I Should Die

FORTY-EIGHT



GEORGIA IS WAITING IN THE HALLWAY AS I CREEP out of Ambrose’s room. “What’s up?” she asks, making me leap a foot into the air.

“I didn’t see you there,” I say, holding my hand to my racing heart.

“So, where’s the party?” She folds her arms across her chest.

“Why are you even awake?” I ask.

“Couldn’t sleep. And then I look out my window and see the Sex Pistols parking their cars in the drive. So I figure something’s up.”

I look at Georgia, the bed-tossed condition of her short strawberry-blond hair making her more beautiful than ever. I realize there’s a chance that after tonight I might not see her again. Throwing my arms around her neck, I squeeze her to me.

She pats my back. “What, Katie-Bean? What’s wrong? I mean, besides the fact that you are supposedly the undead Wonder Woman or something . . . I mean, is that why you’re crying?”

“I’m not crying,” I say, sniffing and surreptitiously wiping my eyes before letting her go. “I just want you to know that I love you.”

Georgia’s eyes narrow and she stares at me suspiciously before pointing her finger at me. “You guys are going to do something dangerous. What is it?”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Georgia.”

She makes a disgusted noise and says, “Oh, don’t give me that. You wouldn’t be acting like this unless you were worried you weren’t going to come back. It’s why Jeanne’s here in the middle of the night and half of punk Berlin is hopping around the house like it’s some kind of zombie mosh pit? Right?”

I just look at her and bite my tongue.

“Fine, I’ll go ask Arthur,” she says, and stalks off.

Charlotte steps out of Ambrose’s room and closes the door behind her. Her face glows and her naturally rosy cheeks are flushed scarlet. She takes my hand and we make our way down the stairs. “Did you know?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I admit. “But just recently. I think Ambrose only loved Geneviève when she wasn’t available. Once it was actually possible, I think he realized she wasn’t the one he wanted.”

She smiles like a girl whose five-decade wish has finally been granted and, skipping down the rest of the stairs, heads toward the armory.

Back in my room, I throw some water on my face and brush my hair back into a long ponytail. Then, fishing a piece of paper and a pen out of the desk, I sit down to write a note to Mamie and Papy. My pen hovers above the page as I agonize over what to say. But before I can write anything, there is a knock at my door.

Mamie sticks her head in and asks, “Can we talk with you?”

“Yes,” I say, covering the unwritten note with my hand and then, seeing her concerned expression, give up the pretense. It might be the last time I see my grandparents, and I’m grateful they came to find me.

“I was writing you a note, but I’m glad you’re here. I’d rather talk to you in person.”

“Where are you going?” Papy asks, walking in to stand behind my grandmother.

“We’re going to battle against Violette,” I say honestly.

“And do you plan on coming back?” Mamie asks, her voice catching for a second before she stops herself and puts on her brave grandmother mask.

I rise and walk to them. My grandparents. Besides Georgia, they are my last remaining family, and I love them fiercely. But our struggle against the numa is not just for them as people—as residents of a city that can easily be overrun by the evil undead—but as targets of Violette’s wrath. If I fail, I know she will not hesitate to go after them. She won’t pass up such an enticing chance for vengeance.

“This is something I need to do,” I respond, avoiding Mamie’s question.

“We know that. Reassure me again, though, that you’re really hard to destroy,” Papy says with a forced smile.

“I’m a revenant now, Papy. If I die, I will resurrect.” Unless the numa have a giant bonfire blazing at the battle site or kidnap my dead body and take it somewhere else to burn. I don’t speak this thought, but I don’t have to. Papy knows the rules as well as I do.

Mamie gives me a hug. “I brought these from your dresser,” she says and holds out my parents’ wedding rings. “You know the importance I place in symbols. Take these with you as a reminder of your parents’ love and support. They would be very proud of you right now, Katya.”

My eyes filling with tears, I pull out my necklace and add the rings to my signum and the empty locket that I’ve kept even though it no longer has a purpose. Jeanne had snipped off more of Vincent’s hair as soon as we got back from New York, and I gave her a sample of mine after my bath today. It was a little bit of insurance—in case the worst happens.

I slip the cords back under my shirt and pat the rings to feel that they are there. “Thank you, Mamie,” I whisper.

She nods and smiles, wiping a tear away and moving aside so Papy can have his turn. He clasps me tightly in his arms and whispers, “Take care of yourself, ma princesse.”

“I will, Papy,” I promise, now gulping back the tears.

My grandparents give me one last look-over, nod at me proudly, and then leave. I grab a tissue off the bedside table and take a minute to compose myself. As I start out of the room, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a full-length mirror and, not recognizing myself, I pause. In my black leather pants, knee-length boots, thin chain-mail-like body armor overlaid with a black suede top, and long leather coat, I look like an action hero.

My cheeks are flushed from fear and anticipation, but my eyes shine like dark stars and I look older with my hair pulled back. I don’t know what will happen, but I know beyond any doubt that this is my fate: Facing Violette. I am ready.

As I reach the grand foyer, I see Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard step through the front door.

“You’re here!” I cry.

“I had planned on taking a couple more hours to rest up,” Gaspard explains with a grin, “however, we received this almost indecipherable text message on our mobile telephone . . .”

Jean-Baptiste holds up his cell phone like it’s a piece of alien machinery. “And I quote, ‘Dudes, it’s going down now. Get your sorry asses over here stat.’ With such an eloquent request, how could we resist?” he remarks drily. But there is a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips, and I know that he and Gaspard wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.

“Woo-hoo, I knew you’d come!” whoops Ambrose from the landing at the top of the stairs.

“You get back in bed this minute,” Jeanne scolds, scurrying out from behind him, and pointing imperiously back toward his bedroom door, “before you hemorrhage all over my nice clean rug.”

Ambrose grins widely and throws us all a salute, before turning and being ushered back to his bedroom.

“So . . . shall we?” I say, placing my hands on JB’s and Gaspard’s arms and stepping with them out the door. In the courtyard, I see a stream of cars and motorcycles lined up in front of the gate, motors idling. Two figures stand beside the fountain, bodies pressed tightly together, desperately kissing before stepping back and becoming Georgia and Arthur. Georgia walks away from him and, passing me without slowing her stride, she says, “You better the hell come back, Katie-Bean.” And entering the house, she slams the door behind her.