Authors: Amy Plum
GEORGIA IS WAITING IN THE HALLWAY AS I CREEP
out of Ambrose's room. “What's up?” she asks, making me leap a foot into the air.
“I didn't see you there,” I say, holding my hand to my racing heart.
“So, where's the party?” She folds her arms across her chest.
“Why are you even awake?” I ask.
“Couldn't sleep. And then I look out my window and see the Sex Pistols parking their cars in the drive. So I figure something's up.”
I look at Georgia, the bed-tossed condition of her short strawberry-blond hair making her more beautiful than ever. I realize there's a chance that after tonight I might not see her again. Throwing my arms around her neck, I squeeze her to me.
She pats my back. “What, Katie-Bean? What's wrong? I mean, besides the fact that you are supposedly the undead Wonder Woman or something . . . I mean, is that why you're crying?”
“I'm not crying,” I say, sniffing and surreptitiously wiping my eyes before letting her go. “I just want you to know that I love you.”
Georgia's eyes narrow and she stares at me suspiciously before pointing her finger at me. “You guys are going to do something dangerous. What is it?”
“It's nothing you need to worry about, Georgia.”
She makes a disgusted noise and says, “Oh, don't give me that. You wouldn't be acting like this unless you were worried you weren't going to come back. It's why Jeanne's here in the middle of the night and half of punk Berlin is hopping around the house like it's some kind of zombie mosh pit? Right?”
I just look at her and bite my tongue.
“Fine, I'll go ask Arthur,” she says, and stalks off.
Charlotte steps out of Ambrose's room and closes the door behind her. Her face glows and her naturally rosy cheeks are flushed scarlet. She takes my hand and we make our way down the stairs. “Did you know?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I admit. “But just recently. I think Ambrose only loved Geneviève when she wasn't available. Once it was actually possible, I think he realized she wasn't the one he wanted.”
She smiles like a girl whose five-decade wish has finally been granted and, skipping down the rest of the stairs, heads toward the armory.
Back in my room, I throw some water on my face and brush my hair back into a long ponytail. Then, fishing a piece of paper and a pen out of the desk, I sit down to write a note to Mamie and Papy. My pen hovers above the page as I agonize over what to say. But before I can write anything, there is a knock at my door.
Mamie sticks her head in and asks, “Can we talk with you?”
“Yes,” I say, covering the unwritten note with my hand and then, seeing her concerned expression, give up the pretense. It might be the last time I see my grandparents, and I'm grateful they came to find me.
“I was writing you a note, but I'm glad you're here. I'd rather talk to you in person.”
“Where are you going?” Papy asks, walking in to stand behind my grandmother.
“We're going to battle against Violette,” I say honestly.
“And do you plan on coming back?” Mamie asks, her voice catching for a second before she stops herself and puts on her brave grandmother mask.
I rise and walk to them. My grandparents. Besides Georgia, they are my last remaining family, and I love them fiercely. But our struggle against the numa is not just for them as peopleâas residents of a city that can easily be overrun by the evil undeadâbut as targets of Violette's wrath. If I fail, I know she will not hesitate to go after them. She won't pass up such an enticing chance for vengeance.
“This is something I need to do,” I respond, avoiding Mamie's question.
“We know that. Reassure me again, though, that you're really hard to destroy,” Papy says with a forced smile.
“I'm a revenant now, Papy. If I die, I will resurrect.”
Unless the numa have a giant bonfire blazing at the battle site or kidnap my dead body and take it somewhere else to burn
. I don't speak this thought, but I don't have to. Papy knows the rules as well as I do.
Mamie gives me a hug. “I brought these from your dresser,” she says and holds out my parents' wedding rings. “You know the importance I place in symbols. Take these with you as a reminder of your parents' love and support. They would be very proud of you right now, Katya.”
My eyes filling with tears, I pull out my necklace and add the rings to my
signum
and the empty locket that I've kept even though it no longer has a purpose. Jeanne had snipped off more of Vincent's hair as soon as we got back from New York, and I gave her a sample of mine after my bath today. It was a little bit of insuranceâin case the worst happens.
I slip the cords back under my shirt and pat the rings to feel that they are there. “Thank you, Mamie,” I whisper.
She nods and smiles, wiping a tear away and moving aside so Papy can have his turn. He clasps me tightly in his arms and whispers, “Take care of yourself,
ma princesse
.”
“I will, Papy,” I promise, now gulping back the tears.
My grandparents give me one last look-over, nod at me proudly, and then leave. I grab a tissue off the bedside table and take a minute to compose myself. As I start out of the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a full-length mirror and, not recognizing myself, I pause. In my black leather pants, knee-length boots, thin chain-mail-like body armor overlaid with a black suede top, and long leather coat, I look like an action hero.
My cheeks are flushed from fear and anticipation, but my eyes shine like dark stars and I look older with my hair pulled back. I don't know what will happen, but I know beyond any doubt that this is my fate: Facing Violette. I am ready.
As I reach the grand foyer, I see Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard step through the front door.
“You're here!” I cry.
“I had planned on taking a couple more hours to rest up,” Gaspard explains with a grin, “however, we received this almost indecipherable text message on our mobile telephone . . .”
Jean-Baptiste holds up his cell phone like it's a piece of alien machinery. “And I quote, âDudes, it's going down now. Get your sorry asses over here stat.' With such an eloquent request, how could we resist?” he remarks drily. But there is a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, and I know that he and Gaspard wouldn't miss this for anything in the world.
“Woo-hoo, I knew you'd come!” whoops Ambrose from the landing at the top of the stairs.
“You get back in bed this minute,” Jeanne scolds, scurrying out from behind him, and pointing imperiously back toward his bedroom door, “before you hemorrhage all over my nice clean rug.”
Ambrose grins widely and throws us all a salute, before turning and being ushered back to his bedroom.
“So . . . shall we?” I say, placing my hands on JB's and Gaspard's arms and stepping with them out the door. In the courtyard, I see a stream of cars and motorcycles lined up in front of the gate, motors idling. Two figures stand beside the fountain, bodies pressed tightly together, desperately kissing before stepping back and becoming Georgia and Arthur. Georgia walks away from him and, passing me without slowing her stride, she says, “You better the hell come back, Katie-Bean.” And entering the house, she slams the door behind her.
IT IS JUST BEFORE FOUR A.M. WHEN WE PULL INTO
the Place Monge neighborhood. Vincent parks the car, and I step out onto the sidewalk as Arthur, Charlotte, and Louis scramble out of the backseat. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard park nearby and join us. My stomach is in knots. But the calm that comes with the focus of a fight begins to settle over me, infusing me with the confidence I'm going to need. And the fact that Vincent has taken my hand and is holding it firmly in his doesn't hurt.
A few dark figures across the road shine with golden bardia auras, and one raises a hand in greeting. Groups that assembled in Paris over the last few hours have been waiting for us to arrive. We have sixty revenants in all.
But when I glance toward the park hiding the Roman arena, my vision burns with at least a hundred red columns flaming up toward the predawn sky. We are outnumbered. As we feared.
Vincent sees it on my face. “That bad?” he asks.
I nod. “Yep. More than a hundred, I'd guessâsome within the park and others scattered around the neighborhood.”
He turns and cups my face with his hands, gliding his thumbs over my temples. “You don't have to do this,” he says softly enough that the others don't hear. “We can bring the fight to them without you ever having to face Violette. You heard Bran. Geneviève wanted to die.”
“There's always the chance that they'll keep her until she's volant and then destroy her, like they did you. She wants to be free. Not trapped as a wandering soul.”
“If that actually happens, Bran can disperse her.”
“Okay, you're right,” I admit. “But I have to face Violette, Vincent. I know it. We both do. And I'd rather do it now, when we know she's not going to slip through our fingers, than living our lives wondering when she's going to turn up next and do something even worse.”
“I know.” He leans down to kiss me briefly. Firmly. We stand locked in each other's gaze while small groups begin to move into place around us.
“If I should die . . . ,” I begin to say.
Vincent cuts me off. “Stop, Kate!” And then he sighs and his shoulders hunch slightly. He knows it's dishonest to pretend we're all going to make it out alive. He shuts his eyes and, when he opens them, he looks resolute. “Whatever happens, remember that I will love you forever,” he says. “Even if my spirit is dispersed and my consciousness released to the universe . . . whatever is left of me will never stop loving you.”
Vincent won't possess me like he did when I fought Lucien. And there's no sign of whatever superstrength was mentioned in the prophecy. But I am suddenly unafraid, knowing I will face Violette with a powerful but invisible weapon: love. The complete and unconditional love of another being. That is something Violette does not have. It won't win me the battle against her. But it has already made me the victor over my fear.
“This isn't good-bye, Vincent. Because we're going to win.” Although my voice is steady, I don't quite believe my own words. I take his hand and we walk toward the park.
The trees are surrounded by a tall iron fence, and as we near the gate we see that it's guarded by four large numa dressed in police uniforms. They nod to Vincent as we approach, glancing apprehensively at the windows of the apartment buildings across the street. While outside of the park, we are in public. Nothing will happen here.
“Only the girl goes in. With him.” One of them points to Louis. “Our kind is staying out of the arena, and so will yours.”
Vincent shakes his head. “You're lying. There is a large group of your kind already inside the park. And there's no way Kate's going in alone.”
The numa eye him suspiciously, and one places a call. He muffles his voice with his hand and then hangs up. “Our leader admits that her security detail guards her within the park. Therefore, you may bring your kind inside, but no one goes within the amphitheater's arena except your Champion and her hostage.”
Hostage?
I think. Vincent told Violette that Louis sided with us voluntarily. And the numa who escaped the fight in the Passage du Grand Cerf must have told her about how he fought against them. Either she's in denial or she's faking ignorance in order to protect him from her clan.
Vincent makes a signal, raising two fingers high into the air, and suddenly bardia pour in from side streets, parked cars, and darkened doorways, grouping behind us. To my Champion eyes they are a sea of golden flames flowing toward a wall of glowing red columns. We walk through the gate and down a long corridor. High stone walls rise on either side of us as we move en masse toward the ancient Roman amphitheater, Vincent and Jean-Baptiste leading the crowd with Charlotte and Arthur flanking Gaspard just behind.
Louis glances over at me as we follow them. “Don't worry, we won't let them take you back,” I say. “You're only here so I can get close enough to Violette to fight her. As soon as you're able, go back and regroup with Vincent and the others.”
“I won't let you down,” he swears.
“I know,” I say, and, taking his hand, squeeze tightly before letting go.
We emerge from the corridor into a large open space. Monumental stone bleachers in a broken arc encircle a plot of dirt as big as a circus ring. There is another tunnel-like corridor identical to the one we just emerged from directly across from us. And around its opening and spilling over into groups sitting on the fanned bleachers are a hell of a lot of numa.
On the floor of the arena itself, Violette stands alone in front of a recently lit bonfire, flames licking one corner of a stack of wood as big as a semitruck. By her feet is a body bag, unzipped and lying open. Geneviève's long platinum-blond hair drapes over the sides. I unconsciously pat the sword hilt at my waist, reassuring myself that I am ready for battle.
Seeing us approach, Violette's face transforms into a mask of victory. Vincent and Jean-Baptiste hesitate, and then lead the bardia away from us, arranging them on the stone steps directly across from the numa. Only Louis and I continue down the path.
Entering the arena, we walk across the dusty ground until we're within five feet of Violette. The fire shoots up high behind her. Its blazing backlight gives her the appearance of a lovely young demon, her eyes dark coals and long black hair whipped up by the early-morning wind.
“Now, just look at us,” she says. “How civilized. You have what I want, and I have what you want. So why all the backup?” Violette tilts her head to one side and crosses her arms across her chest like a pouting child.
“Same reason you've got yours,” I say, nodding toward the forty-some numa positioned on the bleachers. “Except I'm not hiding most of mine behind the wall. Which is a bit unsportsmanlike, I would say.”
“It would be if I were expecting any sport,” says Violette, with exaggerated calm. I have surprised her.
“They are merely my security detail,” she explains. “I can't help it if I have more loyal followers than Vincent does.”
She pauses, then unable to resist, says, “You can see my men from afar?”
I nod.
“Aura columns?” she asks, intrigued.
I nod again, reassured that she didn't already know the specifics of my powers.
Satisfied, she gestures toward the body bag. “There is your corpse, now give me my consort.”
“I don't want the corpse. And your consort isn't going with you. He's chosen to side with us.”
“What?” Violette exclaims in feigned shock. “Why else would you come here tonight?”
“To fight you.”
A wide smile spreads across her face. “I was kind of hoping you would say that. I did so want a second chance at absorbing the Champion's power.” She peels off her cloak and lays it gently on the ground.
“I assume that's what the fire's for,” I say. “Unless this is just a ruse to invite us all to a monster-marshmallow roast.”
“You were always a smart girl,” Violette retorts. “I've got to give you that.” Her gaze moves to the young numa standing next to me. “Louis, you've been such a good boy. It's time to cut the act. Do something useful.” Her eyes flick to me and back to him.
Louis hesitates, not knowing what to do.
Think quickly,
I command,
Grab me and pretend to hold me for her. Do it now!
He lunges for me and grabs me by the upper arms. I thrash wildly, trying to break his hold. To make this look real. But he's fighting me as hard as I am him and within seconds has me trapped, both arms pinned behind my back.
Ow!
I think, and hear him whisper, “Sorry!” He loosens his grip slightly.
“Louis, how could you? You swore to side with us!” I berate him loudly. He says nothing, just continues to pin me, but his grip gets increasingly tighter.
And for a second I feel a twinge of apprehension and wonder if he
has
been playing the double agent and that this charade had been planned by Violette.
You're still with me, right?
I ask worriedly. He responds with a slight squeeze on one of my arms, relieving my doubt.
I hear a roar from the bleachers on my left, and see Vincent and our kindred pouring down the steps toward the arena floor. They don't know about our act and think that Louis has betrayed us.
It's okay
, I think, glancing at Vincent. He nods at me, looking confused, and holds up his hand to try to stay his troops.
“Stop!” yells Violette, and crosses the space between us before I can draw my weapon. Her sword tip grazes my neck: I feel its razor-sharp edge slice my skin and blood drip from the nick she's given me. “Anyone moves, and your Champion is dead!” I feel Louis's grip on me loosen and realize he's about to let me go.
Don't move
, I order him, and he readjusts his hold, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel his heartbeat racing against my back and know he must be scared witless.
Just wait
, I say.
Violette glances over to where Vincent and the others have frozen in place, then shifts her gaze back to me. “You stupid, gullible girl. Louis can join you but he can't ever become one of you. Numa are damned! They can't change into bardia. Everyone knows that.”
“So I've been told,” I respond. “But I don't believe it. The flame-fingered
guérisseurs
recorded it as happening: I've seen it depicted in one of their paintings.”
There is a gleam in Violette's eyeâher curiosity is piqued, I can tellâbut she lifts her sword tip to place it just beneath my chin. She either isn't buying it or doesn't care.
“There's still time for you to change too, Violette,” I continue. “I don't subscribe to all this fixed destiny crap. We have a
guérisseur
who can actually disperse revenant spirits. Who can ease the pain of withstanding death. And I think there's a reason for that. It's the way things were supposed to be before everything went wrong in the revenants' history. No one is really forced to continue existing as something they don't want to be. Geneviève wanted out. And she will have her peace.”
“I have been around for half a millennium,” Violette responds. “I think I know more than you. You are a waste of the power that is within you.”
“Tell me, Violette, what would you do with it?” I ask.
“With the Champion's powers of persuasion, I could convince heads of state to follow me and command great forces of numa. If what you said about aura-sight is true, I could see my kindâand maybe even yoursâfrom far away with enhanced powers of perception. What better way to build a numa army or wipe out a bardia population? And with the Champion's strength? Well, that's the one thing it seems I won't get since even as the Champion, you are a pitiful compassion-crippled weakling.”
She is done talking and ready to deal the deathblow. I can tell by the look of premature victory on her face, the flex of her biceps, and slight lean backward that she is about to pivot to the side and swing with all her might.
Louis
,
as soon as she starts to swing, drop me and move out of the way
, I think.
I meet her gaze. “You want my power, Violette? You can come and get it.”
A wicked smile curves her lips, and she takes the sword in both hands. In my peripheral vision I see both bardia and numa surging down from the bleachers, yells erupting as they charge into battle.
I feel Louis release me and I duck into a crouch as Violette's sword flashes forward, whistling through the air where my neck had been. I have just enough time to leap aside and draw my own weapon before she recovers and her blade comes crashing down on me once again.
Violette's sword clashes loudly against mine, and I pull up with all my might until her blade slides off and she stumbles back. She finally has a second to see where Louis went. He stands a few feet away from us, paralyzed, watching our fight and looking lost. “You traitor!” she screams. “What could you be thinking by helping them? They can't change what you are!”
The lost look disappears from Louis's face, replaced by one of despair.
Don't believe her
, I say.
Violette turns her attention back to me. I am matching all of her moves, but barely. If I slow down at all or make one false move, she will win this fight. “I am faster and stronger than you,” she spits as she lunges toward me, slashing at my sword arm.
I leap out of her way. “Maybe. But you don't have a heart,” I say, meeting her sword with my own mid-swing and knocking her back a step. Our armies have now stopped a few yards on either side of us, not daring to move while we are in the midst of mortal combat.
“A heart makes one feeble,” she says, glaring. “In order to wield true strength, one must be merciless.” She spins and swings her sword two-handed in a horizontal arc, coming mere inches from my face as I skip backward.