My sister looked hurt.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t get better if you keep training,” I quickly added as I registered her expression.
Her smile returned. “More,” she said, and walked over to pick up her sword.
“Georgia,” I said, moving my sword from one hand to the other and back, enjoying the feel of its weight in my palms. “What’s this all about? The fight training, I mean. Is it just a ploy to get nearer to Arthur? Because I can promise you that’s not necessary. He’s already totally into you.”
“Of course not. I don’t need to make a fool of myself to attract a man,” my sister said, looking defensive.
“Really?” I said, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. “How about that Southern accent you put on whenever cute guys are around?”
Georgia waved her free hand in the air as if to say, Oh, that—that’s nothing. And then her shoulders slumped. “Honestly, Kate. Getting whopped by a crazed zombie tween left me feeling extremely vulnerable. Not to mention weak. And those are two qualities I genuinely despise.”
My heart warmed. This was the side of my sister that made me feel I would follow her not only to Paris but to the end of the world. Complete with all of her party-girl, don’t-take-life-seriously, sometimes-maddening qualities. Because I knew this side of her too. The side some people never saw—the one defined by her strength, goodness, and loyalty.
“That is an excellent reason for fight training!” I said, and her smile was back in a second.
“So you think you can take me on with your Kill Bill sword-fighting skills?” she teased.
“Just go easy on me,” I laughed, and raised my sword.
In the end, I didn’t have to sneak away from Georgia. Knowing Mamie wouldn’t approve of her going out, but unable to stand being separated from her friends, my sister had invited them to come to our house. By five o’clock Arthur was walking her back to the apartment, and forty-five minutes later, he, Ambrose, Vincent, and I arrived at the Cluny Museum of the Middle Ages.
“Perfect timing,” I said, walking up to the gates and reading the sign. “Closing time, five forty-five p.m.”
The museum was housed in a massive fifteenth-century abbey that took up most of a city block, and had been built next to first-century ruins of Gallo-Roman baths, an ancient ancestor of today’s spas. Crumbling walls extended three stories above grassy grounds, the ceilings and floors having disappeared centuries before. High up on the walls, monumental arches in red brick spanned the white stone, tracing the outlines of the palatial rooms the Roman soldiers once wandered through, moving from thermal pool to frigid bath to sauna.
In the hazy darkness of early evening, the abbey looked like a haunted castle and the ruins around it like its unearthed dungeons. I was suddenly glad for my armed escort. As if sensing my thoughts, Ambrose smiled and patted the hilt of the sword he wore under his coat. “See any numa in the area, Vin?” he asked and, apparently satisfied with Vincent’s answer, relaxed a little.
You look nervous, mon ange, Vincent told me.
“Nervous? Me?” I said. “Never.” Which was a total lie. I was about to go into a cave, deep down in the earth. I had never told Vincent about my claustrophobia. I hadn’t needed to.
Going down into the sewers hadn’t bothered me. We were in wide man-made spaces just below street level. But Bran’s cave was sure to be different—it threatened to reach right back to my childhood fear and paralyze me once I was in its depths.
My family had visited Ruby Falls in Tennessee when I was a kid. At one point the guide turned the lights out to show us how dark it was in a place sunlight never touched. I freaked out, and once we got outside, it took an hour for my mom to calm me. Since then, even the thought of spelunking made me break into a sweat. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Vincent. A little claustrophobia didn’t matter when much more important things were at stake. Like his very existence.
I wiped my forehead with my palm and tried to appear calm.
“The healer said the entrance was at the southwest corner of the monument,” Arthur said, pointing through the gate to one side of the ruins.
“How are we going to get in?” I asked, eyeing the twenty-foot-high cast-iron fencing running the perimeter.
“Never fear, Zombie Man is here,” quipped Ambrose, and wrapping his hands around two of the bars, he began pulling at them, as if he was stretching them apart. He let go after a second, turned to me, and winked. “Just kidding,” he said. “Bending iron bars is, sadly, not in my superhero résumé. I suggest we try that instead.” He nodded toward a small iron door closed with a padlock. Just behind it were steep steps leading down into the ruins.