by Amy Plum
“For example?” Jean-Baptiste insisted.
“There is the account from our Italian kindred that dates back to the Renaissance,” Arthur stated. “A numa chief killed a newly formed bardia and bound her volant spirit to him by incinerating his left hand with her corpse. He manipulated her into serving his will by threatening to kill her still-living human family, and became extremely powerful through the strength of his spirit-slave.”
“Then it’s a good thing that Vin doesn’t have any human family left,” said Ambrose with a note of triumph. “No mortal bargaining chips for our Evil Empress to use against . . .” Realizing what he was saying, he stopped talking and lowered his face to his hands.
He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t have to. Because everyone else was.
THREE
“VIOLETTE USING . . . A HUMAN WHO IS DEAR TO him”—Gaspard avoided my eyes—“to blackmail Vincent is, as one would say in modern parlance, quite a long shot. She may not be aware of this ancient story. And even if she is, once she absorbs his power I doubt she will need the servitude of a much-weakened revenant spirit.”
His words were meant to comfort me. And they did, to an extent. What he said was rational. But Violette had already used me once to get to Vincent. The thought that she might use me again—this time forcing Vincent to act against his will—was unbearable.
Jean-Baptiste turned to address the crowd. His ramrod-straight posture, chest puffed out and hands behind his back, recalled the Napoleonic military leader he had been centuries earlier. “That’s enough talk of hypothetical situations. One of our kindred—my very own second—has been corporeally destroyed. We must act now to save his spirit and to stop Violette from achieving her plans.”
With that, he began organizing everyone. Arthur was appointed to lead a contingent to Violette’s castle in Langeais. He had lived there for centuries, and could effectively hide a group of spies to keep tabs on Violette’s movements. Since Jules was volant, he was to accompany them, enter the castle, and try to contact Vincent’s spirit. And Ambrose was placed in charge of defensive strategy against the numa remaining in Paris. “To begin,” JB asked him, “could you please see Kate safely home?”
“Home?” I leapt from the couch to face the revenant leader. “No! I want to help. There has to be something I can do.”
Jean-Baptiste read my expression. “Kate, my dear, I am not being condescending—I’m being realistic. There is nothing you can do at this time of the night except go home, sleep, and be ready for any updates we have in the morning.”
I eyed him skeptically, but he seemed sincere—it wasn’t a case of talking down to the weak, powerless human. But I didn’t agree with him. There was something I could do. Someone I could talk to who might have valuable information about what was happening. And the more informed I was, the more capable I would be to help Vincent.
As JB moved to address the next group, I asked Ambrose to give me a moment. Sitting with my back to him, I found Bran’s number on my phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “Bran,” I said, speaking softly, “it’s Kate.” I exhaled and pressed my eyes closed. “Violette told me that her men killed your mother. If that is true, then I am so sorry. But there’s something you can do to help us fight the numa. I need to talk to you. Please call me when you get this message, whatever time of the night.” I gave him my number and hung up.
Ambrose was waiting, watching me curiously, but didn’t pry. As I rose, he gave my shoulders a little side squeeze, and I winced. “Sorry, little sister, forgot about that cracked collarbone Vi gave you yesterday.”
“That’s okay,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder as we walked to the door. “Pain is actually a good thing. It means I can feel.”
Ambrose held my coat for me to slip into. “Okay,” he responded to someone I couldn’t see, and wrapped his arm cautiously around my shoulders. “Jules wants me to tell you not to worry about anything,” he said as we walked through the courtyard and out the gate. “That Violette has bigger things in mind than using Vincent as her puppet and you as bait.”
“If that was meant to reassure me, thanks. But the thought of Violette charging up to Paris as a Champion-fueled supernuma doesn’t make me feel much better,” I admitted.
We walked in silence down the dark street and across the boulevard Raspail. A church bell chimed twice, two low and mournful notes tolling from far across town. One lone taxi sped past us, the busy boulevard empty this early in the morning. It began to rain in a fine mist, and I snagged my hood to pull it up over my hair. When it flopped back down, I left it. The cold needles of rain felt good against my skin. Another reminder that I could feel. That I, for one, still had a body.
We turned onto my street, and I squinted up at Ambrose as raindrops dotted my eyelashes. “I’m not as concerned about Violette manipulating Vincent. That’s just a ‘maybe.’ An ‘if.’ What’s definite is that his body is gone, and he can’t ever get it back. He’s stuck as a”—my voice cracked from emotion—“ghost for the rest of eternity.”
I shuddered and Ambrose tightened his grip. “I know,” he said, and the note of despair in his voice showed me all the emotion that his face couldn’t. He cocked his head to the side, listened, and then nodded.
“What did Jules say?” I asked.
“He was using language that I couldn’t repeat in front of a proper lady like you, Katie-Lou,” he admitted.
“About Violette?”
“Yes.”
“Good. She deserves it, the evil bitch.”
Ambrose laughed and planted a kiss on the top of my head as we stopped in front of my building.
“Jules, will you be able to get close enough to talk to Vincent without Violette knowing you’re there? I mean, if he’s attached to her . . . or whatever.” I asked the air.
Ambrose listened for a second and then said, “He says he’ll do his best. But we’re pretty much clueless about this whole binding thing.”
“If you do talk to him, just tell him that we’re doing everything we can. And that I’m not giving up on him,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage.
Ambrose sighed and, taking my hands in his, stooped to look me in the eye. “I know you a bit by now, Katie-Lou. And I know you’ll go insane just waiting around. But Jules and I will keep you updated, I swear.” He smiled. “Girl, I saw the look on your face when JB told you this, but I have to agree with him. The best thing you can do now is get some sleep so you’ll be ready for whatever happens tomorrow.”
His words worked like magic on my spring-loaded nerves, and all of a sudden my anxiety turned to a fatigue so deep that I could have curled right up on my front steps and fallen asleep. Ambrose saw it, and his features flooded with compassion. “It’s been a long day,” he said. Carefully avoiding my hurt shoulder, he pulled me into a big American bear hug. And thank God for it. Sometimes those French cheek-kisses just weren’t enough.
Releasing me, Ambrose cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his hands together as if he could squish our grief between his palms. “Okay, little sis,” he said. “Call you in the morning.” And he was off.
Exhausted, I stumbled up the stairs, my thoughts racing with a million different scenarios of what could be going on in the Loire Valley castle. My stomach clenched painfully as I thought—and then tried not to think—of Vincent’s ghost bound to a freshly mutilated Violette. The image made me sick.
I had to do something. My thoughts returned to Bran. As a guérisseur to the revenants, he was the only one who might know more than the bardia about their arcane rites. He might actually hold the key to what was happening. I’ll call him again in the morning, I thought as I opened the door.
I didn’t realize I was walking straight into an ambush. My sister and grandmother waited in the sitting room: Georgia snorting as she awoke from where she was draped across one of the couches, and Mamie leaping up from her armchair. She took one look at my face and said, “Okay, girls. Do you want to tell me what this is a
bout? Georgia, you claim that a stranger beat you up, and, Katya, you come home with red, swollen eyes at two a.m. on a school night.”
Ignoring Mamie, Georgia crossed the room in a flash and took me by the wrists. Her bruised face was a rainbow of sickening yellows, reds, and purples, one cheek swollen out of proportion. “Did they find him in time?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “No.” And the feelings I had been pushing away since Vincent’s voice disappeared over the river—the despair I kept trying to shove down over the last two hours in order to function, to string my words together and put one foot in front of the other—careened back up to the surface. “Oh my God, Georgia.” I choked and coughed on my tears as she wrapped me in her arms. “He’s gone. He’s really gone.” I leaned my head on her shoulder and began to weep.
“Let’s go,” Mamie said softly, and shooing us both out of the foyer, directed us down the hallway into my bedroom. Still crying, I peeled off my clothes and pulled on some pajamas. And as Mamie and Georgia settled on either side of me on my bed, it felt like we had time-traveled straight back to the previous summer when I had resolved not to see Vincent again: me sobbing; my grandmother and sister comforting. Only this was a million times worse. Last time it was a breakup, heart wrenching but reversible. This time it was a good-bye. It was forever.
I bent over double and sobbed into my folded arms as they rubbed my back and smoothed my hair. When my tears finally slowed, Mamie asked, “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“What have you already told her?” I asked Georgia, who was gently massaging her bruised jaw.
“All I said was that something bad had happened and we needed to be ready to support you when you got home,” she responded, glancing cautiously at my grandmother.
“What is it, Katya?” Mamie insisted. “You act like someone just died.” Another sob bubbled up from my chest, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from full-out weeping all over again. My grandmother’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
“We have to tell her, Katie-Bean,” Georgia said. “Papy knows already. And you’re going to need me and Mamie for support.”
“Speak,” Mamie commanded softly, and I began. At the beginning.
The next half hour was spent revealing the story to my grandmother, slowly and undramatically, for the least possible shock value. Mamie’s expression was wary. She knew I was building up to something bad. But when I got to the point where I discovered what Vincent and his kindred were, she raised her hand to stop me. “That’s impossible,” she said, as if it were the end of the discussion. “You girls have both gone insane if you actually believe something like that.”
“Papy believes it, Mamie,” I said. “It was the reason he told me I couldn’t see Vincent again.”
“He did what?” my grandmother exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
She thought for a moment. “That must be why he came to bed so late and was up so early this morning. He was avoiding me. I would have been able to tell something was up.” My grandmother met my eyes. “Surely Antoine didn’t believe a word of it. He’s not even superstitious, for God’s sake!”
I took her hand. “I know it’s hard to believe. Half the time I feel like I’m living in a really twisted fantasy novel. But, Mamie, try to—I don’t know—suspend your disbelief for now. You can talk to Papy about it later. Just please let me finish.”
She did her best not to interrupt again. “Yes, yes, I remember. That makes sense now,” she said from time to time when I linked the story to something she recognized: my breakup with Vincent (and subsequent makeup); Vincent’s outburst about Lucien at our dinner table.
I tried to skip the part where Vincent possessed me to kill Lucien, but Georgia couldn’t help herself from filling in the blanks—to my grandmother’s horror. By the end her palms were glued to her cheeks and her expression was one of shock and resignation.
“And now the . . . numa, is it?” she asked. I nodded. “They have Vincent’s body?”
“They had Vincent’s body. But they burned it.”
I got the words out without choking, but tears coursed down my cheeks as I registered the horror in Mamie’s and Georgia’s eyes.
“But his spirit still exists? And you can still talk to him?” Mamie clarified.
“I might be able to if he can get away from Violette.”
“I always knew she was a depraved munchkin,” Georgia muttered, gnawing on a thumbnail.
“What about your evil ex-boyfriend?” Mamie scolded her. “After the Lucien story, you’ll be lucky if I ever let you date again!” She turned to me and sighed. “Oh, Katya, I don’t even know what to say.”
“But you believe me?” I asked, watching her face.
“I have no choice, other than believing that the two of you are crazy or brainwashed. Or on drugs,” she said in a tone that suggested she might prefer one of those options to the alternative. “And Antoine knew about this?”
“Just since yesterday,” I qualified.
Mamie sighed. “I hate to say this, but I don’t blame your Papy for banning you from seeing Vincent.”
My shoulders slumped, but Mamie held up her palm, cautioning me to wait. “You just told me your story. Please let me respond. I’m trying to think of how to put this without hurting your feelings.”
“What?” I asked, as a knot of self-protectiveness formed in my chest.
I watched a series of emotions cross my grandmother’s face: pity, indecision, and finally indignation. But then she glanced at my wet, swollen face and her bubble of anger popped.
“Oh, Katya,” she sighed. “Even if Vincent and his kind are the good guys, it’s like telling me you’re dating Superman. Who wants their granddaughter to be Lois Lane—constantly threatened by her boyfriend’s evil enemies? Instead of falling for a hero, I can’t help but wish you loved a normal boy. A nice safe student, perhaps.” She looked askance at Georgia. “Even a boy in a rock band would be easier to accept.” My sister suddenly found her fingernails of the utmost interest.
Giving me a final squeeze, my grandmother rose slowly and walked to the door. Pausing in the doorway, she folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes for a moment as if trying to mentally erase everything she had heard in the last half hour. Then, opening them again and seeing Georgia and me sitting there, she sighed.
“First of all, I will call your school in the morning and tell them that the two of you won’t be coming in tomorrow. That will give you time to figure out how to deal with what has happened and”—she glanced at Georgia—“to heal.
“Secondly, Katya, I believe your insane tale, even though I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. Your Papy and I will do our best to be understanding, even if we don’t approve. From now on, Vincent and his kindred are an open subject in this house. No more hiding things from us. We are on your side and want to help you make smart, well-informed decisions whether you’re talking about bad grades or the undead.”
Her nose wrinkled upon the last word. Although she was trying to be matter-of-fact, I knew it was hard for her to get those words out of her mouth. “Okay, Mamie,” I promised.
“I’m here for you, darling. This family is familiar with grief. You can always come to me for comfort and know I will understand.”
I nodded at my grandmother, and satisfied, she turned to leave. A second later we heard her bedroom door open and shut with a slam. Her voice was audible even through the closed door. “Yes, I can see that you’re asleep, Antoine. But you had better wake yourself up, because we have some talking to do.”
Georgia and I looked at each other, and even through my tears, I couldn’t help but smile.
FOUR
MY SLEEP WAS SO LIGHT I HEARD EACH CREAK OF our ancient building and every car that drove by on the rue du Bac. And even when my mind slipped off into a nostalgia-steeped dream about Brooklyn and my parents, I was halfway listening for Vincent’s voice. When I awoke, it felt like
I hadn’t slept at all, but the clock read eleven a.m. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, unable—no, unwilling—to move.
It seemed like the events of the previous day had happened in another lifetime to another girl. But barely twenty-four hours ago my sister and I had faced off with Violette on top of Montmartre. This time yesterday we had discovered her plan to wield her position as leader of the numa to overthrow France’s revenants, using Vincent to accomplish her goal.
She had misled him into following the Dark Way. He had spent a couple of months absorbing the malevolent energy of the numa he killed so that he could withstand the urge to die. For me. It had weakened him to the point that Violette could have easily captured and killed him, if he hadn’t preempted her move by charging headfirst into our skirmish and plunging to his death off a precipice. Death for Vincent wasn’t permanent. But having his body incinerated was.
A compartment inside my heart that had gradually, over the last nine months, become a huge Vincent-shaped space was suddenly and violently empty. And the rest of my heart’s contents—my love for my parents, my sister, my grandparents, my passions for art and books and film—stood cautiously aside, refusing to crowd their way into the hollow space left by my love’s disappearance. How could anything—or anyone—replace him?
I was done crying. I could feel it. And as I lay there, I felt a fiery determination begin to fill the void. A resolve to make sure that what was left of Vincent—his “wandering soul,” as Gaspard had called it—would be safe.
I sat up cautiously, wincing as I felt a dual pain in the middle and upper part of my chest: grief and my cracked collarbone, both compliments of Violette. Reaching for my cell phone, I saw I had received a text from Ambrose not even a half hour ago. I eagerly clicked to see it, but my heart fell when I saw the content.
Just checking in. No news. Jules still at castle trying to see Vin. Hang in there, K-L.
