I Should Die

FIFTY-ONE



THE BATTLEFIELD IS A SCENE OF DESOLATION. A low wind blows acrid smoke in a sickly yellow haze across the arena. Body parts and weapons are strewn everywhere, and the ground is sticky with dark red mud. Everyone works quickly to clean the mess before the sun rises so that no evidence remains that a massacre has occurred in the middle of Paris.

Everything that can burn is thrown onto the fire. As ambulances begin to arrive, Vincent and Arthur direct volunteers to carry stretchers with bardia corpses to the vehicles waiting at the park gates. Medics—all bardia, I notice—begin to attend to those whose injuries are light.

A medic approaches me, but I nod toward Vincent. “Do him first,” I say.

“Gallantry?” Vincent asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, cowardice. I hate needles,” I confess, with a smile.

I watch as Vincent’s small cuts are washed and bandaged and the larger wounds to his arm and side sewn up. He doesn’t even wince when the needle threads through his skin, but watches me calmly from where he sits a few feet away. The bardia are used to flesh wounds, as I too will soon be.

“Geneviève is gone. The numa tossed her on early in the fight,” Vincent says, as the medic works on him. He pauses and looks thoughtful. “This probably sounds bad, but I’m glad I wasn’t forced to make that decision.”

There is a pang in my heart as I watch the fire rage, knowing my friend is within the flames. But in my heart I am relieved for her. “She got her wish, then. She’s with Philippe.”

Another medic approaches where I sit with my good arm around Gaspard, who has stopped crying and is very still. His normal twitchy nervousness has been replaced by a calmness that is more dead than numb, as if a part of him has traveled to the grave with his partner.

My injured arm hangs uselessly in its Vincent-made sling and blood still trickles from the knife wound. Helping me shuffle out of my jacket, the medic rips the sleeve off my shirt and begins silently cleaning and then stitching up my shoulder. Gaspard repositions his head on my shoulder, seemingly unaware that mere inches from his forehead someone is piercing my skin with a needle and yanking a thick black thread through it.

My eyes are already clouded with tears, and my heart so full of hurt for my friend’s loss that the pain to my body seems little more than an annoyance. The medic bandages my shoulder, puts my jacket back on over it, and sets my arm in a new, clean sling. “Are you injured, Monsieur Tabard?” the man asks.

Gaspard shakes his head numbly, and the medic moves on to the next group of injured. Vincent meets my eyes. I know he’s asking me to take care of Gaspard. I will, I say without speaking. Go do what you need to do. Vincent stands and starts to round up the remaining troops and herd them to the fire.

As we watch people assemble, I ask Gaspard, “How long were you and Jean-Baptiste together?”

“One hundred forty-nine years,” he answers.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. There’s really nothing else I can say. I can’t say that I know how he feels. It wouldn’t be true. I know how it feels to lose parents, to become orphaned. But I can’t put myself into the place of this man who lost the partner he has loved for a century and a half. All those years of living the same experiences, knowing the same victories and defeats, sharing lives. It must be destroying him. I feel a shudder pass through his body as he leans on me. It is destroying him.

“Kate, Gaspard,” I hear Vincent call, and we stand to join the assembled bardia before the bonfire. Eight of the twelve New York bardia remain, two having been taken away in the ambulances and two lost to the flames. Charles stands with Uta and four of their kindred. Three have been transported back to La Maison and will be fine once they reanimate. One is gone forever. And of three dozen other bardia who fought with us, six were fed to the bonfire.

Near the flames the air is putrid and thick with the noxious smell of burning flesh. People hold their hands over their noses and mouths as Vincent stands with his back to the fire, facing us.

“We don’t have long before sunrise, and I want all traces of battle gone and our kindred out of the park by the first rays of dawn. But first, we must honor those who sacrificed themselves today.”

He meets my eyes. He is struggling not to cry. Trying his best to stay strong until he finishes his duty. “Among Paris’s kindred,” he continues, “we lost our beloved Geneviève Emmanuelle Lorieux. She died in 1943, executed by firing squad for having smuggled food and medicine to the detainees at the Drancy detention camp. Geneviève was a loving and dedicated wife to Philippe Lorieux, who died barely four months ago. We will miss you, Geneviève.”

Vincent gestures toward Gaspard, who steps forward to face us. “We say good-bye to our longtime leader, Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Balthazar Grimod de la Reynière,” Gaspard says in a wavering voice. “He died sacrificing his life for another on the battlefield in Borodino, September 7, 1812. Jean-Baptiste was dedicated to the preservation of his kindred, willing to do anything to ensure their survival.” Gaspard’s face twists with emotion when he says this, but he forces his shoulders back and raises his chin.

He pulls something from his belt, and I recognize Jean-Baptiste’s beloved sword-cane topped with its carved wooden falcon’s head. Facing the fire, Gaspard says, “My dear Jean- Baptiste. My love. I will mourn your loss until we are reunited in the next life.” And he throws the cane onto the fire. With that motion, his arms drop to his side, and his head to his chest, and he begins once again to weep.

Arthur is by his side in a flash. Putting an arm around the older revenant’s shoulders, Arthur leads him in the direction of the waiting vehicles and out of the arena.

One by one, the leaders of the other groups stand and honor the kindred they lost. Finally Vincent speaks up. “We thank you all for coming to our aid today, and pledge you our assistance in return.” The assembly breaks up, and I am approached by a middle-aged man who looks to be Gaspard’s age, and has the same noble bearing that Jean-Baptiste did. He steps up to kiss my cheeks. “I am Pierre-Marie Lambert from Bordeaux. It has been an honor to fight alongside the Champion.”

I ask him the question I’ve been wondering since he and his kindred appeared. “How did you know to come here—just in time?”

He smiles sadly. “I would say that we were actually a little bit late. If we had arrived on time, there may have been fewer of our kind lost.”

“Even so, how did you find us?”

“I am the Seer for my clan,” Pierre-Marie explains. “I saw your light two days ago. When it persisted, I decided to come with my kindred. We met up with the others on the way.” He steps aside to let the next person approach.

It’s as I thought. Jean-Baptiste and Uta weren’t the only Seers to receive the Champion’s signal.

“Esteban Aragón, Seer of my clan in Barcelona,” says a dark-haired boy, and after him a Seer from Belgium introduces herself. They had all seen my light and followed it to help.

“If you are here, it means the beginning of an era,” says Uta. “Your work has just begun. Who knows—in these modern days, maybe your influence won’t be limited to your region, as were history’s previous Champions. I, for one, look forward to what the future brings with the bardia’s new Champion.” She bobs her head in a playful bow, while her fellow Seers make noises of agreement.

Vincent asks Uta to lead everyone to La Maison to clean up and find fresh clothes. Finally only Vincent and I and a handful of Paris bardia are left in the deserted arena.

“Where’s Jules?” I ask, suddenly alarmed. I haven’t seen him since the memorial ceremony.

“He left. He said it’s too painful to be with us here in Paris. That he needs time away before he can come back for a visit. Or more,” Vincent says softly.

I understand it, but I don’t like it. I wish we could all be together like before: best friends, not heartbroken strangers.

But Jules will never be a stranger. I am sure he will be back. Feelings change with time—or at least pain lessens with time; I know that from experience. I can think about my parents now without crippling sadness. I can let myself remember them with gratitude for the time I had with them, even though the parent-shaped hole in my heart will never be filled.

Vincent leads me away from the fire. He begins to put an arm around my shoulder and then, seeing my bandage, hesitates. “Are you okay?” he asks, touching my shoulder gingerly.

“I don’t know, am I?” I say it as a joke. But once the words are out, I realize their multiple meanings, and suddenly I’m exhausted. Am I okay? Will I ever feel normal again? I want to hug Vincent, but it feels like he’s holding back, and not just from fear of hurting me.

“Let’s get back to La Maison,” he says. And taking my hand, he leads me down the high-walled corridor and through the gate. The car is parked where we left it. Vincent begins to open the passenger door for me.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I say.

Vincent looks surprised.

“I mean, we don’t have to, do we?” I ask. “I think I want . . . no, I need . . . to walk.” My stomach is in knots and my body is exhausted, but all of the emotion—the fear and pain and despair followed by relief and exultation—of the last hour is bottled up inside me and makes me feel like running instead of walking.

Pressing my hand to his cheek, Vincent brushes my fingers across his skin, closing his eyes as he savors my touch. He locks my hand in his and we begin walking.

As we approach the river, the sky lightens from velvety black to the steel gray of predawn. We cross the street to walk along the quay above the rippling surface of the water. “Look at where we are,” I say, and nod toward the Île Saint-Louis in the middle of the river just across from us.

The tree-lined terrace where we sat and talked last summer juts out into the waves, parting the Seine into two rivers that skirt either side of the island. Two parallel rivers that reunite at the far tip of the Île de la Cité, once again becoming one.

I stop walking and Vincent peers at me, a hundred questions in his eyes. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking about?” I ask.

He looks out over the water. “I was so afraid when you were in that arena with Violette,” he says with a tremor in his voice. “When she stabbed you, it felt like I was being stabbed. I wanted to protect you. And then for the first time I realized that even if she killed you, you would come back. As long as I kept your body away from the fire you would reanimate. That you were like us now—like me. It felt like a revelation.”

“But you’ve known that for days,” I say.

“I know. But it hadn’t really sunk in until I saw you there, facing death.”

“And the fact that I’m like you now makes you feel different about me?”

“Yes.”

A stab of apprehension makes me look away toward the water. “Do you think it will be a problem for us?”

“No, Kate. You don’t understand,” Vincent says, resting his hands very carefully on my shoulders. “My feelings for you aren’t different. But everything else is. Like I said, what happened to you is something I never hoped for. I don’t want you to bear the burden of life as a revenant. I don’t want to see you subjected to our fate—the obsession, the craving, the pain of injury and death.”

He brushes back a wisp of hair that has escaped my ponytail. “But what I want doesn’t matter. It is your destiny. Now you’re here. Now you’re one of us. And now that we are well on our way to destroying our enemies—thanks to you—there’s nothing standing in our way.

“I’m being given my heart’s desire, and I just don’t know what to do with it. I’m almost afraid to believe it’s true, in case someone shakes me and tells me I’m dreaming.”

“It’s not a dream. I’m here with you,” I say. “For what looks like a really long time.”

Over Vincent’s shoulder an orange glow burns the edge of the sky. I take a step closer, until there is no space left between us and my chest touches his.

And as we kiss, the sun breaks over the horizon and sets the river on fire, its waves flickering an incendiary red in the first light of dawn.

Life changes so quickly. Not long ago I was mourning the death of my parents and wondering if I could make it through another day. Now I have been handed eternity. And not on a silver platter, either, but down a path lined with pain and bloodshed.

But I will walk it with my kindred. With this boy I love. Together we will do something worthy and good. We will give our lives for others. Over and over again.

I don’t have answers to all the questions that lie before me. But Vincent and I have time to figure them out. All the time in the world.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



ONCE AGAIN, I WOULD LIKE TO THANK MY EDITOR extraordinaire Tara Weikum for her guidance with this book, as well as her unending patience as I struggled through it. Much gratitude to my fabulous team at HarperTeen: Chris Hernandez, Christina Colangelo, and Casey McIntyre. I was truly lucky to have them on board, supporting the final book in the series.

I am endlessly thankful for my UK Little, Brown/Atom team, who have done an amazing job with the promotion of my books in the UK. Thanks especially to Sam Smith, Rose Tremlett, Maddy Feeny, and Kate Agar for their enthusiastic support.

My super-agent Stacey Glick loved this project enough to find the perfect home for it and to cheer me along the whole way. And Laurent E. Abramo has done a bang-up job of finding homes for the Die for Me series in so many foreign countries and languages. Merci, Dystel & Goderich!

For the third time, Mark Ecob and Johanna Basford have worked their magic with the cover. I couldn’t have wished for a more beautifully packaged series, and my readers never tire of telling me how the gorgeous covers made them fall in love with the books before even reading a word.

As with the first two books, Claudia Depkin, friend and tireless beta reader, read every single word of If I Should Die. Several times. And gave me the support, encouragement, and feedback I needed to keep me centered and motivated. You were a huge part of this series, Claudia, and I’m so grateful.

Thanks and love to Kim Lennert for listening to me read the manuscript out loud as she drove me from New York to Lexington, Kentucky, to Birmingham, Alabama, to Nashville, Tennessee, on my Revenant Road Trip book tour. A girl could never wish for a truer friend.

I am much indebted to copyeditors Valerie Shea and Melinda Weigel. Without their continued corrections, If I Should Die would be embarrassingly jam-packed with mistakes. From fixing my scary punctuation to pointing out that people don’t wear heavy coats in July, they have made Die for Me a series I can be proud of. And thank you to all of my friends and readers for the enthusiasm, support . . . and forgiveness for leaving you hanging for an entire year after Until I Die’s monumental cliff-hanger ending. I told you everything would turn out in the end.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AMY PLUM spent her childhood in Birmingham, Alabama, her twenties in Chicago and Paris, and several more years in London, New York, and the Loire Valley. Now she lives in Paris and swears she’ll never move again. IF I SHOULD DIE is the final book in a trilogy about revenants that began with DIE FOR ME and UNTIL I DIE. You can visit Amy online at www.amyplumbooks.com.


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