“No, no. I’ll study in Vincent’s room. It kind of feels comforting having him near,” I said. “Even if he’s not . . . near. Which reminds me. He can’t be in two places at once, can he?”
“Nope, he won’t be spying on you while he’s out walking with the guys. Unless he leaves them to come home. Which he won’t.” She squeezed my hand in hers before heading back down the hallway and disappearing down the stairs.
I called Mamie to let her know I wouldn’t be home for dinner. “Georgia’s busy too,” she said, “so maybe Papy and I will take the opportunity to go out. If we’re not here when you get home, don’t wait up!” I laughed at the girlishness in her voice.
I spent the afternoon studying World War I, which seemed more interesting now that I knew someone who had fought in it. The hours passed quickly, and I switched over to English literature, which, I have to admit, seemed more like pleasure than work.
As for Charlotte’s comment, Vincent’s body lying a few feet away from me as I read wasn’t distracting. It was comforting. It struck me again that I—the orphan stripped of her roots and displaced to live in a foreign land—finally felt home. I felt centered. Whole.
As I finished a chapter on Victorian writers, I heard the ring tone of Vincent’s phone coming from the direction of the bed. How strange, I thought. Everyone who knew Vincent well enough to phone him would know he was dormant. I followed the sound to his bedside table and, opening its small drawer, pulled the phone out. CHARLES, read the caller ID.
My heart raced as I pressed the button to answer. “Charles? This is Kate. Are you okay? Everyone’s looking for you!”
A sobbing sound came from the other end of the line. “Is Vincent there?”
“No. He’s dormant. Where are you?”
“He’s dormant,” Charles repeated aloud, and then his crying became a jagged, gasping weeping. In a lowered voice, he said, “Listen. Tell my kindred I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. . . .” His voice was cut off by the metallic sound of a blade leaving a sheath. There was a clattering as the phone hit the ground, and then there was silence.
“Oh my God, Charles! Charles!” I screamed into the phone, and then a low voice, smooth as an ice floe, began speaking.
“Tell Jean-Baptiste that if he wants Charles’s body, he’ll have to come and get it.”
“What did you do to him?” I yelled into the phone, my voice staccato stabs of panic.
“We’ll be waiting in the Catacombs. At midnight, young Charles goes up in smoke.” The line went dead.
The door flew open and a wild-looking Charlotte burst into the room. She looked at the phone in my hand and cried, “What? What happened?”
“Oh, Charlotte.” I felt the blood drain from my face as I held the phone out to her. “Call the boys. Tell them to come home right now.”
“Was it about Charles?” she asked, beginning to tremble.
I nodded.
She scrolled through Vincent’s numbers and placed a call. “Jules, come back now. It’s about Charles.” She hung up and said, “They’re almost home. They’ll be right here. Kate . . .” She searched my face for some reason for hope. I couldn’t give it to her. “He’s dead,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“And the numa have him?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte sank to the ground and hugged her knees against herself. Tears coursed down her ashen cheeks. I kneeled down and put my arms around her, just as the door flew violently open and Jules and Ambrose rushed in.
“What happened?” Jules said, throwing himself down in front of Charlotte.
“Ask Kate,” she sobbed. “Oh, Ambrose,” she said, holding her arms out to the man crouched beside her. He lowered himself to a sitting position and wrapped his powerful arms around her, hugging her close.
It was the first time I had seen the two of them interact, and even in the midst of this trauma, something clicked in my mind. There was something there between Charlotte and Ambrose. He handled her carefully, as if she were breakable. And she soaked in his comfort like a sponge.
He was the unrequited love she had mentioned that day by the river. The one who “didn’t feel the same way.” She hadn’t been talking about a human. She had been talking about Ambrose. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it was true.
“Kate?” Jules asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Charles called Vincent’s phone,” I said. “He asked for Vincent, and when I told him he was dormant, he asked me to tell you all that he was sorry. He hadn’t wanted things to happen this way. And then . . . it sounded like a sword.”
Charlotte let out a whimper, and Ambrose tightened his hold.
“Someone else picked up the phone and said that if you want Charles’s body, you have until midnight to get it in the Catacombs.”
“The Catacombs!” Jules said to Ambrose, incredulous.