It takes a bit of cajoling before Kate agrees to sit for a portrait, but in the end she says yes. We park the car and climb the stairs to my studio, where an hour earlier I stowed all of the Kate pictures in the ancient bathtub, pulling the shower curtain closed to hide all evidence. I have replaced the blank spots on the walls with other canvases, and smile to myself as I see the bliss on Kate’s face as she walks into a room full of painted form and color.
I close the door behind her and turn on the spotlighting. “These landscapes are going to be in a group exhibition next month,” I start saying, when a crash comes from the adjoining room. I grab a sword from the umbrella stand by the door and charge toward the noise.
“What are you doing here?” I yell to a sandy-haired numa who is crouching beside my desk. As he flings himself upon me, I plunge my steel into his torso. I’ve aimed too low for his heart, unfortunately. But before I have the chance to strike again, he makes a break for it and takes a running leap, shattering my window as he crashes through.
Kate runs to the jagged opening and looks down.
“Did he . . .” I begin, trying to catch my breath.
“He landed on his feet and ran off,” she says. “He was holding his side, where you stabbed him, when he ran away.”
“What was a numa doing in my studio?” I wonder aloud, and then see that my desk has been gone through, and books and papers are strewn across the floor. Kate bends down and picks up a set of lock-picking tools from among the glass shards. Whatever the numa were searching for at Geneviève’s, they didn’t find. And my studio was the next place they thought they’d look.
I call Vincent and tell him what happened. As I hand Kate the phone and hear his frantic voice, I suddenly realize: Just one strike by the numa and she could be dead. If he had had time to pull his own weapon, that might have been the end of Kate. I could have lost her. Permanently.
She hangs up the phone, and I’m across the room in a second, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Kate, you’re fine? You didn’t get cut anywhere?” I ask, squeezing her to me in my relief.
We stand in the middle of the pile of shattered glass. Kate is in my arms, and her heartbeat patters rapidly against my chest. And things, for once, feel right. This is where I’m supposed to be. With this girl in my arms. I don’t want to let go, but I loosen my grip and she pulls back from me. “Jules?” she says, a question in her voice. Has she read my thoughts?
I drop my arms, but don’t move. We are inches apart. I breathe in her scent—she smells like almonds and lemongrass—and feel her warm breath on my lips as she looks up at me. And I realize that one second more and my secret will be exposed. I will kiss her.
I turn abruptly, stride out of my studio and down the stairs, and step into the cold February air to wait for Vincent to arrive.
EIGHTEEN
THE NEXT DAY VINCENT LEAVES FOR BERLIN TO track down Charles, and I am once again tapped to guard Kate. But instead of letting me drop her off at school, she talks me into taking her to Saint-Ouen, to this crazy relic shop that looks like it’s been open since the saints themselves were walking the earth.
Kate insists on going in alone. I tell her she’s got fifteen minutes, so after almost a half hour of no Kate, I’m alarmed enough to barge in, sword drawn. The only person I see is a scarecrow of a man, who cowers and pleads innocence.
Kate bursts through a back door, yelling for me to stop, and then proceeds to introduce me to a mother-and-son team of healers who claim to have links to revenants. As in, all revenants—we’re talking both numa and bardia.
I’m so mad at Kate that I can barely speak. Not only has she put herself in harm’s way by getting into contact with these dodgy people, but she made me break my pledge to Vincent to keep her out of danger. She could have been hurt—could still be hurt—because of this. Who knows what these healers’ ties are to the numa?
After having a yelling match with her in the car, she still doesn’t understand why I’m so upset. And I almost say it. I could blame it on heightened emotion, but the truth is I’m tired of hiding my feelings.
“Kate, I care about you. You don’t even know how—”
There’s a look in her eye that stops me. It’s a scared look, like she’s afraid I’m going to tip the scales and throw this whole carefully balanced equilibrium out of kilter. She knows, I think.
I put my hand on hers. The look disappears off her face, and suddenly she’s back to good-buddy mode. And if she does know what I was going to say, she’s stuffed the knowledge back down so far that everything’s safe again.
I make her swear she won’t put herself in danger again, and then I drive away, only a shell of a man. An empty husk.
NINETEEN
THE NEXT WEEK ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE. I GO dormant, only to awake volant to find La Maison in chaos.