If I Should Die

The limo driver headed north on Park Avenue and turned left when we got to the eighties. Driving to the end of the block, he stopped in front of a stately apartment building facing the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “We are here,” he said in a heavy Russian accent, and got out to help us with our luggage.

 

A uniformed doorman bustled out the front door, meeting us on the sidewalk and bringing our bags inside. He tucked them all behind a counter, and turned to face us with his hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Gold is waiting for you. Please show me the tokens of your association.”

 

“Tokens?” I asked, confused.

 

“You are a part of Mr. Gold’s club, are you not? I need to see proof of your membership.”

 

“The signum,” Jules prompted.

 

“Oh,” I said, and pulled the necklace from underneath my shirt. Papy did the same, flashing it at the doorman, and Bran pulled back his sleeve to show his tattoo.

 

The man showed no surprise at our strange “tokens.” Bowing slightly, he said, “Thank you. This way,” and held a gloved hand out to indicate the elevator.

 

He didn’t ask Jules for a token, I thought, as the doorman pressed the button for the top floor. I studied him more closely and realized with surprise that he was a revenant. But my shock wasn’t because Mr. Gold had hired kindred to guard his building—it was because I had actually been able to tell what he was.

 

The weird special effects I had noticed around the numa were reversed in this man’s case. The inch of space around him was packed with more vibrancy and color than the rest of the air, whereas numa sucked the color out of their surroundings, leaving them with a colorless penumbra.

 

I glanced at Jules. He had the same vivid nimbus around his body. I had spent so much time with him and the others that I just didn’t notice it with them. Now that I was a part of the revenants’ world and was aware that supernatural beings existed where I never would have expected them before, I was paying more attention to who was human and who was not. In the case of the doorman . . . not.

 

He’s one of us, Vincent said, confirming my deduction.

 

We got off the elevator, followed the man down the hallway, and stopped in front of a door. He unlocked it and ushered us into an apartment. “Mr. Gold will be right here. He asks that you make yourselves comfortable.” And with that he closed the door, leaving us to examine our surroundings in awe.

 

The apartment was massive and modern, all white walls and hardwood floors with floor-to-ceiling windows and barely any furniture. Stone pedestals held ancient pottery and metal objects: A Greek mask in gold. A bronze Roman helmet. A finely sculpted marble hand the size of a refrigerator. I had seen things like this in museums, protected under heavy glass. But here they were within arm’s reach, tastefully arranged under gallery lighting that made them glow like jewels.

 

Papy’s sharp intake of breath indicated that he was just as impressed as I was. Even Jules straightened a bit as he took his hands out of his pockets and went up to touch the exquisitely carved marble shoulder of a nymph. Bran just stood gawking with his regular astounded look, his magnified eyes taking in every inch of the room.

 

The door opened again, and in stepped a young blond-haired, blue-eyed man in a white suit. He bowed slightly. “Theodore Gold,” he said.

 

“But you’re the doorman!” I exclaimed. He was barely recognizable without the uniform and hat. The perfect disguise, I thought. No one looks a doorman in the face.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” the man said with upper-class, posh-sounding diction that sounded nothing like the strong Jersey accent he had assumed as the doorman. “I value my privacy, and prefer not to depend on others for security. I would rather screen my own guests than risk the outcome of someone else’s error. Although you had a revenant with you”—he nodded toward Jules—“he could have been brought here under duress, used as a hostage if you wanted to get to me.”

 

“I take it you are Jules,” he said, greeting him with European cheek-kisses. “Welcome, kindred.”

 

“I’m Kate,” I said, and held out my hand for an American-to-American shake. Mr. Gold gave me a warm smile, and to my relief didn’t ask for a clarification of why I was there. I didn’t really feel like launching into an I’m-the-wandering-soul’s-girlfriend conversation.

 

Bran was next. “Your tattoo tells me that you are the healer Jean-Baptiste spoke of. I have read of your kind. It is truly an honor to meet you.”

 

He turned to my grandfather. “You must be Monsieur Mercier. Gaspard phoned to inform me of your—and your granddaughter’s—connection to the Paris kindred.” So, he knew.

 

That’s one less thing to explain, Vincent said to me.

 

“You read my mind,” I whispered back.

 

“I am Antoine Mercier,” my grandfather confirmed in his beautifully accented English. He peered at the revenant with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “But are you Theodore Gold IV? The Theodore Gold? Author of The Fall of Byzantium?”

 

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