I close my eyes and think about what she’s just told me. I don’t believe her. I can’t. How can I be the Champion? The Champion is some kind of undead superhero. Okay, so I fit one of those qualifications, I think, pain ripping through me as, once again, I acknowledge that I am . . . undead. A tear rolls down my cheek just identifying myself with that horrible word, but I fight to pull myself together. I have to think.
Every time Bran talked about the Champion, he used the pronoun “he.” The prophecy he read us used the word “he.” That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Everyone seemed to think the Champion was a man. Wouldn’t Bran have said it differently if he knew I was the Champion? Not necessarily, I think. He might not have known. I wasn’t even a revenant then.
And then I remember. It was immediately after the big event—when he touched Jean-Baptiste and became the VictorSeer—that he began regarding me strangely. I was always checking my hair around him, wondering what he was looking at. But what if it hadn’t been my hair he was focusing on? What if it had been my aura? It was a kind of weird squint, I think with dawning horror. If my aura is as bright as a “star on fire,” no wonder he squinted every time he looked my way.
My thoughts begin racing, each realization stinging me like a crazed hornet. There was his insistence that the Champion wasn’t here yet. He didn’t even want to look at the other bardia to verify. It was because he thought it was me. There were the sideways glances when the subject of the Champion arose. And his willingness to let me visit the flame-finger archives.
And then I recall his words when I returned from the cave with his books. “I’m glad you went,” he had said. “It could well be your only chance.” Why would he say that? Bearers of the signum bardia are allowed to enter. But revenants aren’t. He knew I was a latent revenant. And he knew I would soon be the Champion. Bran had known this whole time.
Shock hits me like a tidal wave, roaring in my ears and sending me spinning and crashing in its wake. I lie there powerless to do anything but watch the girl who is determined to destroy me.
“Any other questions?” she asks, snapping the notebook shut and slipping it into her jacket pocket.
“What did you do with Vincent?”
“He is of no value to me anymore,” she says testily. “I would have killed him along with you, but I didn’t want to risk your sacrifice. You offered your life for him. I wasn’t sure you would become a revenant if you failed to save his life. So I left him in the hotel.”
I close my eyes in relief. He’s safe.
“Yes, you rest,” says Violette, walking back to the bed and standing directly over me. “It’ll be at least another day before you regain your strength. Although, as you can see,” she says, glancing at the cords binding my body, “I’m not taking any chances.”
She begins walking toward the door. “Violette?” I call, craning my head so I can see her.
“Yes, Kate?” she asks, looking curious.
“I hope I’m not the Champion,” I say, my voice dead calm now, “because I would hate to give you any additional satisfaction. But if I am, I hope you have to chop off an entire hand this time and eat a raw cat in order to absorb me. And I hope you choke on it.”
Her creepily calm demeanor finally shatters. Making a noise between a growl and a scream, she stomps over to the bed and slaps my face as hard as she can. Then, spinning on her heels, she races out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
I lay my head back down and taste blood in my mouth. And smile.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE DOOR REOPENS ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, AND Louis enters with a tray. Although his raised eyebrows hint of curiosity as to what just happened between me and his mistress, he says nothing. Setting the tray down, he wordlessly pours a glass of water. He lifts my head and helps me get some of it down before replacing the glass and feeding me an orange segment.
My fury slowly cools as I study him for the first time. I see what must have been an awkward boy of thirteen or so, before he took on the deceptively charismatic facade that is part of the revenant transformation.
As Vincent explained to me last summer, when revenants animate, they become more physically alluring than when they were human. It is their superstrength: People are attracted to them, and thus more prone to trust them.
In the bardia’s case, this is a good thing—more lives saved. But in the numa’s case, it is to their victim’s peril. When the numa want to be scary, they sure as hell are. But when they are in con-man mode, they can be as poisonously charming as Lucien was when he tricked my sister into falling for him.
What could this boy have done at such a young age to animate as a serial betrayer? I wonder.
Louis avoids my eyes as he stands to go. And although I know he’s only following Violette’s orders, I thank him as he leaves the room. He pauses in the doorway, looking curiously back at me before shutting the door and leaving me alone with my thoughts.