I Should Die

THIRTY-EIGHT



A MOMENT LATER, I FEEL ANOTHER PRESENCE IN the room.

Kate, it says. I am used to hearing a voice inside my head, but for the first time it’s not Vincent’s. I scan the room, searching for the source of the voice, but see nothing.

“Who is that?” I ask in a freaked-out whisper.

It’s Gaspard, says the voice. And apparently you don’t have to speak out loud. I heard your words before you spoke them. How terribly convenient.

I can’t help smiling. He sounds the same in my head as in real life. What are you doing here? I thought you and JB left Paris.

We did. But Jean-Baptiste saw your aura all of the way from Normandy, and insisted on coming back. Everyone’s been searching for you. Jean-Baptiste followed your light and led them all here. I must say, my dear, you look absolutely ghastly. Dried blood caked all over. You’re practically . . . zombiesque.

I ignore his remarks on my appearance. How are my grandparents? And Vincent?

They’re all fine. Ambrose and Charlotte got your grandparents safely out of the Crillon and then went back in and rescued Vincent.

I breathe a sigh of relief. So where are we?

The houseboat you are imprisoned within is just outside Paris, moving westward, says Gaspard. The voice disappears for a moment, and then is back. How strong are you?

I don’t know, I admit. How long have I been here?

Violette killed you almost four days ago, Gaspard says. I can’t stay for long. She and her men will sense that I am here. Vincent doesn’t want to try a rescue attempt until he knows you’re strong enough to fight on your own. There’s no way to creep up on a boat in the middle of the river, but we don’t want to give Violette the time she needs to destroy you.

His voice disappears again for a good few minutes, and then he is back. Vincent says, and I quote, “Be strong, mon ange.” He says you should do your best to get free, but stay where you are and pretend you are still bound. I will come back in a few hours to check on you.

Gaspard? I say.

Yes.

I’m a revenant. I realize it’s the understatement of the century, but somehow saying it out loud makes me feel better.

I know. It seems that you’re actually a bit more than a revenant, dear Kate.

I inhale sharply. How do you know?

Well, firstly, your aura is like nothing Jean-Baptiste has ever seen before. It’s like a homing beacon for his Seer capabilities. And then, once confronted, Bran confessed. He’s known this whole time, but was bound by his people’s rules not to pronounce you Champion before you actually became such.

My hunch was right. Bran had known. I can’t decide whether I am grateful or upset with him for not letting me know. But then again . . . maybe he had tried with all of his little hints. In the only way he could “legally” let me know. I had just been blind to it.

Just be careful, Kate, Gaspard continues. I’ll be back to check on you.

So. My state—both revenant and Champion—is now common knowledge among the bardia. They all know. Vincent knows. I’m not sure how I feel about that. There is a pang in my heart as I wonder if this will change the way he sees me now. He told me more than once that he would never wish the revenant destiny for me.

Well, none of that will matter if I can’t get out of here. My body will be ashes and my spirit absorbed into Violette, strengthening her. Making her unstoppable. Just the thought of being a part of her sets me into action. I work on my bonds, moving my hands back and forth and picking at the ropes. All I manage is rope burn and more bleeding. I feel like screaming, but now that I’m in contact with the others, I don’t want to draw more attention to myself than is necessary. I lie back on the bed and wish I could sleep.

After what seems like forever, Louis is back with another tray. This time he leaves the door open behind him. Lifting my head to help me drink, he places slices of fruit and nuts in my mouth and waits for me to chew and swallow.

I sense that he hates this guard work. There’s something about the way his jaw clenches when I occasionally wince in pain. And the way his eyes dart to my face every few seconds to gauge my reactions. I’ve been feeling an emotion from him that I finally realize could be sympathy. I have a sneaking suspicion that he would rather be anywhere besides here, helping me grow stronger so I can be destroyed.

I take a chance that my hunch is right. “Louis, please help me get out of here,” I whisper.

He acts like he doesn’t hear me and pops a hazelnut into my mouth. I chew and swallow and wonder if there is a trick to this persuasiveness thing. Focusing on what I want from him, I picture him getting up, closing the door, and then untying me. I concentrate all of my energy into that little film reel in my head, watching him go through the motions I want time after time. I feel another nut against my lips, and my eyes pop open to see his gaze flicker quickly away from me as I take the food from his fingers.

He stands and walks toward the door. I am crushed by disappointment. He is my one chance: Unless I get superstrong superfast, there is no way I’m getting out of here on my own. As I watch him leave, I see something that I haven’t noticed before. Within his bright red aura something gleams, like tiny filaments of gold. I blink a few times, wondering if lying on my back for so long is giving me eyestrain, but when I look again, the golden glint is still there.

As if he feels me watching him, Louis pauses. And then he turns and comes back. Carefully avoiding my gaze, he leans under the bed and yanks on one of the cords. It bites into my arm as the rope twists against my skin. I am petrified with alarm, wondering what he is doing.

Without looking back, he takes out a single key and leaves it on the windowsill before leaving the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

What just happened here? I ask myself. I lift my head to look down at my hands. He has turned the cord around leaving the knot right next to my fingers. I lay my head back down and close my eyes in relief. Then, summoning all of my strength, I prop myself up and begin working the knot with my fingernails.

It’s a simple knot, but it has been tied so tightly that I have to actually unravel some of the cord using my thumbnail as a knife. I hear footsteps approach the door and freeze, lying back down so that if someone peeks in they might not see anything amiss. The footsteps walk away, and I throw myself into the task harder than before, ripping the skin on my thumbs to loosen the cord. Finally I feel the knot release and I tear the cord free.

There are three more cords holding me down: across my shoulders, upper legs, and feet. I work these for the next few minutes, each being easier than the last now that I have more mobility, and finally I am free.

I consider waiting for Gaspard, but it feels like hours since he left. I could drape the ropes back around me, pretend to be tied up in case Violette returns. But if it comes to fighting her, I’m not sure I can win. I have no way to judge my strength.

Though I don’t feel up to a fight, I do feel desperate enough to move my limbs. Maybe even to attempt an escape. Curious, I touch my chest, pulling my shirt apart where Violette’s knife sliced it. I am covered in a thick layer of dried blood, so it is hard to see the knife wound. I run my fingers over my breastbone, where the blade entered. It is smooth. There is no wound. Not even a scar. I shiver and goose bumps raise on my forearms.

If I had any remaining doubts about my mortality, they are now gone. I am undeniably supernatural.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there, feeling the blood rush into my thighs. The pins and needles return with full force. I try to stand, but slump immediately to a sitting position until finally I can feel my toes. I stay like that for another moment before trying to stand again. Then I limp painfully across the room to the window.

Picking up Louis’s key, I slip it into the lock. It fits, and I turn the handle carefully, teeth clenched, trying my best to avoid making noise. I push the window open slowly—an inch at a time—and after nothing happens, dare to stick my head out and look down. There is a six-foot drop to the main deck. No one is in sight.

I shake out my arms and legs, trying to get my circulation going before easing a still half-limp leg through the window and following it with the other. I hang over the side with my elbows and then ease myself down until I’m holding the window ledge with my fingertips and drop silently to the deck.

Or at least, that’s what I attempt. My blood-encrusted Converse make a kind of crunching sound as they hit the wood, and the impact—one I could normally spring back up from—has me crouching, unable to straighten myself because my long-unused leg muscles have seized up.

I’m stuck there for a full three seconds, my heart beating like a drum, panicky that Violette will appear in front of me before I can get safely into the water. Be calm and think, I urge myself, and scan the space around me for anything that can be used as a weapon.

Just in time. As I push myself, with effort, into a standing position, I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I look around to see one of the numa guards from the hotel scowling down at me.