On the other side of the hearth, at the edge of the group, Arthur sat in an armchair, shaking his head tiredly like the long-suffering husband of a temperamental spouse. He pulled a pen and notebook out of his jacket’s inner pocket and began to write.
I squeezed Vincent’s fingers. He was sitting in front of me on the floor, his elbow propped on the couch so that he could hold my hand. He glanced up, and I inclined my head toward Arthur. “Is he taking notes?” I whispered. Vincent’s eyes traveled across the room. “No, he’s writing,” he responded.
“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.
“He’s an author. Of novels.” Vincent laughed at the astounded look on my face. “What, you didn’t think we could have careers that didn’t involve saving lives? Arthur and Violette have to do something with their time. They don’t even own a TV.”
“What does he write?”
“Well, have you heard of Pierre Delacourt?”
“Yeah, the historical thriller guy? I actually think I read one of his books in an airport once. That’s Arthur’s pen name?”
Vincent nodded. “That and Aurélie Saint-Onge, Henri Cotillon, and Hilaire Benois.”
My mouth dropped open as I realized that the writer behind some of the most famous pseudonyms in French literature from the last couple of centuries was sitting across the room from me, scribbling in a notebook.
“This train wreck of a meeting is adjourned,” snapped Jean-Baptiste, drawing attention to the fact that no one was paying attention to him anymore. “I will speak to each of you individually about what I need you to do. Vincent,” he said, walking over to us, “I need you to fly to Berlin tomorrow. Talk to Charles’s source. Find out everything they know and where they’re getting their information.” Vincent nodded, and Jean-Baptiste moved on to Jules.
“Wow, just like that and you’re off,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I would guess a couple of days. It’ll depend on what I find when I get there. How much information there actually is. Although I have a feeling that part of the reason JB is sending me instead of just phoning is to have someone check up on Charles.”
I nodded, and although I felt a twinge of sadness that he was going away—so much had been going on that we had barely had time to catch up since he’d been dormant—I also felt a sense of relief. Because the only thing on my mind right now was when I could get to Le Corbeau.
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN GEORGIA AND I LEFT OUR BUILDING THE next morning to see Jules waiting for us in his car, my heart did a little leap. Vincent must have already left. I checked my phone to see his good-bye text, and the heart-leap became a staccato patter. Today was my day.
“So what’s up with the chauffeur service?” I asked as I jumped into the front with him while Georgia settled in the back.
“Vincent would have been here this morning, but he had a flight at six a.m. Which means he was at the airport at five.”
“Good thing you guys don’t sleep,” I said.
From habit, Jules’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to see if Georgia had heard. And then I saw him remember—She already knows—and he relaxed again.
He does think of me as one of them now, I mused, and I smiled as I touched the pendant hidden under my shirt.
“That’s actually not my question. What have we done to deserve a ride to school? Were there more numa attacks during the night?”
I meant it as a joke, but Jules’s unchanged expression informed me that I had hit the nail on the head. “No!” I gasped.
“Yes, two other revenant homes in the Paris area were ransacked—one last night and the other early this morning, both times when the occupants were out.”
“So what’s that have to do with us?” piped up Georgia from the backseat. “Not that I don’t appreciate door-to-door service to high school, of course.”
Jules peered at Georgia in the mirror. “That attack after your boyfriend’s concert, followed a week later by four break-ins by our enemies, all adds up to the fact that the numa are back in action. And Vincent is worried that you, Kate, could be a target.”
“Why me?”
“The numa know he’s JB’s second, and they know you’re with him. Kidnapping you—or worse—would be the perfect way to provoke him. Vincent just wants someone to keep an eye on you until he’s back and can do it himself.”
That was a lot to process. “I feel like saying that I can fend for myself. But after facing off with those guys in the alley, I think I’ll just thank you for the offer and shut up about it.”
“So, Jules,” Georgia said, leaning forward, “not that I’m not appreciative that you are protecting my sister from evil murderous zombies. But since that conversation’s run its course”—she paused for effect—“Kate tells me that Arthur is a writer.”
To my dismay, my sister had not given up on her crush on Arthur. And ever since she and Sebastien had broken up the previous week, she had mentioned the revenant at least once a day.
“He asked about you, actually,” Jules said matter-of-factly.