“Ah, lighten up, JB,” said Ambrose, leaning back and casually draping his arms along the entire length of the couch back. “It’s not the end of the world. We’ve checked her out, and she’s definitely not a spy. Plus, she’s not exactly the first human to know what we are.”
The older man shot him a withering look.
The one who’d introduced himself as Gaspard spoke up in a timorous voice. “If I may be permitted to clarify . . . the difference here is that every other human interacting with us was . . . ah . . . was individually chosen from families who have served Jean-Baptiste for generations.”
Generations? I thought with dismay. An icy finger brushed its way up my spine.
“Whereas you,” Jean-Baptiste continued with undisguised distaste, “I have known for less than a day, and already you are intruding on my kindred’s privacy. You are most unwelcome.”
“Sheesh!” exclaimed Jules. “Don’t hold back your true feelings, Grimod. You old-timers really need to learn to open up and express yourselves.” Jean-Baptiste acted like he hadn’t heard.
“Well, what are we supposed to do then?” Charlotte said, addressing our host.
“Okay, stop. Everyone,” Vincent said with a shallow breath. “You are my kindred. Who votes that we tell Kate?”
Ambrose, Charlotte, Charles, and Jules raised their hands.
“And what would you have us do?” Vincent directed his question toward Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard.
“That’s your problem,” Jean-Baptiste said. He stared me down for another few seconds and then, turning on his heel, strode rapidly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
“SO,” SAID AMBROSE WITH A CHUCKLE, RUBBING his hands together. “Majority rules. Let’s get this party started.”
“Here,” said Charlotte, pulling a couple of big cushions from the couch to the floor. Sitting down Indian-style on one, she smiled at me and patted the other invitingly.
“It’s okay,” Vincent reassured me when I hesitated, and relinquished my hand.
“Kate,” Jules said, “you realize that what we talk about here doesn’t go outside these walls.”
Vincent’s words were slow and precise: “Jules is right. Our lives are in your hands once you know, Kate. I hate to force that type of responsibility on anyone, but the situation’s gone too far. Do you promise to keep our secret? Even if you”—it sounded like he was running out of breath—“even if you leave today and decide never to return.”
I nodded. Everyone waited. “I promise,” I whispered, which was the best I could do with a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. Something extremely bizarre was going on here, and I had too few clues to guess what it was. But with Jean-Baptiste’s flippant use of the word “human” and Vincent and Jules both apparently having been resurrected, I knew I had gotten myself in deep. It was not knowing what I was deep in that was scaring the pee out of me.
“Jules . . . you start,” Vincent said, closing his eyes and looking more dead than alive.
Jules measured up the situation and decided to have pity. “Maybe it would be easier if we let Kate ask us what she wants.”
Where to even start? I thought, and then remembered what had set everything into such a downward spiral in the first place. “I saw a picture of you and Vincent in a 1968 newspaper that said you died in a fire,” I said, turning to Ambrose.
He nodded at me with a little smile, urging me on.
“So how can you be here now?”
“Well, I’m glad we’re starting with the easy questions,” he said, stretching his powerful arms and then leaning toward me. “The answer would be . . . because we’re zombies!” and he let out a horrible groan, stretching his mouth open and baring his teeth as he curled his hands into claws.
Seeing my terrified expression, Ambrose began cracking up and slapping his knee with his hand. “Just kidding,” he cackled, and then, calming down, looked at me sedately. “But no, seriously. We’re zombies.”
“We are not zombies,” said Charlotte, her voice rising with annoyance.
“The correct term, I believe, would be, ah, undead,” said Gaspard in a wavering voice.
“Ghosts,” said Charles, grinning mischievously.
“Stop scaring her, you guys,” said Vincent. “Jules?”
“Kate, it’s a lot more complicated than that. We call ourselves revenants.”
I looked around at them, one by one.
“Ruh-vuh-nahnt,” Jules pronounced slowly, obviously thinking I didn’t understand.
“I know the word. It means ‘ghost’ in French.” My voice shook. I am sitting in a room of monsters, I thought. Defenseless. But I couldn’t afford to freak out now. What would they do to me if I did? What would they do to me even if I didn’t? Unless they were the kind of monsters who could erase people’s memories, I was in on their secret now.
“If you go back to the root of the word, it actually means ‘one who returns’ or ‘one who comes back,’” offered Gaspard pedantically.