I Should Die

FORTY-SEVEN



JEANNE IS WAITING WHEN WE GET BACK TO LA Maison. “Is everyone okay?” she asks as we walk through the door.

“What are you doing here? It’s three a.m.” Vincent places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks at him, abashed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admits. “Something is happening. I can feel it. And I’ve been with you lot long enough to know I can trust my intuition. I’ve got some bread in the oven and have put on a stew. Now, did anyone get hurt?” she asks, hiding her emotion behind practicality.

“Ambrose will need medical attention,” Vincent says. And then in a lower voice admits, “Geneviève was killed and taken.”

Jeanne’s hands fly to her mouth. “No,” she gasps, tears springing to her eyes.

Vincent nods grimly, suddenly looking tired. We are distracted by the ambulance pulling in through the gates. Jeanne dabs her eyes and moves purposefully toward the vehicle. Charlotte hops out of the passenger seat and opens the door to the back for Ambrose and Charles to get out.

“I don’t care if they are in body bags,” Ambrose is saying. “That’s the last time I ride in the back of an ambulance with a half-dozen corpses.” He shudders and supports his wounded arm as he steps down to the ground. “I don’t mind killing them, but I don’t feel like cozying up with them once the deed is done.”

Charles jumps down and Jeanne stares curiously at him for a moment before a light goes on in her eyes. She runs down the steps and flings herself on him. “Mon petit Charles, you’re back!” she coos, standing on her tiptoes to energetically kiss his cheeks. “I am so happy to see you.”

“Ditto,” Charles says with a broad smile.

“Just look at you,” she says, leaning back and inspecting him in all of his tattooed and punk-haired glory. “You know, I’d never believe I would actually say this, but that look really suits you. Of course, if I hadn’t cared for you longer than I have my own son, you’d scare my pants off. But you’ll always be mon petit Charles à moi.” She hugs him once again and then turns to Ambrose.

“How bad is it, dear?” she asks.

“Bad enough to need a doctor,” Charlotte responds, unclipping the weapons from Ambrose’s belt and shoulder strap. She hands a battle-axe to Charles and they head down to stow everything in the armory.

“I just need a few stitches,” Ambrose says.

“Show,” Jeanne commands, and he holds his jacket open. Cringing, she orders, “You go straight to your room. I’ll phone Docteur Dassonville and then come clean you up. Everyone else,” she calls to the rapidly filling foyer, “weapons go downstairs in the armory. There’s a first aid station there if anyone else needs it. Otherwise, help yourself to the food in the kitchen.”

Amid the mass confusion a cell phone rings. Louis pulls a phone out of his pocket and looks at the number on the screen. His face turns ashen.

“Who is it?” Arthur asks.

“Her,” he says, pressing a key to send the call to voice mail.

A second later Vincent’s phone rings. He clicks speakerphone and holds it up for everyone to hear. “Oui,” he says.

“You’ve killed my second and kidnapped my consort,” comes Violette’s furious voice.

“I plead guilty to one count, but as for the other, Louis came with us of his own free will,” responds Vincent. Louis shudders and crosses his arms protectively around his chest.

“That is a lie,” Violette spits. “Let me talk to your pitiful excuse for a Champion.”

“I’m here,” I say.

“I will give you one hour to meet me at the Arènes de Lutèce. Bring me my consort and I will give you Geneviève’s body in exchange.”

“Why the arena?” I ask. “Why not come here?”

“Not enough open space,” she replies. “I will not tolerate any trickery. Meet me in the center of the arena. One hour. Our transaction will be finished by sunup.” There is a click, and then a static silence.

“It’s a trap,” Arthur says.

“Of course it’s a trap,” Vincent concedes. “Violette will bring her men. And she knows Kate would never come alone.” He turns his gaze on me, “She wants another chance at you, Kate.”

“What should we do?” asks Charlotte.

“We can’t go. We’ll all be killed,” Arthur says.

“But we have to get Geneviève’s body back,” argues Charlotte.

“No, actually, you don’t,” comes a voice from above us. Bran makes his way down the stairway, gripping the marble banister as he descends. “At least it’s not what Geneviève would want,” he says.

“How do you know that?” asks Charlotte, aghast.

Bran remains silent until he finally stands among us. “Because she told me so,” he says simply.

“What do you mean, she told you so?” Vincent asks.

“Geneviève came to me when we returned from New York,” Bran explains. “She said you had explained to her about how we flame-fingers work. And she asked if there was any way for me to disperse her spirit while she was dormant.”

“Why would she do that?” I ask.

“She told me that without her husband she didn’t want to exist. That all she desired was to go to whatever afterlife he has passed on to. She felt she had done enough in her time as a revenant.”

“But . . . ,” Charlotte begins.

“She was very determined to have her way,” Bran says. “I had not yet decided what to do, but now the decision seems to have been made for us. And I would advise that we let her go.”

Everyone is silent, processing Bran’s story.

“We still need to get her body back in order to burn it,” says Vincent finally. “That is, if this isn’t just a ruse and Violette actually brings the body with her. In any case, Kate will not be going.”

“What do you mean, not going?” I exclaim.

“I’m not saying that to protect you, Kate. I’m saying it to protect us. Violette’s goal has not changed. She wants to trap you in order to get the Champion’s power. As things stand now, she could defeat us even without that extra strength. Her men at least double our numbers. But for her, the desire for power trumps common sense. She wants you and will risk an on-the-spot, unorganized battle in order to get you. You can’t go.”

I shake my head, furious. “You can’t make that decision for me,” I say.

“Could everyone please leave us?” Vincent asks tersely. He is determined to have his way. Too bad I am too.

The room empties until it is only me and Vincent and Charlotte standing in the dappled light of the crystal chandelier.

“If we are making a tactical decision, I need to be here,” Charlotte explains apologetically.

We stand in a solemn triangle, no longer lovers and friends. Our feelings don’t matter anymore. We must be rational; a decision needs to be made—one that will affect everyone we know.

“I am one of you now,” I begin. “And I will not hide here to protect myself. I became the Champion for a reason. And whatever the prophecy actually means—whether I am to lead the bardia against the numa to my peril or to a victory that I actually survive—I know I am supposed to do this. I have to face Violette. I feel it here,” I say, and place my hand on my chest, inadvertently pressing the signum into my skin. I look into sad blue eyes. “Vincent, I have never felt more certain about anything.”

He continues to meet my gaze, as if waiting for me to change my mind. And then suddenly his shoulders slump and his head drops. He shuts his eyes and touches his fingers to his forehead.

“You win,” he murmurs, not looking at me. And then, all business, he says, “Charlotte, call everyone together. Tell them to phone the kindred they contacted earlier this evening. Everyone will assemble, fully armed, at the northeast corner of the park surrounding the arena.” Charlotte nods and goes to inform the others.

Vincent and I are left alone in the foyer. He looks at me like I’m a stranger. As if he is seeing me for the very first time. The three feet between us feels like a mile. “This could be it, Kate. It could be the end of all of us. It could very likely be the end of you.”

“I know,” I say, raising my chin.

He is quiet. “My first feeling when I heard you had animated was joy,” he says finally. “I thought that this was the answer to all of our problems. That we could be together forever. Even though I ached that you would be forced to follow such a difficult path, I thought that together we could make it something good and beautiful.”

“Vincent, I . . . ,” I begin, but he holds a hand up, asking me to let him finish.

“Then Bran told us you were the Champion. And I lost that joy. Because I knew you would never be allowed to be yourself again. You would always carry a great responsibility—the survival of our kindred as well as the protection of the city. The country. That is . . . you would carry that responsibility until the day you were called into action against the numa. And I knew that when that day came, the victory you led us to might prove a tragedy for you. For me and for your family. You can so easily be destroyed. You are the target.”

I take a deep breath, knowing he is right. “My grandparents and sister know what a revenant is and the dangers that go with it. They have had a couple of days to accept that.” I pause. “It’s as if my country were at war and I was going to defend it in battle. Mamie and Papy wouldn’t want me to be a soldier. But now that I am one, they will understand any sacrifice I make.”

“And me?” Vincent asks. “Does what I feel count for anything? The girl I love is offering herself up like . . .” He sighs, looking miserable as he searches for words. “Like a virgin to the dragon.”

“No, the girl you love isn’t offering herself to the dragon. This virgin”—a smile forms on my lips as I say the word—“is heading out to kick some dragon ass, not to swoon and perish.”

Vincent throws himself on me, enveloping me in his arms. “No self-sacrifice,” he breathes into my hair. “You won’t die for us.”

“Not on purpose,” I promise. “Plus, Vincent, I’m not going anywhere without you. If we go down, we’re going down together.” I lean back and attempt a smile.

His eyes are red and glassy. “Together,” he agrees, and leans down to kiss me.



“You aren’t going anywhere,” Vincent says, as Ambrose struggles to get up off the bed.

“I have one good arm,” Ambrose retorts, and then grunts in pain as Charlotte pushes him back down.

“See? You can barely move,” she says. “You’ll only be a liability.”

“The fight of the decade—maybe even the century—and I won’t be there? You have got to be kidding me,” he moans.

The doctor leans over and gives him an anesthetizing shot in the arm. “We’ll give it a couple of minutes to get numb,” he says, and goes to the other side of the room to dig through some instruments.

“I’m your leader and I say no,” Vincent insists, and leaves the room.

Charlotte begins to stand, but Ambrose catches her hand before she can walk away. “Wait,” he pleads.

“You’re not going to talk me into it,” she says, giving him a warning look.

He glances at me. “Katie-Lou, you’ll give it to me straight. This is the real deal, isn’t it? What’s going to go down with Violette is happening now, right?”

I meet Charlotte’s eyes, and she gives a slight shake of her head. I exhale. “Yes.”

“Aww, man,” Ambrose groans, and closing his eyes, he lays his head back against the pillow.

“Listen, Ambrose,” says Charlotte, “we’re going to do our best to get Geneviève’s body back, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ll just slow us down if you go along. I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

Ambrose’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you think I want to go?” he asks. “Because of Geneviève?”

Charlotte gives him a confused look.

“Listen, baby.” He rubs his thumb nervously up and down the back of her hand. “You guys are walking straight into one of the most dangerous fights we’ve seen. It could be the Fight. Besides being extremely upset that I can’t have a piece of that, it’s going to make me crazy knowing you are there, possibly getting yourself killed. Possibly getting yourself destroyed.”

“Vincent and I will . . . ,” Charlotte begins to argue.

“I’m not worried about Vincent,” Ambrose says, cutting her off. “I’m worried about you.”

Here it comes, I think, and grinning, I inch slowly backward toward the door so neither of them notice I’m fleeing the scene. Not that they would anyway; they’re totally wrapped up in each other.

“I can fight as well as the rest of you,” Charlotte retorts, pulling her hand away from him and pushing her fists to her hips.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Ambrose insists.

“Then why—”

He interrupts her again. “I will stay without complaining . . .”

“You have no choice!”

“. . . if you’ll do two things.” The teasing has long left his face. He is dead serious.

I should leave but I can’t. I know I’m about to witness a historic event, and I lurk next to the door, my eyes glued to Charlotte and Ambrose.

“Okay,” Charlotte says, matching his gravity.

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

Charlotte is silent.

“And give me a kiss good-bye.”

“What?” Charlotte blurts.

“You heard me.”

She stands stock-still for a good couple of seconds before raising her fingertips to her mouth. Her eyes glitter with tears as she sits back down on the side of his bed. And taking his good hand in hers, she leans forward and kisses him. It is a slow kiss. It is a lingering kiss. It’s the kiss she’s been waiting for for years.