“Trust?” he guffaws. “Why do you think she’s here on this boat, never more than a few yards away from you?”
My nose is running, and the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is a Kleenex. I sniff a few times, trying to wipe my nose on my shoulder, and Louis jumps up to get a towel and dabs at my face.
“Thanks,” I say. And then something occurs to me. “Back in the hotel room . . . why did you apologize when you grabbed me from behind?” I ask as he folds the towel and places it on a side table.
He watches me from across the room. Deciding. Then squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he rubs his forehead worriedly. “I was almost fourteen when I died—just a few months ago,” he says in a voice so tight it sounds like his throat will burst.
Exhaling, he walks over to me. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. Okay, yes, I did. But I was just temporarily . . . insane I guess. I hated the guy so much for what he had done to us and my mother.” He shudders and shakes his head. That’s all he’s going to say about his past.
“I’m just . . . I’m sorry about all of this. I don’t want to be this way. She found me and made me her favorite, and all I want to do is die. But that’s not even possible for me anymore.”
I don’t know what to say.
“I have to go,” he says, and begins to leave the room.
“Wait!”
“What?” he asks, turning to me.
“Thanks.”
“For what?” He looks suspicious.
“For talking to me. For wiping my nose. Just . . . thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says, narrowing his eyes. And turning, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Louis is like Violette. A freak of nature. He must have become a numa by accident, the same way she became a revenant. And now he is doomed to be her partner, at least until she gets bored of him. Which, for Arthur, took about five hundred years.
THIRTY-EIGHT
A MOMENT LATER, I FEEL ANOTHER PRESENCE IN the room.
Kate, it says. I am used to hearing a voice inside my head, but for the first time it’s not Vincent’s. I scan the room, searching for the source of the voice, but see nothing.
“Who is that?” I ask in a freaked-out whisper.
It’s Gaspard, says the voice. And apparently you don’t have to speak out loud. I heard your words before you spoke them. How terribly convenient.
I can’t help smiling. He sounds the same in my head as in real life. What are you doing here? I thought you and JB left Paris.
We did. But Jean-Baptiste saw your aura all of the way from Normandy, and insisted on coming back. Everyone’s been searching for you. Jean-Baptiste followed your light and led them all here. I must say, my dear, you look absolutely ghastly. Dried blood caked all over. You’re practically . . . zombiesque.
I ignore his remarks on my appearance. How are my grandparents? And Vincent?
They’re all fine. Ambrose and Charlotte got your grandparents safely out of the Crillon and then went back in and rescued Vincent.
I breathe a sigh of relief. So where are we?
The houseboat you are imprisoned within is just outside Paris, moving westward, says Gaspard. The voice disappears for a moment, and then is back. How strong are you?
I don’t know, I admit. How long have I been here?
Violette killed you almost four days ago, Gaspard says. I can’t stay for long. She and her men will sense that I am here. Vincent doesn’t want to try a rescue attempt until he knows you’re strong enough to fight on your own. There’s no way to creep up on a boat in the middle of the river, but we don’t want to give Violette the time she needs to destroy you.
His voice disappears again for a good few minutes, and then he is back. Vincent says, and I quote, “Be strong, mon ange.” He says you should do your best to get free, but stay where you are and pretend you are still bound. I will come back in a few hours to check on you.
Gaspard? I say.
Yes.
I’m a revenant. I realize it’s the understatement of the century, but somehow saying it out loud makes me feel better.
I know. It seems that you’re actually a bit more than a revenant, dear Kate.
I inhale sharply. How do you know?
Well, firstly, your aura is like nothing Jean-Baptiste has ever seen before. It’s like a homing beacon for his Seer capabilities. And then, once confronted, Bran confessed. He’s known this whole time, but was bound by his people’s rules not to pronounce you Champion before you actually became such.
My hunch was right. Bran had known. I can’t decide whether I am grateful or upset with him for not letting me know. But then again . . . maybe he had tried with all of his little hints. In the only way he could “legally” let me know. I had just been blind to it.