“Ooh—beware . . . you risk the wrath of Gaspard, Guardian of the Books. Which, I can assure you, is truly something to fear,” he said, narrowing his eyes and lifting his eyebrows dramatically.
I laughed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded if I had asked. But since I didn’t, I wanted to return it before he notices it’s gone.”
“You are a very conscientious young woman,” Jules quipped, and I play-punched him in the shoulder. He waited for me in the car as I ran into the house, and seeing no one around, I went directly to the library.
The door was open, so I fished the book out of my bag and unwrapped it from the scarf I had used to protect it from stray pens and hairbrushes. I had just pulled the box off the shelf when I heard someone clear his throat. Whipping around, I scanned the room to see Arthur sitting in a corner—pen and notebook balanced on his knee and a pile of open books scattered around him.
“Hello, Kate,” he said.
“Uh, hi, Arthur,” I replied, slipping the book into the box and replacing it on the shelf as quickly as I could. As if I went fast, he wouldn’t notice. Silly me.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked.
“Oh, just a book I found the other day,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted, while knowing full well that I was the worst actress in the world. I was practically radiating guilt vibes.
“About what?”
Suddenly my mood switched and I thought, What business is it of his, anyway? “It was about werewolves. No, wait . . . maybe it was vampires. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a clueless human, and it’s so easy for me to get all of you monsters mixed up.”
He stood and took a step toward me. “Kate, I apologize for humiliating you in front of everyone. I really didn’t”—he hesitated, weighing his words—“want to. But it is true that there is information that humans shouldn’t possess. Things we discuss in our meetings. Even the books in this library. Not because you don’t deserve to. But because it could put you in danger.”
Furious, I held my hand up in a “talk to it” gesture. “Don’t even get started, Arthur, because I don’t want to hear it.” I fingered the signum under the fabric of my shirt, as if drawing strength from the fact that at least one revenant—the only one who really mattered to me—thought of me as kindred. And then the dam burst.
“You might be from a time when humans were looked down on by beings like yourself. A time when men were the only ones considered smart enough to educate”—I gestured toward his pile of books—“and girls like Violette had to have protectors. But this is the twenty-first century. And I’ve got this”—I pulled out the signum and held it up for him to see—“that says I’m kindred. And I’ve got this”—I pointed at my head—“that says I’m as smart as you. And I have this”—I held up my middle finger—“that says go to hell, you immortal bigot.”
And with that I spun around and stomped out the door, filing the expression on Arthur’s face in a mental folder labeled “Kate’s Proudest Moments.”
Friday afternoon Vincent and I arrived at the Gare de Lyon to find pure chaos. The railroad employees were on one of their frequent strikes, and only one out of three trains was scheduled to leave. We checked the departures board to find our train.
“Canceled,” read Vincent. Seeing my face fall, he squeezed my hand. “Don’t give up yet. Let’s see when the next train is.” He worked his way down the list, mouthing the names of the destinations silently to himself until he found it: “Paris–Nice: tomorrow morning, getting in at two in the afternoon.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “We won’t even be there for twenty-four hours . . . that is, if there even is a train back when we need it.” I looked from the board to him. “How long does it take to drive?”
“Eight and a half hours if we don’t stop and if there’s no traffic. On a Friday night we wouldn’t make it in less than ten. So driving’s not an option.” He thought for a moment and then pulled out his phone and began texting. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s find a taxi.”
A half hour later we were at Le Bourget Airport, boarding a tiny private jet. “It’s Jean-Baptiste’s. We only use it in case of emergencies,” Vincent yelled over the noise of the engine as we walked up the stairs.
“I’m sure! It must cost a fortune each time you go somewhere!” I said, and stepped into the eight-person cabin.
“It’s not actually that,” Vincent said. “It’s justifying the carbon footprint.”
Trust a supernatural whose mission is saving the human race to think green, I mused while looking around myself in spoiled delight.
An hour and a half later we landed in Nice. Charlotte was waiting for us at the arrival gate. As soon as we stepped past airport security, she put an arm around each of us, squeezing us into a sandwich hug.