Until I Die

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!”

“Oh, Charlotte. You must be so relieved.”

“I can’t even tell you. I was practically giddy when he told me he was safe, and then I started yelling at him for not calling before. But we’re okay now.”

“I’m so glad to hear that. See! All those names you were calling him were … well, they were still mostly true.”

Charlotte laughed; then her voice became serious. “Actually, Kate, the guys he’s staying with got a tip that big things are going down with the numa in Paris. He said he wasn’t ready to talk to the others yet, and asked me to warn JB.”

“Well, he’s just in time. Did you hear about what happened to Geneviève’s house?”

“Yeah. Jean-Baptiste called this morning to ask if there was anything in her house that a numa could be after,” Charlotte affirmed.

“The same thing just happened in Jules’s studio a couple hours ago.”

She gasped. “Oh, Kate. I wish I could come back. There’s no reason for me to stay here now that I know that Charles isn’t going to be showing up on the doorstep at any moment.”

“Then why don’t you?” I asked, glancing at Vincent, who was sitting silently beside me in the car.

“It’s Geneviève. She doesn’t want to go back to Paris. And I can tell that being here, far away from her memories of her life with Philippe, is helping her. I can’t just ditch her, and I don’t want to suggest something that’s going to set her back. But with everything going on there, do you think Jean-Baptiste needs me?”

“I don’t know, Charlotte. It seems like pure chaos here for the moment. If Geneviève needs you there, it might be better for both of you if you stay.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’ll bring it up with Jean-Baptiste anyway just to be sure. But Kate?”

“Yes?”

“I’m so glad Charles is safe.”

“I know, Charlotte. Me too. It’s good that he’s with other revenants,” I said. And not with numa, I thought, knowing that Charlotte had feared the same thing.



Once again, we were assembled around the massive hearth in the great hall. Jean-Baptiste explained what they had found at Geneviève’s and Jules’s, which was basically nothing. However, it was obvious from the items that had been disturbed that the object of the break-ins was some sort of document. But neither Geneviève nor Jules could imagine anything the numa would want to steal from them.

“I have racked my brain,” said Jean-Baptiste, placing two fingers on his brow for emphasis, “and can’t think of one thing among our paperwork that would be of any interest to our enemies.”

“How about banking information?” Violette asked. “Maybe they’re looking for account numbers or something.”

“Well, that’s an idea,” said Jules. “But we’re paperless now—all our banking is online. And even if the numa weren’t already rich off all of their underworld dealings, I doubt our bank accounts would be their first target if they needed some extra cash.”

Violette frowned.

“May I?” Gaspard asked. He was so overly polite that he never cut into a conversation without asking permission first. Jean-Baptiste nodded at him. “Although I agree that we must focus on discovering what they might be after, we should not rule out the fact that this might merely be a diversion. They may be attempting to draw our attention away from some larger plan they are carrying out.”

I spoke up. “Charlotte mentioned something on the phone when we were on our way here.” Everyone turned toward me. “Charles called her. He’s in Berlin, staying with a group of revenants. He phoned to warn her that they had heard rumors that something big was happening with the Paris numa.”

“Yes, she called me too—” Gaspard began, but was cut off by Violette.

“Why didn’t I hear anything about this?” she exclaimed, her face pink with emotion, signaling that she was officially pissed off.

“I—I was going to consult with you later, Violette,” Gaspard stuttered. “But Charlotte just phoned me last night, and with the break-ins this morning, there was so much going on.”

Violette pressed her temples in exasperation. “How am I supposed to be helping out if people withhold such important information from me?”

Everyone stared at her. Ambrose rolled his eyes toward me and mouthed the words, Drama. Queen.

She glanced around at us, as if she had just noticed we were all there, and then looked back at Gaspard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been trying so hard. Digging wherever I could, and hitting a brick wall everywhere I turn … when there’s information sitting right in front of us.” She stood and walked to Gaspard, placing a dainty hand on his arm and leading him away from the group.

“Now what did Charlotte say, exactly?” she quizzed him as they left the room.

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.