I Should Die

FORTY-TWO



“I HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, BUT I DON’T agree,” Charlotte says.

Vincent cuts in. “According to our sources, dozens of numa have arrived in Paris over the last twenty-four hours. We have no idea where they’re assembling. Our raids on Jean-Baptiste’s rental properties two days ago succeeded in taking out eight numa. But that small victory cost us, since they immediately evacuated his other apartments. Now we have no idea where to find them. So if anyone has a productive suggestion”—he eyes Charlotte, who holds her hands up in surrender—“please feel free to voice it.”

I can’t focus. I have been feeling progressively stronger as the hours pass, and the last thing my body wants to do right now is sit through a long meeting. I’m actually kind of craving a jog around the neighborhood. Which is pretty strange for me.

My eyes stray to the library’s window while Vincent and the others pore over a map of Paris spread across a table. I can’t help strategize anyway. I don’t know anything about Paris’s numa or where they’ve been spotted. After trying to be interested for a half hour, my brain gives up and I let my thoughts wander.

I notice Ambrose sitting to one side, obviously as distracted as me. But his gaze isn’t out the window. Geneviève sits just across the table from us, as alluring as the day I first saw her with Vincent in La Palette: long platinum blond hair, eyes so light they are almost gray.

I look back at Ambrose and follow his line of sight back to the object of his attention: not Geneviève but Charlotte, with her long wheat-blond hair and rosebud cheeks. She bites her lip as she draws a line on the map from one mark to another. And I see him flinch as she glances up at him and then, with equal attention, at each person around the table as she explains the strategy.

I walk over to sit next to him. “You look kind of distracted, Ambrose,” I whisper.

“Yeah, well, I’m not much into planning. I’m mainly here for the muscle,” he responds, managing to rip his gaze away from Charlotte. He flexes a bicep and winks. “They just use me for my body.”

I laugh and want to hug him, but control myself. “So, it’s nice having Geneviève and Charlotte back, isn’t it?”

Ambrose’s eyes shoot back to Charlotte and he nods. “She’s changed, hasn’t she? Charlotte, I mean.”

“Um, besides growing her hair long she doesn’t seem to have changed much to me,” I say, trying not to smile. “Why?”

“It’s just that she seems so . . . in charge. I mean, she’s always had her act together, but ever since she’s been back she’s seemed more confident or something. And now that she’s Vincent’s second . . . I guess I’ve always thought of her as a little sister. You know, the huggable kind you want to take care of. But now that I see her working with him and taking control . . . I mean . . . the girl is fierce.”

Ambrose’s face shines with respect and a sort of curious awe, and I have to restrain myself from jumping up and cheering for the fact that it has finally happened. He has finally noticed what was right under his nose. The question is—does she still feel the same for him?

I lean my head on his shoulder and gaze around the room, feeling a deep sense of joy in knowing my fate is irrevocably tied to these people I love. Once again my attention is caught by a light outside the window. “So is there some kind of neighborhood party or French festival going on?” I ask Ambrose.

His brow creases. “No,” he says. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

“It’s just those red lights that I keep seeing. Like that one right there.” I gesture toward the window.

“I don’t see any lights,” he says, squinting out the glass.

“See, there it is again. There are two.”

He looks skeptical. “Uh, nope.”

“Oh, come on, Ambrose. It’s like two red lasers pointing straight up into the sky, just at the end of the block. Don’t tell me you can’t see them.”

Ambrose takes my hand and leads me to the window. “Just where do you see them?”

“Right there,” I say, pointing to the two very obvious lights. “In fact they’re a lot bigger than lasers. They’re like flame-colored columns . . . ,” I say, my words faltering as I have a flashback to the riverside. The lights are the same color as those I saw projecting from the two numa who were chasing me. The light I saw when they were a little ways away that disappeared when they got closer.

Something clicks. Heightened powers of perception. Can I see something the others can’t? “You don’t see it?” I ask Ambrose once more.

He scans the darkened vista outside the window and then looks at me, worried.

“I think I’ve figured out how we can find the numa,” I call toward the table, and everyone turns my way.



Ten minutes later, the entire group is outside on the street facing two of Violette’s sentries. Charlotte steps in front of them, her hand on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her coat. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

One of the numa dares respond. “Keeping watch,” he says simply, his eyes narrowing as he spots Ambrose standing behind Charlotte scowling and looking twice his already-imposing size.

“Where is your leader now?” asks Vincent.

“Even if I knew, why would I tell you?” the numa responds.

“Because we might spare your pitiful afterlives and let you go,” growls Ambrose.

“No, you won’t,” the numa says defiantly, and he and his companion swiftly draw their swords.

Ambrose leaps in front of Charlotte. “You’re right. I won’t,” he says, and rams his sword forcefully through the numa’s chest. A second passes before he lets the limp form drop to the ground.

The other numa is down almost as quickly, and Vincent wipes his sword on the man’s coat before returning it to its scabbard. “Let’s get them off the street,” he says.

I shudder as Ambrose swings one of the bodies over his shoulder. Two bardia accompanying us pick up the other corpse between them and head toward La Maison.

The danger gone, I drop back and follow them. But something feels wrong to me. It’s not like my kindred killed the numa without provocation. They were armed and wanted to fight. But there is still an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. It isn’t pity—it’s something else. Unable to pinpoint my emotion, I focus on Charlotte, who walks up behind Ambrose.

“You know, there is such a thing as holding people for questioning,” she says crisply.

“Yeah, see, I kind of forget that in the heat of the moment,” he replies, flashing her an apologetic smile. She shakes her head impatiently and runs to catch up with Vincent, who is opening the gates.

Ambrose meets my eyes. “Like I said, she is fierce!” he says, shaking his head in awe.