I Should Die

TEN



I AWOKE THINKING, DAY TWO. VINCENT’S SECOND day as a disembodied spirit, and we were no closer to freeing him from Violette.

Ugh. Violette. Just her name made me sick, a word evoking a tiny, delicate purple flower. Change a few letters, though, and you had “Violent.” “Violate.” The desire for revenge flared inside me. I wanted to hurt her. To repay her for the betrayal and murder she had inflicted on the bardia and on me.

I swallowed the lump of bitterness in my throat and tasted bile. All my life, I had never really hated anyone. Okay, I had hated my parents’ killer—a drunk driver—but she had been an abstract, anonymous person who I never met. Now my hatred had a face. A name. And I felt its venom burning in my veins.

It actually felt good. Because when I focused on revenge, it made me forget my despair. The horrifying emptiness and sorrow I had been feeling—the knowledge that I would never touch Vincent’s hand, face, mouth again, never hear his low voice calling me his pet names—was temporarily submerged by the loathing I felt for the person who had done this to him.

Stop, I commanded myself. Giving in to my hatred wasn’t going to do anything for Vincent, only for me. And even if I did manage to pay Violette back, I would still be left with my loss. I had to think beyond my rage.

Yesterday, in Jeanne’s room, I had resolved to find a solution. There had to be something I could do. Some kind of secret I could uncover to free Vincent. Maybe even to bring him back. My thoughts raced with possibilities. There could be hope for him. For us!

But as quickly as the thought occurred to me, a come-to-your-senses-Kate reality check snatched away my optimism. Revenants could regenerate injured or severed body parts, but not a whole body. And if there was any way they could, Vincent’s kindred would already know about it.

Maybe not, I told myself. Maybe Bran knew something the bardia didn’t. At the very least, there had to be a way to free Vincent from his bond to Violette. I was going to try. That resolution propelled me out of bed and into my clothes, and when I looked at my phone and saw Jules’s text, I was ready.



I am once again embodied, and able to give you an update. Unfortunately the update is that there is no news. JB thinks it’s best if you and G spend the day here. I’m off to hunt for Vincent. Your escorts are waiting downstairs.



I tapped on Georgia’s door. “Entrez,” she called. To my surprise, my sister was awake, dressed, and fully made up. The terrible swelling on her face had gone down, and with the expert job she had done with concealer, all you could see was a few mottled yellow marks along her cheek and jawline.

I nodded at her clock. “Eight a.m. Saturday. Any other day I would think you had just gotten home from your night out. But since I witnessed you in your pajamas last night . . .”

“We’re going to La Morgue, right?” she asked. Peering into her dresser mirror, she sprayed some mousse on her fingers and ran them through her hair.

“La Morgue?” I asked.

“I mean La Maison, of course,” she said with a wry smile. “Slip of the tongue. All those dead guys, you know.”

I shook my head, bemused. “Yes, actually. Jules texted that JB thought we should spend the day there.”

“Hmm. I kind of figured he would,” she said, applying one last swipe of blusher and turning to me. “So . . . let’s go?”

Mamie was waiting in the kitchen. She raised an eyebrow when she saw us come to the table fully dressed. “I take it you have heard of today’s invitation to ‘La Maison,’ as you call it.” She set the press coffeemaker on the table and, pouring herself a cup, sat down.

“Your Papy went early to the gallery, and Monsieur Grimod just phoned. We both agree it’s best if you girls spend the day in the protection of his house—while Violette is on the loose in Paris, of course,” she said.

Her voice was calm, but she was clutching her tiny espresso cup so tightly I was surprised the handle didn’t pop off. She knew she was doing the right thing but didn’t like it one bit. I gave her a little hug and tossed back a glass of grapefruit juice while Georgia gulped down some black coffee. “Can we take these with us?” I asked, holding up a croissant.

“Of course. I’ll walk you girls downstairs,” Mamie said, standing and smoothing her skirt briskly before shooing us toward the door.

“Are you going to be okay here by yourself?” I asked. Her exaggerated show of calmness was freaking me out.

“Monsieur Grimod invited me as well, but I would prefer to stay here and work rather than sit around someone else’s house all day. He promised to have his people watch our building, just as he has for your Papy’s gallery. So don’t worry about us,” she said.

Ambrose and Arthur were waiting outside our door. “Bonjour, Madame Mercier,” they called, and she smiled graciously at them. “What polite boys,” she said approvingly, and stood at the door watching us until we turned a corner and I lost sight of her.

Arthur offered Georgia his arm, but she pretended she didn’t notice, pointing at a movie poster on the side of the news kiosk and chatting with him about the latest Hollywood blockbusters. Ambrose chuckled and winked at me, “Your sister’s driving the poor guy crazy.” He bit into the croissant that Georgia had given him, devouring half the pastry in one bite.

“Yeah, that’s her forte,” I commented drily. “So—update. I mean, Jules gave me a no-news update, but give me details of the non-news.” I nibbled the end of my own flaky croissant and licked the crumbs off my lips.

“We’ve been out all night, combing Paris for Violette and company. No luck,” he said, looking bothered. “It’s like she just disappeared. Jules is still on it, though, along with Charlotte, Geneviève, and the entirety of Paris’s revenants.”

“Besides you and Arthur,” I pointed out.

“And Franck, volant.” He gestured to the air above us. “Yeah, the three of us were tagged to watch you and defend La Maison against any ‘surprise attack.’” He accented these last two words with finger quotes, obviously annoyed to be left out of the action.

“Well, once we get Georgia to La Maison, I can go with you to join the hunt. I’m sure that with all of the security you guys have, Arthur can hold down the fort.”

Ambrose looked doubtful. “Yeah, you might want to ask Gaspard about that,” he responded, clearly thinking it was a bad idea.

“So Gaspard isn’t out with the search parties?” I asked.

“No. He and JB are questioning Bizarro Man,” he replied. “Trying to find a way to detach Vincent from Violette, and pry any other guérisseur secrets out of him.”

So, JB and Gaspard were thinking along the same lines as I: Bran might know something that could help Vincent. A little balloon of hope inflated in my chest. I felt like running the rest of the way to La Maison, but Arthur and Ambrose acted like we had all the time in the world.

We hadn’t walked two blocks when Arthur stopped suddenly and glanced behind us. “Numa,” he said. “Franck says that there were two in the park across from the Mercier home. He didn’t spot them until they started following us.”

“Don’t look back,” Ambrose said, as I did just that. A pair of young guys in hoodies, looking totally normal except for the colorless numa aura encircling them, were turning out of the park and onto the rue du Bac. They weren’t even trying to hide the fact that they were trailing us, and they met my gaze unwaveringly.

“Flight or fight?” Ambrose asked Arthur, smiling widely as he patted the leather sheath strapped to his waist under his long coat.

An elderly woman supported on the arm of a uniformed home-care worker hobbled slowly past us toward the numa. Arthur raised one eyebrow. “With human witnesses? You’re not really asking me that question,” he responded. “Either we walk faster to avoid a confrontation, or we wait to find out what they want.”

Arthur and Ambrose turned and pulled together, creating a defensive wall in front of me and Georgia. Just as quickly, the numa turned and crossed the street to walk down a tiny side alley, acting like they had never seen us. But before they were out of sight, one of them turned and, smirking, saluted us.

“Oh-kaaay,” Ambrose drawled, staring after the numa in confusion.

“That was a warning,” Arthur said. “They only wanted us to know they were there. Let’s go.” He held his arm out again, and this time Georgia quickly took it. Ambrose wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder, and we walked at a hurried pace to La Maison.

Gaspard met us at the front door. “Franck came ahead to inform us of your visiting party,” he said, bustling us all inside. “Who knows what game those numa were playing? We’ve had no word from—or sign of—their leader.”

We walked into the front hallway and Ambrose lurked just inside the door, arms crossed and a scowl on his face, showing his displeasure at being excluded from the action. I knew what he was feeling; I felt the same.

“Gaspard,” I said, taking the older revenant aside, “have you discovered anything from Bran that will help Vincent?”

“Unfortunately, no, Kate. But we aren’t done discussing the matter.”

I felt my little balloon of hope pop and wither. But I wasn’t done trying. “I know you promised my grandparents to protect us,” I continued. “But I think the best way of doing that is letting me go with Ambrose to join the hunt teams. Two more people could really help the search.”

Gaspard began shaking his head, but I continued. “You know I can defend myself now. I’ll suit up just in case, though, and promise to stay out of the action if there is any.”

“If Kate’s going, I’m going, too. I’m sure I can fight just as well as she can,” Georgia piped up.

Ambrose stared at her bug-eyed for a minute and then started laughing so hard that he was wiping away tears.

A flush of red crept from my sister’s neck up her face. “What?” she exclaimed.

“Sorry, but that’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” he gasped, playfully punching Georgia on the shoulder. “You . . . fighting? Girl, you crack me up.”

“In fact, I was going to ask Gaspard today if he would start training me,” she said, stubbornly folding her arms across her chest.

That sent Ambrose into another fit of giggles. Seeing how mad he was making my sister, he covered his mouth and turned away.

“I would be honored to train you, my dear,” replied Gaspard. “But today is not the day to start. I have more pressing matters to attend to, and Kate must actually come with me.” He glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. “Bran has been asking for you in particular, my dear. You seem to be a comfort to him. Since you met his mother, he sees you as a kind of living bond with her.”

Arthur spoke up. “If Georgia would accept a lesser master for her first lesson, I would be pleased to instruct her in fight training.”

“A very good idea,” replied Gaspard, and, turning, he started his way up the staircase toward the library. I began to follow him, but paused as I heard Ambrose cackle, “Now this is something I have got to see.” He clapped Georgia across the shoulders and shook her playfully. “Mind if I come watch?”

“Has this all been decided without my consent?” Georgia said frostily. “I asked for Gaspard. He’s the fight master.”

A light glimmered in Arthur’s eye, and lowering himself to one knee in front of Georgia, he took her hands in his. “Ma chère mademoiselle, may I have the sincere pleasure of being the one you choose to introduce you to the art of combat? I would consider it the greatest honor.”

She glanced at where I stood watching halfway up the staircase, lifting her eyebrows as if to ask my opinion. I shrugged, stifling a laugh.

Returning her gaze to the ancient revenant on his knee in front of her, Georgia stared doubtfully at Arthur for a moment, and then smiled. “Well, crap. When you put it like that, how can I refuse?” And she lifted him up from his kneeling position and placed her hand lightly on his arm.

“Man, have you got the moves!” Ambrose murmured to Arthur as he followed them down the hall toward the armory.