“Stay here.” Vincent waves me back as he and the others stride quickly forward. The light catches the men’s faces: It is Nicolas and Louis. Violette’s second and her favorite in the same place at once! I think. We have stumbled into something important.
Seeing the young numa, I can’t help but follow Vincent and the others. Once I get within a few yards of them the red beacons extinguish, like they did when the numa got close to me on the riverbank, leaving only the misty red auras. I don’t see golden beams shooting up from the bardia’s auras, I realize. There’s only one reason a Champion would have this gift: to hunt numa.
I see the flickering gold inside Louis’s aura, and it seems to me like a tiny bit of hope has materialized as light and is struggling to free itself from the cold crimson glare. Something tugs at my memory, and I try to think where I have seen this before. And then it comes to me: the guérisseurs’ archives. The painting of the numa with the gold in his aura—the one crossing the stream and being received by bardia. That scene is about redemption, I realize suddenly. I think back to how Louis had seemed sympathetic to me on the boat, and had helped loosen my bonds. He actually helped me escape, which, even considering my persuasiveness superpower, is kind of incredible for a numa to have done. The color of his aura must mean that he’s like the numa I saw in the painting. Is it possible for some numa to change their destiny? To change sides? Vincent told me it wasn’t, but what if he was wrong? Violette crossed over to the other side—what’s to prevent a numa from doing the same?
“Nicolas!” calls Vincent, and the numa spin and draw their swords.
“Please don’t tell me you all were just popping by for some late-night shopping,” says the older numa drily, though he is unable to hide his shock.
“No,” says Ambrose. “Just doing a little tidy-up-the-neighborhood work, and thought we smelled some trash in here.”
Nicolas ignores him, keeping his gaze on Vincent. “So you are the bardia’s new leader? I would think you’d be more interested in hunting down our leader than chasing after her second-in-command.”
“There were three of you. Where’s the other?” Vincent asks.
Louis’s eyes flicker toward the apartment they just came from. And then, realizing what he’s done, he nervously grasps his sword in both hands as if he can protect the door from all ten of us. “Watch that door!” orders Charlotte, and Ambrose stations himself in front of it, sword drawn.
“Would you like to die fighting, or should we stand here all night chatting?” asks Vincent, and the revenants on both sides of the passage draw their swords.
I see the fear on Louis’s face, and my heart goes out to him. You don’t want to be here, do you? As soon as the words cross my mind, his eyes widen, and he looks around as if trying to locate a volant spirit.
No, I think with disbelief. Did I just communicate with Louis? Could I contact the mind of a numa? Only one way to find out. Louis, this is Kate. You told me your secret. And I want to save you. Are you willing to side with us? To turn your back on the numa and help the bardia?
He stands there confused until he locates me standing behind Vincent and Charlotte. He looks me straight in the eyes, his own widened in fear.
Do you want to escape the numa? Will you come with us? I ask again. Nothing. Well, DO YOU?
“Yes!” he yells. Dropping his sword, he puts his hands up in the air.
“What the hell are you doing?” asks Nicolas, looking Louis up and down.
Vincent catches my arm as I step past him. “Kate! What . . . ,” he begins.
“Amnesty,” I say to the numa. “I’m offering amnesty to both of you, if you agree to abandon your kind and come to our side.”
Nicolas begins laughing but keeps his sword at the ready.
“Kate, what are you saying?” hisses Charlotte. My kindred look at one another in shock.
“I am saying that, like anyone, they deserve a second chance before being slaughtered. That maybe, if given the opportunity, they will walk away from what they are.”
“Kate,” Vincent pleads, “that isn’t even possible.”
“Violette was a bardia and she became numa. It must be possible,” I insist.
“That rule was written in our texts. It was never actually tried—as far as we know—until she did it. But it can’t go the other way. That . . . that is unthinkable.”
“You know,” Nicolas says, “I think your Champion here has a point.” And he begins to lower his sword.
“Freeze right there,” says Geneviève with a permafrost voice, taking a step closer to him. “Don’t you dare move.”
Keeping his eyes on me, Nicolas ignores her and squatting carefully down, he lays his sword on the floor. Then, straightening, he spreads his hands before him, showing us that they are empty. “I have been waiting for this day. The day when someone finally asked me what I wanted.”