papy says, encircling the two of us in a hug.

“Are you okay?” Mamie asks, her eyes searching my face.

“I'm fine, Mamie. I just had a fight with a couple of numa. But I won,” I say, attempting a smile.

“We were so worried, Kate,” Papy interjects, and something catches in his throat. With a stiffness that sounds unnatural for him, he says, “Nothing matters except the fact that you are here now.” It sounds like something he has practiced. Like he's trying to convince himself as he says the words.

I see his distress. He is hugging me—the old Kate—while recoiling from the idea of hugging the new me. The undead me. I don't blame him. Hopefully we'll both be able to get used to it with time.
If we have the time
, I think, remembering that we are going into war and nothing is certain.

Georgia stands quietly until my grandparents let me go. Her eyes are swollen and red, and it looks like she hasn't slept in days. “Kate,” she murmurs. After seeing my mournful Papy, it breaks my heart to see my sister like this.

“You don't look any different,” she says, hesitantly touching my cheeks with her fingertips. “And you won't ever look any different from this, even when I'm old. Even when I'm dead.” She smiles mournfully. “I don't know why I'm crying. I should be cheering, ‘Huzzah, death!'” She rotates her finger in a halfhearted celebratory circle. “You're immortal now, for God's sake.”

“Not if Violette has anything to do with it,” I respond.

She studies me for a moment, and then I see a little spark of life flash behind her pale green eyes. “She obviously hasn't seen our sword fighting skills,” she says, smiling with effort. “We're just going to have to give her hell.” And taking my hand, she leads me into the house.

Vincent follows us, walking beside my grandparents. Jeanne waits inside the foyer. She brushes tears away, gives me a silent hug, and then motions toward the sitting room. “Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard are waiting for you,” she says, and then, glancing toward Vincent, adds, “They will be leaving right afterward.”

My grandmother and grandfather pause, unsure if they're invited to join the meeting, but I can tell they don't want to leave my side. “Come with me,” I say. Jean-Baptiste rises to his feet as we enter, and it is strange to see him acting like a guest in his own home.

Hello, Kate
, says Gaspard.

“Hi,” I respond out loud, for the benefit of the others.

Even if I couldn't see it ahead of time, I knew you'd win against those brutes
, he says with pride.

“Thanks to your training,” I say, “and Charlotte showing up at the right moment with a well-aimed arrow.”

Jean-Baptiste gives me the
bises
and then puts his hands on my shoulders as he inspects me. “You look the same. Eyes, cheekbones, lips, hair . . . ,” he says, balking a bit when his gaze reaches my straggly mud-blood-and-river-water coiffure. “None have been altered. Becoming one of us hasn't changed you a bit. Incredible.”

“Why would Kate change?” says Vincent, grinning. “I was ready to follow her to the ends of the earth when she was human. She doesn't need anything extra to convince humanity to lay their lives in her hands.”

Now that the conversation is turning supernatural, I glance back at my grandparents to gauge their reaction. Papy is staring longingly at the door, and Mamie is fidgeting and looking extremely uncomfortable. Georgia raises an eyebrow at me. I can tell that she too feels this conversation isn't making anything easier for my family.

“So,” the older revenant says, “our very own Kate is the Champion. When I saw the light you gave off from inside that houseboat, I knew something special was happening. Imagine my astonishment that it was you, my dear. Under my nose this whole time, when I had believed that Vincent was the chosen one.” He peers closer at me and touches my cheek.

“It all makes sense in hindsight,” he continues. “At least now I can forgive myself for letting you into the house the day you discovered Vincent dormant. Being persuaded by a teenage girl is one thing. But being persuaded by the Champion . . . well, I can handle that.”

“I'll try to take that as a compliment and not a dis, Jean-Baptiste,” I say, smiling.

“That makes one thing I can forgive myself for,” he admits, a shadow falling across his features. “My kindred have much more to pardon. Which is my cue to go. Shall we, Gaspard?”

“We never asked you to leave,” Vincent says, blocking the door.

“I know that,” Jean-Baptiste replies. He grabs his cane out of an umbrella stand and taps Vincent's leg gently with it. Vincent pauses and then steps aside. JB walks past us into the foyer and stops under the elephantine chandelier.

“But I should not be here”—the bardia's former leader continues—“in the middle of a black and white war, diluting the good side with my grayness. The fact that my intentions were good doesn't excuse the sin I committed to win my kindred's protection. And in the end, it did no good. Gaspard and I must go.
Au revoir
,” he says, and steps out the door.

This feels wrong. Vincent doesn't want them to leave, and neither do I. “Wait,” I call. Jean-Baptiste hesitates. “I want you to stay,” I say. He turns and peers at me. “I don't agree that it would be better for your kindred that you go,” I continue. “You've been their leader for centuries, and now they”—I hesitate and then, taking Vincent's hand, continue—“
we
are facing a great danger. Stay and help us.”

“My dear, haven't you been listening to me?” Jean-Baptiste says sadly. With one finger, he adjusts the ascot at his neck, as if it's suddenly tightened. “With what I have done, it is better that I not lead my kindred into battle.”

“You don't
have
to lead them,” Vincent interjects, letting go of my hand and stepping toward JB. “You named me leader and I accepted the role. But just because you aren't leading doesn't mean you can't stay and stand with us against Violette. I want you to stay.
We
want you to stay.”

The stiffness in Jean-Baptiste's pose loosens a little, and sighing, he walks over and places his hand on Vincent's arm. “My boy, I will consider. Give me an hour or two to think about things.”

Vincent nods solemnly, and Jean-Baptiste turns and walks out the door.

À bientôt
, Gaspard says to me.

“I hope to see you soon,” I respond. Vincent closes the door, and I turn to face my family. My sister wrinkles her nose. “What, Georgia?” I ask.

“I don't want to ruin the gravity of the moment, or anything, but . . .” She pauses and glances at my grandparents, bracing herself for their disapproval. “If you don't take a shower stat I just may puke. Eau de zombie is
not
a good scent for you.” I try not to laugh and kind of hiccup instead, and finally Georgia starts to smile.

Papy shakes his head. And suddenly in the place of my strong, capable grandfather stands a tired old man. He gives me a hug, patting me on the back, and then withdraws. “I love you, Kate, and I am indescribably relieved that you are not gone forever. But I can't talk about what has happened to you—or what will be happening. You'll just have to excuse me. Give me time.”

“Let's go to the library, Papy,” Georgia says, and putting an arm around his shoulders, she leads him up the stairs.

Mamie waits until they've disappeared before she speaks. Tenderly touching my face as if reassuring herself that I'm actually here, she says, “All I want to do right now is take you home and lock the doors and stay inside for the next few weeks protecting you from the world. But I realize that that isn't our reality anymore. We can't even go home. In fact, from what Bran tells us, you will be the one protecting us.”

“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. Heightened 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.