by Amy Plum
I was about to put the phone back down when I noticed that there had been a call during the night with no message left. I recognized the number. It was Bran’s.
I was up and out of bed in an instant. I stood bouncing nervously on my toes as I phoned him back and was fed directly into his voice mail. “Bran, it’s Kate. I saw that you called last night. Call me back.”
I tightened the Ace bandage the doctor had given me and, after checking the kitchen and finding a note from Mamie, went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Leaning forward into the mirror, I gently touched the swollen flesh beneath my eyes. Pulling out a concealer stick, I went to work to make myself look normal. A couple of minutes later, I was tiptoeing into Georgia’s bedroom where I stood watching her sprawled, snoring form before poking her gently.
“Georgia. Get up.”
“Wha . . . Goway,” she mumbled, opening one eye before pulling the pillow securely over her head.
“Georgia, it’s almost noon. Papy’s at his gallery and Mamie went out. I need you to come somewhere with me. But we have to leave before she gets back, or she’ll want to know where we’re going.”
She just lay there, hiding as I poked again. Finally she sat up and tossed the pillow to the floor. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you see I’m grievously injured?” Eyes still closed, she lifted her chin to show her face. Her multicolored bruises had now consolidated into half-moons of deep purple and black under her eyes and one cheek was swollen like an apple. My sister looked like a boxer post-knockout. Or a hit-and-run raccoon.
My heart tugged seeing her so banged up, but I knew her injuries were just surface deep. And there were more important issues at stake. “Georgia, I need you to go with me to find Bran. He might have an answer to what’s going on with Vincent.”
She fluttered her eyelids for a few seconds, not in a girlie way, but because they were totally stuck together with eye goop. “I think I’m blind,” she moaned. I handed her a facial wipe from her dresser and she swabbed her eyes before squinting at me. As soon as she saw my serious expression, she was alert. “Sorry, Kate. Forget about me. What’s the plan?”
“Do you remember me talking about those special guérisseurs? The healers that deal with revenants? I need you to go up to Saint-Ouen to find one of them with me.”
She squeezed the bridge of her nose to wake herself up. “Okay. But it’s Friday. A school day.”
“Mamie called school to tell them we weren’t coming, remember?”
“That’s right,” Georgia said, still nose-pinching with eyes closed. “So you and I are sneaking out . . .”
“Mamie’s gone. We’ll just leave her a message that we’re popping out for a few minutes.”
She let go of her nose and stared at me. “We’re going to leave her a message that her two granddaughters who got mixed up in a battle between supernatural creatures yesterday, one of whom has multiple injuries, and the other whose boyfriend was killed, are just popping out unsupervised to . . .”
“Hunt down a member of an ancient family of healers in order to get information to protect my dead boyfriend’s ghost.”
The corners of my sister’s lips curled up. “Right. I’m in.” She hopped out of bed and began pulling clothes on. “What do we do if we run into her on the way out?” she called from underneath the shirt she was tugging over her head. I winced as I saw the bruises on her ribs where Violette had kicked her. It wasn’t as bad as the contusions and swelling on her face, but she ignored her injuries as she grinned at me.
“We’ll tell her we’ve gone out for bread,” I replied.
“The one excuse a French person would never question. Baguettes or die!” Georgia cheered, and we raced out before my grandmother could return.
We were all the way across town before I realized I had left my cell phone at home. “I’ve got mine,” Georgia said, patting her coat pocket.
“Yeah, but Ambrose was supposed to let me know if anything happened.” My chest constricted with anxiety. Today was not the day to be out of contact.
“Call him,” Georgia offered, holding her phone out to me.
“No, that’s okay. We’re here,” I said, pointing ahead to Le Corbeau’s darkened storefront.
Georgia peered dubiously at the old wooden sign with the store’s namesake raven creakily flapping back and forth in the staccato gusts of winter wind. “Are you sure this place was actually ever open? It looks medieval,” she said, pulling her coat tighter to her.
I rapped on the door window, but it was obvious that no one was in.
“Is that a giant tooth?” Georgia asked, leaning toward the window display.
“It’s called a relic. It’s probably a dead saint’s finger bone or something,” I replied, pressing down hard on the door handle. I watched astonished as the door swung smoothly open. “It wasn’t even locked!” I exclaimed, and stepped over the threshold.
“Why would they lock it?” Georgia said, following me in. “Who would steal . . . ‘an eighteenth-century rosary featuring a sliver of the true cross trapped inside Bohemian crystal’?” she read off a tag, and dropped the beads carelessly back onto their stand. “That’s just weird. Man, they could really use a cleaner here. The dust is enough to give you asthma.”
We moved deeper into the darkened room, shuffling through the tight space between ancient waist-high statues of saints with knives through their heads and display cases holding contemporary glow-in-the-dark pope memorabilia. My foot creaked on the parquet, and immediately there came a thump from under the floor. “Ssh!” I whispered to Georgia. “Did you hear that?”
“Oh my God,” she murmured, her eyes widening in alarm. “They’ve got a dungeon.”
The thumping started again: three evenly spaced knocks from beneath our feet. It sounded like someone was tapping a Mayday code on the ceiling of whatever room was below. Like someone needed help. It could be only one person.
“Quickly!” I ran toward the door that led to the back stairway. Instead of going up to the apartment where I had met Gwenhaël, we headed down toward a rusty door that opened with a grinding creak as I shoved it with my hip.
I burst into a low-ceilinged storage cellar, and was blasted by the sharp stench of dank, mildewed air. In one corner was a gated area, penned in from ceiling to floor with chain-link fencing and protected by a padlocked door. Behind it were stacks of boxes—most likely valuables being stored in the shop’s most secure place. And next to the boxes, gagged and tied to a chair, sat Bran.
FIVE
“ARE YOU OKAY?” I YELLED, SPRINTING TO THE cage door.
Bran shook his head, His stick-figure body trembled beneath its bonds, and fresh bruises distorted his face, one eye so swollen that it was only a slit. His face was wet with tears and sweat, and since his mouth was taped shut, he snuffled loudly through his nose in order to breathe.
“Oh, Bran!” I said, covering my mouth in horror.
He had somehow managed to pick up a broom handle, which he had banged against the ceiling when he heard Georgia and me walking above. Now he let go of it, and its hollow clatter against the stone floor broke the muffled silence.
“Do you know where the key is?” I asked, yanking on the padlock.
He shook his head once again.
“Okay, we’ll find something to break it off with. Georgia?” My sister stood motionless, staring wide-eyed at Bran. “Help me find something heavy.” She leapt into action, rushing to an enormous bronze candelabra propped against the wall. “Perfect!” I said, and helped her pull it across the floor to the cage.
“Tuck it under your right arm,” I instructed, and picking up my end, I winced and adjusted my hold as the heavy object sent a shockwave of pain through my collarbone. “We’re going to slam the lock battering-ram style from the side. I don’t think we can break the padlock, but the ring it’s attached to looks pretty rusty. Let’s aim for that.”
As we backed up a few steps, my eyes met Bran’s, and I saw a look of regr
et as he stared at the candelabra. “This is a really expensive piece, isn’t it?” I asked, unable to repress a nervous smile.
He nodded sadly and then shrugged. “Go!” I yelled, and Georgia and I ran toward the lock, smashing it with the sharp end of our improvised bludgeon. The lock didn’t budge, but a decorative bronze leaf snapped off the candelabra. Bran winced.
“Let’s try it again,” I said, adjusting my Ace bandage under my shirt and gingerly pressing my sore shoulder. Then backing up, we ran full force toward the lock, this time smashing the old ring to bits. The padlock hit the ground with a metallic clink and the door swung open. I rushed into the space, and even though it was Bran—odd, scarecrow-looking Bran—I stooped to hug him quickly before inspecting his bonds.
His attackers had used black duct tape across his mouth, as well as around his wrists, chest, and ankles. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, pausing.
He rolled his eyes and nodded as if to say, Just get on with it.
I picked at the tape with a fingernail, loosening a corner on his cheek, and then gritting my teeth, yanked it off with one quick motion. Bran’s mouth dropped open and he gasped in a few choking gulps of air as tears of pain and relief coursed down his cheeks. He struggled against the bonds attaching him to the chair, but they held fast. “You must hurry, child,” he urged me. “They’ve been gone for hours. They could come back at any moment.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked, leaning in to hear him since his voice came out in a breathless wheeze.
“Numa. They’re holding me until the small ancient one arrives to question me.”
The small ancient one? I thought, and then shouted, “Wait, Violette is coming here?”
“Yes.” Bran was trying not to panic, but the urgency in his voice gave his fear away. “Do you think you might . . .” He held up his taped wrists.
“Quick, Georgia. Find something sharp,” I yelled.
“Already did,” she said from just behind me. I turned to see her wielding a plastic box cutter. She flicked the blade out and handed it to me.
Within minutes Bran was standing up, feebly shaking his legs and windmilling his thin arms to get the circulation back. “My glasses,” he croaked. “They fell.”
I found his bottle-thick glasses a few feet away from the chair, twisted and cracked. I did my best to bend them back into place and handed them to him. Even though he barely had a slit of an eye to see through, once he had slipped them on, he seemed to transform from a beaten pulp back into his weird, magnified self. He took one step toward me and then collapsed back into the chair.
I rushed to help him. “Are you going to be able to walk?”
“I’m afraid my attackers beat me badly,” he responded. “I might need your assistance.”
“We should get you to La Maison,” I said, draping his arm over my shoulder and pulling him up to a standing position. Georgia held the cage door open for us, and I hobbled with him into the room. “You’d be safe there, at least . . . ,” I began. But before I could finish the thought, the sound of the shop’s front door opening and closing and the creaking of footsteps on the wooden floor came from above our heads.
“You aren’t expecting any customers, are you?” Georgia squeaked, eyes like saucers.
“Quickly, over there!” Bran whispered, nodding across the room to where a child-size metal door sat at the bottom of a flight of ancient stone stairs. Georgia moved to his other side and we speed-dragged him to the door. He fished a key out of a niche in the wall and stuck it in the old lock.
From above us came a voice I immediately recognized. The voice of a young girl. “Where is he?” Violette demanded. There was a bang as the back door slammed and footsteps pounded down the stairway.
“For the love of God, get that friggin’ door open!” Georgia hissed, as Bran wiggled the key in the lock. The door popped forward, and we stooped to scramble through the low frame into the dark, cavernous space beyond. I had enough time to see the reflection of a river running beside us before Bran swung the door closed and locked it. We were instantly enveloped by the odor of something sour and rank and the sound of rushing water.
“Take the bar and block the door with it,” Bran told me, and shifted his full weight onto Georgia, who staggered a little before recovering her balance. There was enough light spilling through the cracks between the door and its frame for me to see a heavy iron bar above the lintel. I grabbed it and wedged it into brackets on either side of the door frame.
“This way!” Bran said, and Georgia teetered off with him into the dark. Cries of surprise and anger came from the other side of the door.
And then a voice appeared in my head—the one I had been listening for since it disappeared over the river. Kate, run!
Vincent was here! He had survived being burned—at least his spirit had. Relief hit me like a tsunami, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. “Vincent, it’s you!” I whispered.
I’m bound to Violette, and she’s just a few feet away from you on the other side of this door. They don’t know which way Bran’s gone yet. You better get out of there before they figure it out and break the door down.
Ignoring his warning, I asked, “Are you okay?” My mouth was so dry I could barely get the words out.
The power transfer didn’t work, so Violette kept me with her. She needs Bran to figure out what she did wrong. Now, Kate . . . go.
“First tell me what we can do to help you . . .”
Now!
“Kate, come on!” Georgia urged from a few yards ahead. “What are you doing just standing there?” It took all of my strength to tear myself away from the door—away from the possibility of being near Vincent’s spirit—but once I had made up my mind, I sprinted to catch up with my sister and Bran.
“I can’t see a thing,” I said after a few seconds.
“Me either,” Georgia responded. “Here, take him.” I propped myself under Bran’s right shoulder, draping my arm securely around his waist and helping him move forward. He was so light that, if it weren’t for my own injury, I probably could have carried him.
From behind us, a strong light switched on, illuminating the space around us. I glanced back at the glowing rectangle Georgia held aloft. “iPhone flashlight app,” she said proudly.
“Quick,” Bran urged, and directed us around a corner and down another passageway.
As we struggled forward in the glow of the cell phone flashlight, I took in our surroundings. We were heading down a large tunnel with vaulted ceilings lined with brick. A river ran down the middle, and on either side was a sidewalk wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. Though I’d never been here before, I knew exactly where we were: the Paris sewers. A network of over a thousand miles of tunnels carrying rainwater, drain water, and . . . yes . . . the sewage of Paris.
“If I see floating poo, I’m gouging my eyes out with this box cutter,” Georgia called from behind me.
I ignored her, and shifting my hold on Bran, I got a better grip on him so that we were almost running. Finally, I allowed myself to think about Vincent.
The power transfer hadn’t worked. A very good thing, I reassured myself. She hasn’t figured out how to drain Vincent of the Champion’s power. But my bubble of hope burst when I remembered that she had still succeeded with the binding ceremony. Vincent’s spirit was trapped, unable to leave her side.
And here I was running away from them. I felt like screaming from frustration and rage. Knowing that Vincent was powerless in the evil revenant’s hands made me more determined than ever to figure out how to free him.
But first, we had to get Bran to safety. He could hold the key to helping Vincent. It would be hard for the numa to break down a metal door blocked by an iron bar. But almost every building in Paris held an access to the sewers. Once Violette figured out how Bran had escaped, she could be after us in the time it took her to break into the basement of a nearby building.
Bran directed us through the corridors around multip
le twists and turns. It obviously wasn’t his first time in the sewers—he knew exactly where he was going.
After thirty minutes of half-running half-hobbling beside the fetid water, squeezing through tight openings, and shuffling through low connecting passages, we arrived in front of another locked door. Bran removed a brick to the right of the door frame and pulled out a massive skeleton key. I opened the door with it, and Georgia led him through.
“Lock it from the inside,” Bran called. Georgia helped him settle him into a chair, where he sat panting.
I found a lighter and a glass lantern holding a candle. Georgia turned off her phone light after I lit the lamp and the space around us flickered into view. We were in a small room furnished with two cots, a couple of old ratty armchairs and shelves stocked with first aid supplies and canned food. “What is this place?” I asked.
“Old Resistance hideout, made by my grandfather,” Bran replied breathlessly. “Since the war, my family has kept it as a safe place. But we never needed to use it as such until last week when my mother hid from the ancient one and her numa. We can’t stay long, though. If they know we’re down here and come back with reinforcements, they could find us.”
“We should take you to La Maison,” I said. “But that’s in the seventh arrondissement, all the way across town. It would take hours to walk there if we stay in the sewers. And with the shape you’re in, I’m not sure you could even make it.”
Bran shook his head. “I can’t walk much farther. And even if I could, I only know my way around the tunnels under our neighborhood. I could never find my way to the other side of the river.”
“So we’ll have to go aboveground,” I said.
A buzzing sound came from Georgia’s coat. She fished her cell phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. “Arthur. Again.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean, again?”
“He’s been leaving me messages all morning, wondering how I’m doing,” she replied with a shrug.
