I Should Die

FIFTY



I STAND STARING AT THE BLOODY MESS THAT was Violette, paralyzed by horror and relief. But I can’t afford the luxury of reflection since there is a battle-axe swinging dangerously close to my head. I leap out of the way and feel strong hands grab me. I begin to struggle, and then hear Vincent say, “It’s me.” He grasps my hand, and we make a run for it, sprinting past the concentrated area of fighting to the edge of the arena.

We crouch down behind the fire, the ear-splitting clang of clashing metal almost deafening, and I drop my bloody sword to the ground. Vincent turns me toward him and grasping my head in his hands, kisses me quickly and firmly. I never thought sweat and smoke could taste so good.

“Had to do that first,” he says with a ghost of a smile. He turns me carefully to the side and inspects the knife in my shoulder. “Does it hurt?” he asks, as he grasps the bottom of his T-shirt, rips off a wide band of cloth, and drapes it over his arm.

“No, I can’t feel it at all,” I admit.

“Okay, Kate, close your eyes and clench your teeth,” he says. Then bracing my upper arm with one hand, he uses the other to wrench the knife from where the blade enters my shoulder and exits my back, just a hair’s breadth outside the edge of my Kevlar vest.

I muffle my scream with my hand, but it doesn’t matter—it is swallowed by the noise around us. Vincent whips the cloth off his arm and binds it tightly around the wound, under my armpit, and back around, twice. “Can you move that arm?”

I try, and a piercing pain shoots from my hand to my shoulder, causing me to cry out.

Vincent tears another strip off his shirt. Bending my useless arm in front of me, he secures it to my chest. “All the entrances are blocked,” he says as he works, “so I can’t get you out of here without fighting.”

“We’re not leaving,” I say, scanning the arena. Although the numa began with more than double our number, they are falling fast. The Germans are acting like tag teams: fighting single numa in pairs, slaying them, and then quickly tossing them onto the fire. I count ten corpses already aflame, and the punk contingent isn’t slowing.

A shrill whistle comes from next to the bonfire and Vincent and I turn to see Uta gesturing toward us. She holds Violette’s head by the hair, brandishing it like Perseus did with Medusa’s. “You are witnesses,” she yells, and with a nod her men toss Violette’s body onto the pyre while she releases the head to the flames.

My feelings are mixed as I see my enemy’s body ignite. The broken, bitter girl is gone and I am awash with both pity and relief. Vincent grasps my hand. “You okay?” he asks, second-guessing my emotion. I breathe deeply and nod once. That story is over.

I turn away to look for our kindred and spot Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard fighting back-to-back, their movements synchronized so well they appear to be one person: the deadliest of warriors, bringing death to all it touches.

Not far from them, Charlotte has elevated herself above the fray, perched with her crossbow atop a broken stone column in one corner, steadily picking off our enemies one after the other. Her firing hand moves to her quiver, sweeps out fresh bolts, loads, and shoots them with deathly speed. Arthur stands below her defending her position, slashing away at anyone who nears.

We leave our shelter behind the fire and start in Charlotte’s direction.

Although I can’t see much of the battlefield, there are fewer red columns surrounding the area. More of our enemy is down, and two bardia with spiky Mohawks pass us, pulling another numa corpse toward the fire. A glimmer of hope flashes in my mind. We are doing it, evening the odds. We may actually win.

Vincent and I are a few yards away from Charlotte, when I see the arrow hit her chest. Shocked, she looks down at the projectile and then crumples and falls to the ground. Vincent pinpoints the numa archer and takes off after him while I throw myself into the fray to get to Charlotte. But before I reach her, a numa girl begins dragging her toward the fire.

“Drop her!” I yell. The girl looks up. In an instant she has drawn her sword and crouches in a defensive position. I raise my sword, but before I can move, Charles leaps in front of me, swinging his sword forcefully against hers. “I’ve got this one,” he yells. “Just get my sister’s body away from the fire.”

Trying not to look at my friend’s sightless eyes and gaping mouth, I tuck her feet under my good arm and begin pulling her toward the arena wall. An arrow whizzes past my ear, and I lunge to my left to dodge another three or four projectiles that are unleashed on me.

A noise erupts from the edges of the battle, and the fighting pauses as all turn to see what is happening. Pouring through the corridors on both sides of the arena is a tidal wave of armed strangers. I recognize their auras at once; they are kindred. My heart soars. Victory is ours. Or will be soon.

Suddenly, Charlotte is jerked out of my grasp. Someone has grabbed her hands and is pulling in the other direction. “Don’t touch her!” I scream, and fumble for my sword. Whipping around toward my opponent, I find myself gazing into familiar chestnut brown eyes.

“Jules!” I gasp, and throw myself into his arms.

“Nice to see you too,” he responds, “but this isn’t the best place for a hug.” An arrow whizzes by our heads and we duck back down. “Take her feet,” he says. And then, seeing my wounded arm, he says, “Just take one foot,” and we begin dragging her toward the wall.

“You’re here!” I say, blinking as I am momentarily blinded by sweat from the fire’s blistering heat.

“And you’re the Champion,” Jules replies with a sly grin. “Sorry I’m late. A dozen of us just arrived from New York. Jeanne sent us straight here.”

“Just a dozen?” I scan the arena, which teems with new arrivals. “But who are all the other bardia?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

We reach the wall and stow Charlotte safely under a stone overhang. Turning, I see Louis’s corpse just yards away, lying where he had fallen with the arrow through his head.

“Help me get him over here with Charlotte,” I say, and head toward the body, crouching as I run to avoid a barrage of arrows.

“Um, Kates. Isn’t that a numa?” Jules asks, looking confused as he arrives beside me and sees Louis.

“No . . . yes,” I stammer. “I don’t have time to explain. Just help me get his body to safety.”

Jules hesitates for a moment, and then, as a firebomb explodes nearby, he leaps over to help me. As we pull Louis to safety, Jules glances up and gives me a funny look.

“What?” I ask as I kick aside a dropped battle-axe.

“Not that I knew any revenants before they animated,” he says, pausing to wipe off the sweat dripping into his eyes, “but Kates, you look exactly the same as before.” He grins. “Figures.”

I return his smile and give Louis one last tug as we arrive at the outer wall, then tuck the arm I was pulling gently over his chest.

We hear a shout from Vincent. We look in the direction he is running. I see a squadron of giant numa dressed in matching uniforms marching into the arena. There must be two dozen of them, and they are armed to the hilt.

“Who the hell are they?” I cry, my heart dropping as I realize my optimism about our chances has been way too premature. These guys look lethal.

“Lucien’s elite fighting squad,” Jules answers. “We’ve been wondering where they were. It looks like Violette has been hiding them away, keeping them fresh for the decisive round of the battle. In our previous war with the numa, they were always called in to do the sweeping up.”

He points to the blond hulk of a man leading the pack. “Their captain, Edouard, the last of Lucien’s hierarchy, if you can even call it that.” I shudder as the man scans the battlefield and calls out an order that has his men fanning out and running with swords raised.

They are upon the bardia in no time. One group has surrounded a handful of Paris kindred and are cutting them down in quick succession. Among those trapped within their circle are our kindred: Arthur, Jean-Baptiste, and Gaspard.

Vincent is sprinting in their direction, and Jules and I race to join him. When the numa see us coming, their circle splits. Those nearest us turn to engage: one each for Jules and me, four for Vincent. They weren’t there for my showdown with Violette, so they don’t recognize me. But they know who he is: the new leader of France’s bardia. The prize.

Vincent has drawn his second sword and swings both powerfully as he battles them solo. He is outnumbered and injured, and the numa Jules and I are fighting are intentionally keeping us from coming to his aid.

The captain, Edouard, moves forward. His soldiers remain motionless, letting him advance. I am guessing that he will deliver the deathblow, and the others will transport his body to the bonfire before we can rescue it. It’s a strategy that was obviously planned.

I won’t let it happen. I won’t lose him again. I run toward Vincent, but before I can reach him someone else has pushed his way through the ring of numa and in front of the blade that is already thrusting its way toward Vincent’s chest.

Jean-Baptiste stands with the numa’s sword run through his chest and out his back, the blade tip just inches from Vincent’s own heart. I hear a cry from Gaspard and see him rush toward Jean-Baptiste’s body, only to be fought back by a wall of numa.

With a feral roar, Vincent takes on Edouard, making quick work of the numa captain, while I engage the two enemies to his right. Bardia and numa rush in from all sides, and the battle escalates into a fevered blur of metal and wood and arrows and spurting blood and screams and cries; and I have forgotten my injury and am fighting like a machine, without thinking, until the frenzy of battle clears and the only ones left standing are bardia.

Those numa who are not slain have run off. I can see red vertical beams moving quickly away from the arena grounds. Let them run, I think. It will be easy enough for me to find them later, and I realize that that is exactly what I will do. Lead my kindred to destroy any numa who remain. Except for those like Louis, I think. Although I saw no red auras tonight containing that golden glimmer of hope, I suspect others exist.

I rush to Vincent, and help Arthur lower him to the ground. “I’m fine,” he says.

“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” I retort, as Arthur gingerly pulls his T-shirt over his head and wraps it around his torso to staunch the blood loss from a deep cut to his ribs. I use my good hand to help straighten the improvised bandage, and he smiles at me. “Who was bandaging whom about a half hour ago?” he comments, glancing at my sling.

“I’ll be fine in, what, three weeks?” I ask, and marvel again that this is my destiny. A never-ending cycle of life, death, healing, and awakening.

As scattered cheering begins to rise from the survivors, Uta moves to the center of the arena, the blood and grime on her face making her look like a barbarian warrior. Putting her fingers to her teeth, she gives another ear-splitting whistle. “For Vincent Delacroix, the leader of Paris’s kindred, we claim victory!” she yells and thrusts a wicked-looking battle mace above her head. “Victory,” shouts the crowd, and a forest of weapons are waved in the early-morning air.

Vincent raises a hand, accepting the honor with grace.

“And more importantly—sorry, Vincent—” Uta says with a joking grin, “victory and glory to the Champion, who has more than proven her strength tonight.” She presses her fist to her heart again as if to remind me, your strength is in here. I smile and mimic her gesture.

“Champions are rare,” she continues, “and it has been an honor to fight with one. To the Champion!” she yells, and the place goes berserk, with people cheering and dancing around. Charles’s clan do some kind of battle chant in German and throw themselves on one another in wild victory hugs.

I am overwhelmed—my heart is in my throat as I realize that these immortal beings are all ready to follow my lead. To help me fight whatever battles the future holds. As I look around, I notice a lone figure kneeling beside the bonfire. Leaving Vincent, I make my way over to him. His hair has escaped its ponytail and sticks out around his head like a black halo.

“What’s wrong, Gaspard?”

“Before . . . before I could get to him . . . ,” he stammers, looking up at me with vacant eyes. “The numa. They threw his body onto the flames before I could get to him. Jean-Baptiste. He’s gone,” Gaspard says.

And lowering his head to his hands, he begins to weep.