If I Should Die

“Too bad I didn’t get everything that was promised. I did okay back there, but some superstrength would have come in handy,” I say.

 

“Prophecies are always spotty at best,” he says. “Maybe the strength bit will kick in later.” He pulls me closer, as if his proximity alone can shield me from what is to come.

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-SEVEN

 

 

JEANNE IS WAITING WHEN WE GET BACK TO LA Maison. “Is everyone okay?” she asks as we walk through the door.

 

“What are you doing here? It’s three a.m.” Vincent places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks at him, abashed.

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits. “Something is happening. I can feel it. And I’ve been with you lot long enough to know I can trust my intuition. I’ve got some bread in the oven and have put on a stew. Now, did anyone get hurt?” she asks, hiding her emotion behind practicality.

 

“Ambrose will need medical attention,” Vincent says. And then in a lower voice admits, “Geneviève was killed and taken.”

 

Jeanne’s hands fly to her mouth. “No,” she gasps, tears springing to her eyes.

 

Vincent nods grimly, suddenly looking tired. We are distracted by the ambulance pulling in through the gates. Jeanne dabs her eyes and moves purposefully toward the vehicle. Charlotte hops out of the passenger seat and opens the door to the back for Ambrose and Charles to get out.

 

“I don’t care if they are in body bags,” Ambrose is saying. “That’s the last time I ride in the back of an ambulance with a half-dozen corpses.” He shudders and supports his wounded arm as he steps down to the ground. “I don’t mind killing them, but I don’t feel like cozying up with them once the deed is done.”

 

Charles jumps down and Jeanne stares curiously at him for a moment before a light goes on in her eyes. She runs down the steps and flings herself on him. “Mon petit Charles, you’re back!” she coos, standing on her tiptoes to energetically kiss his cheeks. “I am so happy to see you.”

 

“Ditto,” Charles says with a broad smile.

 

“Just look at you,” she says, leaning back and inspecting him in all of his tattooed and punk-haired glory. “You know, I’d never believe I would actually say this, but that look really suits you. Of course, if I hadn’t cared for you longer than I have my own son, you’d scare my pants off. But you’ll always be mon petit Charles à moi.” She hugs him once again and then turns to Ambrose.

 

“How bad is it, dear?” she asks.

 

“Bad enough to need a doctor,” Charlotte responds, unclipping the weapons from Ambrose’s belt and shoulder strap. She hands a battle-axe to Charles and they head down to stow everything in the armory.

 

“I just need a few stitches,” Ambrose says.

 

“Show,” Jeanne commands, and he holds his jacket open. Cringing, she orders, “You go straight to your room. I’ll phone Docteur Dassonville and then come clean you up. Everyone else,” she calls to the rapidly filling foyer, “weapons go downstairs in the armory. There’s a first aid station there if anyone else needs it. Otherwise, help yourself to the food in the kitchen.”

 

Amid the mass confusion a cell phone rings. Louis pulls a phone out of his pocket and looks at the number on the screen. His face turns ashen.

 

“Who is it?” Arthur asks.

 

“Her,” he says, pressing a key to send the call to voice mail.

 

A second later Vincent’s phone rings. He clicks speakerphone and holds it up for everyone to hear. “Oui,” he says.

 

“You’ve killed my second and kidnapped my consort,” comes Violette’s furious voice.

 

“I plead guilty to one count, but as for the other, Louis came with us of his own free will,” responds Vincent. Louis shudders and crosses his arms protectively around his chest.

 

“That is a lie,” Violette spits. “Let me talk to your pitiful excuse for a Champion.”

 

“I’m here,” I say.

 

“I will give you one hour to meet me at the Arènes de Lutèce. Bring me my consort and I will give you Geneviève’s body in exchange.”

 

“Why the arena?” I ask. “Why not come here?”

 

“Not enough open space,” she replies. “I will not tolerate any trickery. Meet me in the center of the arena. One hour. Our transaction will be finished by sunup.” There is a click, and then a static silence.

 

“It’s a trap,” Arthur says.

 

“Of course it’s a trap,” Vincent concedes. “Violette will bring her men. And she knows Kate would never come alone.” He turns his gaze on me, “She wants another chance at you, Kate.”

 

“What should we do?” asks Charlotte.

 

“We can’t go. We’ll all be killed,” Arthur says.

 

“But we have to get Geneviève’s body back,” argues Charlotte.

 

“No, actually, you don’t,” comes a voice from above us. Bran makes his way down the stairway, gripping the marble banister as he descends. “At least it’s not what Geneviève would want,” he says.

 

“How do you know that?” asks Charlotte, aghast.

 

Bran remains silent until he finally stands among us. “Because she told me so,” he says simply.

 

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