“What happened?” I asked. Not knowing how to comfort him, I combed his tousled black locks back from his face.
“I confronted him. And he confessed. It’s exactly how Theodore explained it. JB made a deal with Lucien, and has been paying for protection ever since in the form of his Paris properties.”
“Oh, Vincent,” I said, my throat clenching as I saw how upset he was.
“He said he only did it for us. That he felt we were on the brink of defeat. That the losses we had taken were too drastic and he wanted to protect the kindred that were left: his chosen few family members, among them me, who he thought was the Champion. He thought I would rise up and lead the kindred to a final defeat and that his compromise would be justified in the end. He admitted that after a few decades he regretted it, but he was in too deep and couldn’t bring himself to tell us about it.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, wrapping my arms back around him.
“You should have seen Gaspard,” Vincent continued, running his fingers distractedly up and down my spine and nuzzling my hair. “I think he was hurt the most, discovering that JB had hidden something from him for all those years. But he stuck with him. They’ve gone into self-imposed exile, and JB named me the head of the bardia,” Vincent said flatly.
I drew back to look him in the face. “What?” I exclaimed.
“He named me head and Charlotte my second.”
It shouldn’t have felt like such a shock. Vincent had been Jean-Baptiste’s second. It was a foregone conclusion that he would one day become leader. But so quickly? And I hadn’t even considered that Charlotte might be next in line of bardia hierarchy.
“Charlotte?” I asked, glancing at Ambrose, who stood blocking the door with his massive frame. He cracked his knuckles and unleashed a sly smile.
“Well, it wasn’t going to be me. I like to pick fights, which unless you’re Attila the Hun isn’t considered the healthiest leadership characteristic.”
Turning back to Vincent, I asked, “Are you okay with this?”
His expression was troubled. “I have no choice,” he responded. “Someone must begin assembling our troops. If Violette hears about the sudden change in command, she’ll take the opportunity to strike before we can get ourselves organized. And we’ve just gotten word of where she is, so the time to act is now.”
“What can I do?”
“Keep the details to yourself. I have only told our Paris kindred that JB chose to leave. And Kate . . . please stay close. Not only do I feel better knowing you’re within the safety of these walls, but just having you nearby gives me more confidence.” These last words were in an almost-whisper.
As I watched him, my heart felt like it was expanding—blowing up like a balloon. I brushed his rough, stubbly cheek with my fingertips. “You were made for this, Vincent,” I said. “Champion or not, you will have everyone’s support. I’ve seen how the others respect you, and they will follow you to the very end.”
Vincent smiled ruefully. “Okay, Ambrose, you can tell everyone to come in,” he said.
A dozen or so of Paris’s most important bardia filed in—a fraction of the people I had seen downstairs—and sat in rows of chairs before the library’s fireplace. Vincent and Charlotte took two chairs facing them, and I grabbed a comfy leather club chair in the back.
Vincent briefed everyone, asked the revenants to call up every contact they had, and ordered them to arm themselves and wait at the ready. I almost choked when he explained that Violette had been spotted coming and going from the Crillon Hotel for the last few days. Trust her to choose the place where heads of state and movie stars stay as her headquarters. She wasn’t about to join her minions in hiding out in the catacombs or caves under Montmartre or, as we now knew, JB’s protected residences throughout Paris.
Vincent called upon one of the revenants to speak. The woman reported that she had news from Bordeaux that the numa had emptied from the city and were said to have headed to Paris. Others spoke up with similar news from other French cities, confirming what we had heard while we were in New York.
“Violette is obviously trying to force things to a head,” said Charlotte, speaking for the first time. Although she was dressed in her regular tomboyish jeans and T-shirt, she had tied her blond hair back into a chignon, making her look older than her fifteen years.
“It isn’t surprising. This is the Third Age that the prophecy specified—in fact, over a century has passed since it began,” said Bran, who I hadn’t noticed sitting on the far side of the group. “It is high time for the Champion to manifest. He will come, whether Violette orchestrates a situation that necessitates him to appear, or whether he is already here.”
“What does your prophecy say?” asked Charlotte.
“I compared my text with Gaspard’s: the bardia’s version and that of the flame-fingers are basically the same.” He scrabbled through his book, lifted it a couple of inches from his eyes, and read: