And what a reward! The walls of Jules’s studio were filled with color. Primary-hued geometric cityscapes and nudes painted in luscious pinks and flesh tones. My brain shifted into art mode. Surrounded by all that beauty, I felt whole. Fulfilled. Like a light had been switched on inside me, illuminating all my mind’s dark, musty corners.
My reverie was interrupted by a crashing sound from the next room. Jules rushed past me before I could even react, having grabbed a sword from an umbrella stand, and hurled himself through the doorway. I heard a howl and, by way of the connecting door, saw a man leap into the air.
Time stopped as I watched him suspended in space, unable to believe what I was seeing, before I was jolted back to reality by an earsplitting crash as his body hit the large plate-glass window and disappeared outside. I ran to the now-jagged opening, my shoes crunching splintered glass beneath them, and saw the man land on his feet on the cobblestone pavement two floors below. Unshaken by the fall, he brushed himself off and then, holding his hands to his torso to staunch the flow of blood from a wound, he ran across the courtyard and out onto the street.
I spun to see Jules standing with a bloody sword in hand, staring at the broken window. Next to him, a small desk was covered in art books and gallery brochures, which were strewn as if someone had thrown them all up in the air and let them land where they would. The desk drawer lay on the floor, empty.
“Did he . . . ?” Jules began, unable to finish his question.
I nodded. “He landed on his feet and ran off. But I think you got him,” I said encouragingly. “He was holding his side when he ran away.”
“What was a numa doing in my studio?” Jules murmured, looking shell-shocked. “And how the hell did he get in? The window and the door both have top-quality locks.”
Amid the glass shards, I spied a glint of metal. Picking my way carefully toward it, I bent to fish out a tiny silver set of tools strung on a chain. They looked exactly like the type of thing that could pick a door lock. I held them up for Jules to see. As he stared, his face turned a strange shade of purple. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit speed-dial.
“Vince? Yeah, she’s here. Just listen! They came here, too—to my studio. . . . Only one—he got away. No, she’s fine. Yes, I’m sure.” Jules passed me the phone.
“Kate, are you okay?” Vincent was speaking in the controlled tone he used when he was hiding panic.
“I’m fine. The guy didn’t even notice me. Jules went straight for him and he jumped through the window.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“There’s no reason, Vincent. We’re both okay. Finish what you’re doing—I’m going to see you tonight anyway.”
“We have to come. See if we can figure out what he was looking for. We’re probably only twenty minutes by cab, so just stay put. I have to see you to believe that you’re safe. Could you give the phone back to Jules?”
Jules listened as Vincent spoke for a moment, and then, putting the phone back in his pocket and shaking himself out of his stupor, he looked up at me as if he had finally noticed that I was there. Dropping the sword to the floor, he strode over and took my shoulders in his hands, gripping me a little too hard. “Kate, you’re fine? You didn’t get cut anywhere?” He searched my face.
I was so stunned by his intensity that I couldn’t speak. Jules was always joking around me, teasing me, but now his wide eyes held my own transfixed, and his expression couldn’t be more serious. I shook my head and managed to utter, “I’m not hurt.”
He exhaled as he registered the fact that I hadn’t been touched and, grasping me to himself, hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. After a few seconds, his grip loosened, but he didn’t let go until I finally moved, pulling back gently as I said his name.
His hands dropped to his sides, but he stayed—his face inches away from my own and his warm breath soft on my skin—for what seemed like forever. Then, abruptly, he turned and strode out of the studio. I heard his feet on the wooden stairway, and watched out the gaping hole of the window as he crossed the courtyard and stood motionless by the stone doorway to the street, waiting there for the others to arrive.
TWENTY-FIVE
ONCE AT THE STUDIO, VINCENT AND JEAN-BAPTISTE had combed it for clues while Jules and Ambrose nailed a big board of plywood over the gaping window. Now we were in the car on our way back to La Maison for what JB was calling an “emergency meeting.”
My phone rang. Seeing Charlotte’s name on the screen, I answered immediately. This was the first time in over a month that one of us had actually picked up the phone to call.
“Hi, Charlotte!” I said, trying to clear my voice of the tension that was weighing on everyone in our group.
“Kate,” she responded, sounding as if she were just next door instead of on the other side of the country.
“How are you?”
“Fine. I had to call you, though—I heard from Charles last night. He’s in Germany, living with a group of revenants in Berlin. And he’s okay!”