If I Should Die

“You’re here!” I cry.

 

“I had planned on taking a couple more hours to rest up,” Gaspard explains with a grin, “however, we received this almost indecipherable text message on our mobile telephone . . .”

 

Jean-Baptiste holds up his cell phone like it’s a piece of alien machinery. “And I quote, ‘Dudes, it’s going down now. Get your sorry asses over here stat.’ With such an eloquent request, how could we resist?” he remarks drily. But there is a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, and I know that he and Gaspard wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.

 

“Woo-hoo, I knew you’d come!” whoops Ambrose from the landing at the top of the stairs.

 

“You get back in bed this minute,” Jeanne scolds, scurrying out from behind him, and pointing imperiously back toward his bedroom door, “before you hemorrhage all over my nice clean rug.”

 

Ambrose grins widely and throws us all a salute, before turning and being ushered back to his bedroom.

 

“So . . . shall we?” I say, placing my hands on JB’s and Gaspard’s arms and stepping with them out the door. In the courtyard, I see a stream of cars and motorcycles lined up in front of the gate, motors idling. Two figures stand beside the fountain, bodies pressed tightly together, desperately kissing before stepping back and becoming Georgia and Arthur. Georgia walks away from him and, passing me without slowing her stride, she says, “You better the hell come back, Katie-Bean.” And entering the house, she slams the door behind her.

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY-NINE

 

 

IT IS JUST BEFORE FOUR A.M. WHEN WE PULL INTO the Place Monge neighborhood. Vincent parks the car, and I step out onto the sidewalk as Arthur, Charlotte, and Louis scramble out of the backseat. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard park nearby and join us. My stomach is in knots. But the calm that comes with the focus of a fight begins to settle over me, infusing me with the confidence I’m going to need. And the fact that Vincent has taken my hand and is holding it firmly in his doesn’t hurt.

 

A few dark figures across the road shine with golden bardia auras, and one raises a hand in greeting. Groups that assembled in Paris over the last few hours have been waiting for us to arrive. We have sixty revenants in all.

 

But when I glance toward the park hiding the Roman arena, my vision burns with at least a hundred red columns flaming up toward the predawn sky. We are outnumbered. As we feared.

 

Vincent sees it on my face. “That bad?” he asks.

 

I nod. “Yep. More than a hundred, I’d guess—some within the park and others scattered around the neighborhood.”

 

He turns and cups my face with his hands, gliding his thumbs over my temples. “You don’t have to do this,” he says softly enough that the others don’t hear. “We can bring the fight to them without you ever having to face Violette. You heard Bran. Geneviève wanted to die.”

 

“There’s always the chance that they’ll keep her until she’s volant and then destroy her, like they did you. She wants to be free. Not trapped as a wandering soul.”

 

“If that actually happens, Bran can disperse her.”

 

“Okay, you’re right,” I admit. “But I have to face Violette, Vincent. I know it. We both do. And I’d rather do it now, when we know she’s not going to slip through our fingers, than living our lives wondering when she’s going to turn up next and do something even worse.”

 

“I know.” He leans down to kiss me briefly. Firmly. We stand locked in each other’s gaze while small groups begin to move into place around us.

 

“If I should die . . . ,” I begin to say.

 

Vincent cuts me off. “Stop, Kate!” And then he sighs and his shoulders hunch slightly. He knows it’s dishonest to pretend we’re all going to make it out alive. He shuts his eyes and, when he opens them, he looks resolute. “Whatever happens, remember that I will love you forever,” he says. “Even if my spirit is dispersed and my consciousness released to the universe . . . whatever is left of me will never stop loving you.”

 

Vincent won’t possess me like he did when I fought Lucien. And there’s no sign of whatever superstrength was mentioned in the prophecy. But I am suddenly unafraid, knowing I will face Violette with a powerful but invisible weapon: love. The complete and unconditional love of another being. That is something Violette does not have. It won’t win me the battle against her. But it has already made me the victor over my fear.

 

“This isn’t good-bye, Vincent. Because we’re going to win.” Although my voice is steady, I don’t quite believe my own words. I take his hand and we walk toward the park.

 

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