The patio was large—the shape and size of a skating rink. Its outer edge bordered a precipice and was sided by iron guardrails to protect the monument’s visitors from the perilous drop. Hulking statues of saints and angels circled the patio, casting weird shadows in the half-light and creating a distinctly creepy atmosphere. Georgia was nowhere to be seen.
I blinked, looking for Arthur, and saw him nearby, hiding behind a statue. He was staring at some people who were half-concealed in the building’s dark shadows. Right in front of me was a larger-than-life figure of an avenging archangel, crouched with sword extended as it fought its invisible enemy. I took Arthur’s example and crept behind it, squinting out from under its sword-bearing arm at the figures across the terrace.
A jean-clad girl was speaking authoritatively to two large, menacing-looking men. With a chill, I recognized them as the numa from Papy’s gallery.
As the speaker gestured, her head turned slightly. My hand flew to my mouth to suppress a gasp. “No,” I whispered. What was Violette doing? She didn’t seem to be threatened by the numa. If anything, they seemed to be hanging on her every word.
I glanced over at Arthur. He was looking at the same scene I was, yet he was hiding. I didn’t understand.
And then—suddenly—I did.
As a wave of comprehension washed over me, I felt immediately and violently ill. I clutched my stomach and prayed that I wouldn’t vomit then and there.
Then a third man stepped forward from the shadows behind the church. It was the man I had seen Arthur talking to at La Palette. And now that I saw what he was wearing—a long fur coat that looked like it had been designed for a Renaissance lord in a costume drama—I knew where I had seen him before. He was the man between the tombs at Père Lachaise cemetery the day of Philippe’s funeral. I had been right to be afraid then. Because now, without a doubt, I could tell that the trick-of-light colorless thing going on in the air around him meant just one thing. He, too, was a numa.
He got down on one knee in front of the tiny revenant and, bowing his head, raised her hand to his lips. And just as Violette touched him lightly on the head, bidding him to rise, I saw someone sprint past me into the middle of the terrace. Blinded by the sudden change in light, she called, “Kate?”
I wanted to reach out and pull her to safety. I wanted to somehow warn her to run without giving her away. But it was too late. Because just then Violette turned and saw my sister.
THIRTY-SIX
VIOLETTE CHARGED TOWARD GEORGIA, SEEMINGLY propelled by fury alone.
Momentarily frozen in place, my brain fought what my eyes said was true. It wasn’t supposed to be Violette meeting with the numa: Arthur was the traitor.
Puzzle pieces began fitting together in my mind. Violette’s fascination with Immortal Love and her frustration when she couldn’t get her hands on it. Soon after, revenant dwellings around Paris were ransacked by numa looking for . . . not documents but a book.
Another puzzle piece fell into place: The day after I replaced Gaspard’s book in his library, Papy’s copy—which must be read along with it to find the guérisseur—had been stolen. Someone had put the clues together and sent numa after Gwenha?l. And when they couldn’t find her, they had come after me with questions about the Champion. Now it was clear that Violette had been behind it all.
Why was she interested in the Champion? She had acted like the whole story was a stupid old fairy tale. Why did she even care?
Unless she believed it. It was she who had offered to come to Paris to help Jean-Baptiste. To live in the same house as Vincent. I thought of her unceasing questions about us as a couple and the way we could communicate. About Vincent and his superior talents. About his waning strength. And suddenly it all made sense. For whatever reason, all Violette had ever wanted was the Champion.
It was with my heart in my throat that I emerged from behind the statue and ran in their direction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Arthur leave his hiding place and run toward me. I sped up, still unsure of whose side he was on.
But before I could reach my sister, Violette had shoved her violently backward, and pressed her against the guardrail. “What are you doing here?” she yelled, as Georgia glanced fearfully down the side of the precipice and then quickly straightened herself.
“The question should be what are you doing here, Little Miss Mata Hari?” Georgia’s vehemence made her sound confident, but I could tell she was scared. Violette lunged for her again, but my sister grasped the handrail behind her with both hands and kicked out, landing a blow to Violette’s hip.
As Violette stumbled back a few steps from the shock of the blow, I ran to stand beside Georgia, positioning myself defensively with fists raised.