Ambrose takes my hand and leads me to the window. “Just where do you see them?”
“Right there,” I say, pointing to the two very obvious lights. “In fact they’re a lot bigger than lasers. They’re like flame-colored columns . . . ,” I say, my words faltering as I have a flashback to the riverside. The lights are the same color as those I saw projecting from the two numa who were chasing me. The light I saw when they were a little ways away that disappeared when they got closer.
Something clicks. Heightened powers of perception. Can I see something the others can’t? “You don’t see it?” I ask Ambrose once more.
He scans the darkened vista outside the window and then looks at me, worried.
“I think I’ve figured out how we can find the numa,” I call toward the table, and everyone turns my way.
Ten minutes later, the entire group is outside on the street facing two of Violette’s sentries. Charlotte steps in front of them, her hand on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her coat. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
One of the numa dares respond. “Keeping watch,” he says simply, his eyes narrowing as he spots Ambrose standing behind Charlotte scowling and looking twice his already-imposing size.
“Where is your leader now?” asks Vincent.
“Even if I knew, why would I tell you?” the numa responds.
“Because we might spare your pitiful afterlives and let you go,” growls Ambrose.
“No, you won’t,” the numa says defiantly, and he and his companion swiftly draw their swords.
Ambrose leaps in front of Charlotte. “You’re right. I won’t,” he says, and rams his sword forcefully through the numa’s chest. A second passes before he lets the limp form drop to the ground.
The other numa is down almost as quickly, and Vincent wipes his sword on the man’s coat before returning it to its scabbard. “Let’s get them off the street,” he says.
I shudder as Ambrose swings one of the bodies over his shoulder. Two bardia accompanying us pick up the other corpse between them and head toward La Maison.
The danger gone, I drop back and follow them. But something feels wrong to me. It’s not like my kindred killed the numa without provocation. They were armed and wanted to fight. But there is still an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. It isn’t pity—it’s something else. Unable to pinpoint my emotion, I focus on Charlotte, who walks up behind Ambrose.
“You know, there is such a thing as holding people for questioning,” she says crisply.
“Yeah, see, I kind of forget that in the heat of the moment,” he replies, flashing her an apologetic smile. She shakes her head impatiently and runs to catch up with Vincent, who is opening the gates.
Ambrose meets my eyes. “Like I said, she is fierce!” he says, shaking his head in awe.
FORTY-THREE
OUR GROUP LOOKS OVER THE CITY FROM THE vantage point of La Maison’s roof terrace. Paris once again reminds me of a great lady. Tonight she wears a black velvet dress and pearls flash from her buildings’ windows. But for me, the vista is slashed by flaming red lines. A few on our side of the river appear as thick as columns, whereas the ones far off in the direction of Montmartre are as thin as crimson threads.
“How many do you see?” Vincent stands by my side holding my cold hand in his warm one.
“A lot.”
“Like a few dozen?” he asks.
“Like more than a hundred,” I respond. Silence falls over our little group as everyone studies the horizon for something they cannot see.
“They’re not all in one place,” I continue. “There are a group down that way,” I say, pointing toward Chinatown. “Others over there, on the other side of Bastille.” I indicate a forest of red beams far to our east. “More up toward Montmartre.”
Vincent studies the ground at his feet for a moment, and then turns to our group. “We need more bardia,” he says. “If we count all of our kindred in and directly around Paris, we aren’t more than forty. We can take the numa little by little, as long as they don’t group together. But if they do, we’re lost. Who else can we ask to join us?”
“Jean-Baptiste said that he and Gaspard will join us as soon as Gaspard reanimates early this morning,” Arthur says.
“Won’t it take him a while to recover?” I ask.
“No,” Arthur responds. “He wasn’t injured when he went dormant. We old guys are up and on our feet practically as soon as we awake. It’s you newbies that have a harder time in the morning,” he says with a grin.
Arthur’s in a really good mood for us being on the brink of warfare, I think, and wonder if it is because we will soon fight Violette, or something else . . . like my sister, for example.
“I put in a call to our New York kindred a few hours ago,” Vincent admits, reaching back for my hand. I look up at him in surprise. “Jules?” I ask hopefully.