The first day out with Ambrose, Vincent kills two numa. The next night Vincent gets home around midnight from taking Kate to the opera, and changes from tuxedo into fighting gear within minutes. We’re bending the rules a bit, the three of us walking without a volant spirit. But Vincent wants to keep the “experiment” as secretive as possible until he knows it’s going to work, and will only involve members of La Maison.
We head straight for Pigalle, where a number of bars and strip clubs are owned by numa or their underlings. Usually—unless we’re saving a human—we avoid numa hangouts. As Ambrose says, it’s too tempting to put some steel through them, and up until now, ridding Paris of numa has not been our goal. Just as we don’t expect to see numa ringing our doorbell at La Maison, they won’t anticipate a tag team of bardia invading their territory. Which makes them easy targets.
Apparently the word hasn’t gotten around numa circles about the two guys Vincent finished off yesterday, because we walk into Le Boudoir Nightclub around closing time and there’s a numa standing right in the entranceway. He’s huge enough to be a bouncer at one of Paris’s trendiest clubs, but the bespoke suit gives him away as the club’s owner. Our hands all touch the sword hilts under our coats—as if we need the introduction. He knows what we are. Gaping at the three of us like we’re the risen ghosts of humans he’s killed, he turns and runs to the back of the bar, locking himself in the office.
“Excuse us, ladies,” Ambrose says to the two scantily clad dancers who sit on barstools, smoking. It smells like cigarettes and spiced rum, and the lights are so dim that it takes a few seconds for me to realize that the bar is empty.
“You’re not likely to have much more business at this time on a Sunday night,” I say and hand them each a hundred-euro bill. “Is that enough to make you get your coats and go home?” They grin widely, disappear into a back room, and in under a minute are scampering, fully clothed, out the front door. I lock it behind them.
“You wanna come out or should we come in?” Ambrose yells at the office door. He looks around at Vince and me and shrugs.
“Kick it in,” says Vincent as we draw our swords. But before Ambrose can move, the numa comes out, swinging a battle-ax the size of a headstone.
Ambrose whistles as he jumps aside. “Now that is an ax!” he says, leaning back to avoid the swinging blade.
Vincent doesn’t need my help, but I advance and let the giant take a swipe at me. His asset is his bulk, and the commensurate power he can put behind his swings. Luckily I’m a lot faster than he is, or I would have lost an arm.
I swing my sword, and he howls as my blade slices through his torso. He lifts his ax in both hands, ready to strike, when Vincent lunges forward and stabs him through the chest.
The numa looks surprised as the steel penetrates his rib cage, and when it meets his heart, he drops his weapon and falls to his knees. Grabbing the blade with both hands, he attempts to pull it out, but suddenly slumps sideways, lying prone in the growing pool of blood.
“Nice form, guys,” calls Ambrose from where he’s retrieving the battle-ax. He runs his finger along its edge, testing its sharpness. “Good thing he didn’t get you first; this thing’s a Grade A killing machine,” he says. “And now it’s mine, all mine,” he coos, like it’s a baby instead of a deadly weapon.
Vincent drops his sword, and his hands ball into fists as he absorbs the energy of the numa. He glances at me, and I can see the effect it’s having on him—the dark gleam of the eyes and the evil-looking scowl as the power hits him and sinks into his being. After a second he looks like a normal bardia again, but one who’s downed a few crates of Red Bull. “Ha!” he laughs, and grabs my arm a little too firmly. “This is going to work, Jules. I can just feel it.”
“Ah, okay,” I say, wondering if this Dark Way plan is really the best idea. It’s not like Vincent’s going to go all raving-numa on us, but the immediate effects of absorbing the dark power a few days in a row are a bit frightening, to say the least. “How many of these guys do you have to kill?” I ask, extricating myself from his grasp.
“Just have to keep it up for a few months, one every few days,” he responds. “At least, that’s what Violette and Gaspard calculated.”
He claps his hands together expectantly, and then pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Gaspard. Ambulance needed at Le Boudoir, boulevard de Clichy. One-way trip to the crematorium.” He hangs up and looks at Ambrose and me with a wild look in his eyes. Based on my numa-killing experience, it’ll take an hour or so for the buzz to die. “Montmartre’s just a few blocks away,” he says. “Who feels like running some stairs?”
FOURTEEN