Time passes snail slow and my limbs ache so much that tears leak from my eyes. I’m not crying; it’s just my body’s response to the intense pain. Which makes sense: My dead human tissue is coming to life again. I shudder with horror. Vincent didn’t tell me this part of his story.
He didn’t tell me a lot of things. Because he never thought I would be in this situation. Neither of us suspected me of being like him. Although, now that Violette has enumerated the reasons, I realize we should have seen it. If there hadn’t been the belief in Vincent’s being the Champion clouding the issue, we probably would have.
And if we had, well, things would have been different. We wouldn’t have had to deal with the issue of my mortality and his living forever. Because I had the chance to become immortal. That’s the cruel irony: Now that I have the possibility of spending eternity with Vincent, someone is going to take it away from me. Is going to kill me—again—and burn my body.
Just let her try, I think, my rage making me feel all-powerful. I struggle violently with my bonds, convulsing like a madwoman in my despair, but the only result is bleeding arms.
I measure time with the beat of my slowed-down heart and the change of light outside the boat’s window. It must be mid-morning when Louis enters the room and begins the feeding routine again. Eating and drinking while flat on my back is difficult, to say the least. But I am so famished that I manage to chew and swallow everything he gives me—and keep it down.
“How old are you?” I ask finally.
His eyes widen, and then narrow. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head. Quickly folding up the tray, he leaves the room.
I close my eyes and try to relax, but every muscle in my body is jumping. I am desperate to move, but only my feet and hands are free to rotate. So I work them. And then I flex my fingers and toes and try to relax. There’s nothing else I can do, besides imagining what my family must be thinking right now. They believe I’m dead. They are mourning. Once again. My heart actually physically hurts as I picture them, so I cast the image out of my mind and begin thinking of escape.
I study the locks on the windows and memorize the layout of the room. I don’t know what I’m capable of, so it’s hard to strategize. I wish I had asked Vincent more questions about revenant powers.
And what if I am the Champion? What was it that Vincent told me . . . besides the “anterior powers” that Violette had described. Strength. Endurance. I wonder if I have superpowers. I strain against the bonds again and nothing happens. They don’t snap like threads. Okay . . . I’m not the Hulk. I can only hope the endurance part is right. Because if not, being tied to this bed is going to drive me insane.
As the sun outside the window reaches the zenith—midday, I think—my desperation grows. Violette said that my strength would be back in a day. I have to get out of here before then. More than my fear of being killed again is my determination not to be her key to becoming a Champion-fueled supervillain and wiping out the bardia.
I remember the story about that numa who absorbed the Indian Champion’s power and the destruction he managed to wreak before he was stopped. Violette doesn’t need any more persuasion to tempt people to follow her. And add, I’m just guessing, more than double a revenant’s strength, endurance, and all that, she could have Paris under her control in no time at all. Not to be comic-book-hero dramatic, but if I have the fate of Paris . . . and eventually France or even beyond . . . resting on my shoulders, I better the hell find a way to get out of here.
Louis is back, doing the whole silent nursemaid routine once again. But this time, I’m determined to get him to talk.
“I know you’re not supposed to speak to me. But I’m guessing you’re not much younger than I am. And I’m also guessing you might not want to be here.”
I watch the practiced blankness of his expression drop for a second, as his eyes meet mine, and then he puts the mask back on and continues to feed me. But I have seen what I was looking for: sadness. Despair.
I swallow the bite of apple he’s feeding me and think of what to say. Where are those supernatural powers of persuasion when I need them? I decide to tell the truth. “I never asked for this, Louis. I don’t want to be the Champion. I don’t even want to be a revenant. I just want to go back to being a normal human girl and never see that scary medieval freak again.”
Louis freezes, not knowing what to do. My anger seems to make sense to him, but my honesty leaves him confused. I can see that what I said touched something in him.
Standing, he walks to the door and shuts it carefully, and then comes back to sit next to me. “She doesn’t want me to talk to you,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to tell her the second I think you’re trying to persuade me to help you.”
“Well, I guess that’s normal if she believes I have enhanced powers of persuasion,” I say. “She must trust you a lot to leave you alone with me.”