I Should Die

TWO



AS I RAN, IT SEEMED THAT THE RIVER WAS RISING up above its banks and invisible waves were lapping at my ankles. Within seconds I felt as if I were moving underwater, battling a powerful current as I fought to propel myself toward La Maison.

Finally I was typing in the digicode and flying through the gate. My stomach twisted with nausea as I threw the door open and looked wildly around.

Gaspard and Arthur were coming down the staircase peering at the pages of a large book held between them. They stopped when they saw me. Shoving the book at Arthur, the older revenant rushed down the steps and took me by the shoulders. “What is it, Kate?” he asked.

“Vincent,” I gasped, fighting to catch my breath. “He came to me. But now he’s gone.”

“Gone where?” he urged.

“Burned,” I blurted. “He awoke, came to me volant, and said Violette was about to burn him. And then his voice just disappeared.”

Gaspard looped my arm through his, grasping my hand securely. “Get everyone together,” he commanded. Arthur was off like a shot, calling together the few dozen Parisian kindred who had gathered at La Maison to wait for news of Vincent’s whereabouts.

Gaspard led me through the sitting room and into the great hall. “Your hands are like ice, my dear,” he said, seating me in front of the crackling fire and draping a woolen throw around my shoulders.

Even with the radiant heat and warm blanket, I couldn’t stop shaking. The flames made me think of another blaze that was burning a few hours south of us. Flames that had taken Vincent away from me—permanently.

I heard footsteps rushing up behind me and found myself enveloped in a couple hundred pounds of muscle. “Katie-Lou, are you okay?” Ambrose asked, his voice harsh with protectiveness. Leaning away, he searched my face. I shook my head numbly and he wrapped me back in his arms.

I stayed mummified against him for the next few minutes while everyone assembled. Jean-Baptiste perched on a wooden stool before the fire, Gaspard stood by his side, and Arthur positioned himself in front of me on the rug. The rest of the revenants fanned out around us, all eyes focused on me. They fell silent as I cleared my throat to keep my voice from trembling.

I told them that Nicolas had followed me to the Pont des Arts to deliver Violette’s message: She had taken Vincent’s body to her castle in the Loire and would destroy it when she “saw fit.” And he had informed me of the reason the numa trusted Violette in the first place: She had convinced their chief, Lucien, that she held the secret to capturing the Champion’s power and promised to use it against the bardia.

After giving them the message Vincent asked me to relay, I concluded: “And that was all. His voice just cut off like that, in the middle of talking.” Let them believe his message to his kindred were his last words, I thought. His true last words were too personal—not to mention painful—to share.

There was a second of horrified silence before the room erupted. Ambrose dropped me from his bear hug, rose to his feet, and added his voice to the others. “Well, what are we waiting for, people? Let’s go storm the castle!”

Jean-Baptiste shook his head gravely, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd. “It’s too late.” His voice quieted the noisy crowd as effectively as a spoon against a wineglass. “Vincent will be ashes by the time we arrive, his spirit bound to Violette.”

“What does that even mean, being bound?” Ambrose asked, nestling back next to me. As usual, everyone turned to Gaspard for an explanation.

Now that the commotion had died down, he was back to his tic-y nervous self. He fidgeted with his shirt collar and raised a trembling finger, his wild hair forming an inky halo around his head.

“A wandering soul—a revenant soul that has no remaining body—is a rare enough thing,” he began. “When our enemies succeed in killing us, they destroy our body immediately, and our soul disappears with it. They would have no reason to wait until we are volant to destroy us—trapping us as wandering souls—except perhaps in a case of vengeance against a particular revenant.

“But a wandering soul being bound to its captor is so rare that I can think of no examples from recent history. Which is understandable considering the extreme personal sacrifice a numa must make to successfully perform a binding.” Gaspard grimaced.

“Extreme personal sacrifice?” I asked, something catching in my throat. His revolted expression was creeping me out.

He was silent for a few unnerving seconds, choosing his words, and said, “They must incinerate a part of themselves with the body of the one they are binding.”

“What do you mean? Like their hair or fingernails?” My nose wrinkled in disgust.

“No, it must be flesh and bone,” Gaspard said.

Eww, I thought, recoiling from the grotesque image this brought to mind.

“That’s not much of a sacrifice,” Ambrose said from next to me. “Whatever Violette lops off, it’s just going to grow back next time she’s dormant.”

The older revenant shook his head. “Besides the pain involved in the ‘lopping,’ as you put it, that is the sacrifice: The body part of the numa burned with the revenant corpse disappears forever. In the case of a binding, there is no regeneration.”

I leaned closer to Ambrose, fighting the sickened numbness that spread through me. Violette was going to sever a part of her own body in order to bind Vincent’s spirit? I knew she had killed him to get his powers. But permanently mutilating herself? Centuries of serving a fate she didn’t choose seemed to have cost the ancient revenant her sanity.

“I’ll ask him for you,” said Ambrose under his breath, and then speaking up said, “Jules wants to know if being bound to Violette means Vincent must obey her.”

I hadn’t been aware that Jules was with us until then, but knowing he was near, I felt comforted. “If the only reason Violette needs Vincent’s spirit is for transfer of the Champion’s power,” Gaspard responded, “we can hope she will release him once she achieves her goal. But even if she chooses to keep him bound, a wandering soul cannot be forced to act against its will.”

Arthur spoke up. “I beg to disagree,” he said apologetically. “There are historical examples of coercion.”

“For example?” Jean-Baptiste insisted.

“There is the account from our Italian kindred that dates back to the Renaissance,” Arthur stated. “A numa chief killed a newly formed bardia and bound her volant spirit to him by incinerating his left hand with her corpse. He manipulated her into serving his will by threatening to kill her still-living human family, and became extremely powerful through the strength of his spirit-slave.”

“Then it’s a good thing that Vin doesn’t have any human family left,” said Ambrose with a note of triumph. “No mortal bargaining chips for our Evil Empress to use against . . .” Realizing what he was saying, he stopped talking and lowered his face to his hands.

He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t have to. Because everyone else was.