I Should Die

FORTY-FIVE



I HADN’T SEEN THEM COMING. I KICK MYSELF FOR not being more attentive, but my focus had been on saving Louis and not on protecting my own. I glance around to see how many we are. Ambrose, Charlotte, Vincent, Arthur, and the four revenants in Arthur’s group. With me, that makes nine. Ten if Louis fights with us.

The other groups, another fifteen bardia, are somewhere on the outside. Or at least, they were. Either they have already been defeated or they can still come to our aid. In any case, at the moment we are outnumbered by double. But for some reason, this doesn’t scare me. It just feeds my determination.

Breathing deeply, I draw my sword and bounce on my toes, adrenaline sizzling in my veins. I am ready for this, I think, and run at the first numa I see, attacking before he can get to me. I catch him by surprise and slash at his sword arm before he can lift it. He drops his weapon and crouches down to recover it. As he stands, I lunge. My sword pierces his chest. I drive it deeply in and then quickly pull it out.

He stares at me, eyes bulbous. Grabbing his chest, he coughs up a small stream of blood and then falls forward, his sword clattering to the ground beside him.

I can’t believe I just killed someone. I expect to feel sick like I did at the riverside, but instead I feel exhilarated. It’s us against them: bardia versus numa in a fair fight. Death in this case serves the larger good, I tell myself. But with a pang of realization, I know those words are to comfort the old Kate. New Kate has more numa to kill.

Charlotte is fighting like a madwoman. Geneviève’s body has been pushed to the side of the passageway, out of the melee. Arthur and his four are standing back-to-back with us, fighting the numa coming from the other end of the passageway. Louis stands behind me, weaponless.

Are you with us? I ask him silently.

Nodding, he sweeps his long brown hair behind his ear. I scoop his sword from where Vincent had kicked it aside, and meet his eyes as I hand it to him. With the slightest of smiles, he moves to my side and we advance on two numa. “What in the . . . ,” says the one directly in front of me, gaping when he sees Louis beside me.

Louis’s sword skills aren’t very good, but thanks to the split second of surprise his kindred experience when they register his defection, he’s given the advantage, and together we take out our opponents. As more rush in to take their place, I see that two in Arthur’s group are down. Ambrose smashes away at an opponent with one arm, the other dangling uselessly by his side.

We have formed a small circle facing outward as we fight off numa that number twice our ranks. “What do we do?” I yell to Vincent as I strike at a dusky-skinned numa with a mustache.

He pulls a second sword from his belt. “We do our best,” he answers. “And if we die, we hope that our backup arrives to rescue our bodies.”

I ready myself for my next opponent when, from behind the line of numa, I see the worst possible thing: More fighters approaching. Another ten at least. My mouth fills with a metallic tang. I can taste our defeat. We are lost.

These newcomers are like no numa I have seen before. Their punk hair is bleached and dyed in every possible color, and their skin is covered with tattoos. And as they stride through the arched gateway, the noise of battle is suddenly drowned in a wave of speed metal. One of them actually carries a boom box on his shoulder, which he swings down and places near the entrance of the passageway. He pauses to turn the music up to maximum volume before straightening and positioning himself with his compatriots, hands on waists, across the width of the entrance.

The fighting stalls as everyone looks their way. And then I notice their auras. Not red. Gold. They are bardia! I realize with astonishment. They draw their weapons, and one of them steps forward.

His long hair is black, tipped in red, and stands on end like a lion’s mane. His eyebrow and lip are pierced and his eyes are lined with kohl. He scans the fighters until he spots Charlotte, and one side of his mouth turns up in a grin. “Hey, sis,” he calls.

Charlotte is stunned, her sword hanging by her side and her eyes wide with shock. “NO WAY!” she yells, and then with a whoop of joy she springs back into action, swinging at her enemy with such intensity that she beheads the distracted numa with one blow.

Chaos descends. Charles’s kindred shout some kind of battle yell in German and plunge into the fight, swinging curved sabers and battle-axes.

The numa facing Arthur and his men fight fiercely for another minute, pushing us forward into a tight band of flailing limbs and flashing weapons. But as our defensive circle widens, confusion takes over. A couple of numa run toward the passageway’s exit. They are quickly followed by more, one or two pulling wounded kindred with them, but most thinking only of their own escape.

In five minutes it is over. The blaring music mixes with the moans of our wounded foes, who are quickly dispatched. The owner of the boom box marches over and turns the music down. He shrugs when he sees me staring. “Hey, noise pollution elicits fewer phone calls to the police than screaming and battle sounds. At least, that’s the case in Berlin,” he says.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks, and seeing that my worst wound is a slice on my shoulder, kisses me quickly. We gather to assess the bodies. Ten numa lie dead on the ground. A couple of others were carried out by those who escaped. Nicolas’s body is still here, his fur coat a gory mess, soaked in blood. Three of Arthur’s team are dead. And Ambrose sits propped up against a wall, his arm bleeding profusely as Charles and Charlotte attend to him.

Someone is missing, I realize with alarm. Scanning the passage again, I yell, “Geneviève! Where’s Geneviève?” Our group scrambles around, looking for her. “She was just over here,” I say, pointing to the place I last saw her body.

Charlotte raises her hands to her mouth in horror. “NO!” she screams, and runs to the end of the passageway with Charles close on her heels. They frantically scan the street on the other end, but it is clear that whoever took Geneviève is long gone.

The twins stand together, dark silhouettes under a black arch, their bodies backlit by the illuminated street beyond. As Charlotte begins to cry, her brother wraps his arms around her.