If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

  I walked into the kitchen to find a tactical discussion about finding Violette taking place over an Italian-themed meal. The sharp smell of garlic hung thick on the air, mixed with the comforting aroma of baked cheese.

  “So she hasn’t been found?” I asked.

  Ambrose shook his head. “Henri and the others just reported back. Once again, she’s disappeared.”

  From beside him, a head turned and familiar green eyes peered up at me. “Charlotte!” I yelled, throwing my arms around her as she rose to greet me. “You came back.”

  “Oh, Kate. We jumped on a train as soon as we heard what happened.” She let Geneviève have her turn squeezing me before returning to her chair.

  “Sit next to me,” Charlotte said, her hair falling in long wheaten strands around her face. “I am so sorry about Vincent.”

  “So am I,” I said, swallowing to clear the lump in my throat.

  I looked down the table at Georgia. “You know Mamie’s here, right?”

  My sister choked on what she was eating. Arthur leapt up and got her a glass of water. She swallowed a big gulp of it and, coughing into her napkin, gasped, “That is the worst joke you have ever made. You could have killed me.” She patted her chest and coughed some more.

  “No joke,” I said. “She’s having a chat with Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard and is coming to get us afterward.”

  “Holy shit,” my sister responded, pushing her plate away.

  “You’ve barely touched your lasagna,” Arthur chided softly.

  “Not hungry anymore.” Georgia wrapped her arms around herself and sat there looking nervous.

  Charlotte changed the subject. “Geneviève and I had been talking about coming to Paris ever since your visit.”

  Not even a week ago, I realized with amazement, Vincent and I had been in the south of France sitting on the cliff overlooking the ocean and talking about our future. Just six days ago he explained the Dark Way to me, and his plan to kill numa in order to resist dying. And now he was gone.

  Jeanne came over from where she was preparing a tray for my grandmother, and gave me a firm, affectionate kiss on each cheek. “You’ll join us for some lasagna, won’t you, Kate?”

  “I’m really not hungry. Thanks anyway, Jeanne,” I said.

  “Nonsense,” she replied. She picked up a plate, loaded it with a steaming square of gooey pasta, and set it in front of me.

  “Never say no to Jeanne,” muttered Ambrose, taking a sizable bite of garlic bread. “Especially over one of her Italian grandmother’s recipes. Not that she’ll get offended. She’ll just take it as a challenge. Watch this.” He gestured to his empty plate. “Jeanne, that lasagna was delicious. I’m so full I couldn’t imagine having another bite.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and bringing the pan over to the table, plopped a giant-size piece in front of him. “With all the fighting you boys will be doing, you need all the calories you can get.”

  Ambrose lifted an eyebrow and smiled at me in triumph before glancing across the table to Geneviève.

  Oh no, I thought. It looked like Ambrose hadn’t gotten over his crush on the recently widowed revenant. Which must be breaking Charlotte’s heart. She looked down at her food and pretended she didn’t see Ambrose’s longing gaze.

  “How’s Charles?” I asked to distract her.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” she said, her face brightening at the thought of her twin. “I mean, I haven’t seen him since he ran off to Germany, but he’s been emailing or calling almost every day.”

  “They just got GPS tracking for each other on their cell phones,” added Geneviève with a grin.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Thanks for letting everyone know about our sad twin-based codependence,” she moaned, but smiled. “It’s amazing how much he’s changed in so little time,” she continued to me. “He’s always talking about his feelings about ‘our destiny’ and how we’re here on earth to give back to humanity. He and his German kindred left this morning for some kind of spiritual mountain retreat.”

  She clicked on her cell phone and peered at a digital map showing France and Germany side by side. Over Paris was a blinking red light, and over Germany a green line headed west out of Berlin and stopped with a flashing question mark an inch to the west. “He must not have a signal there because he’s not even showing up.”

  “Yeah, I would say that’s pretty codependent,” I said with a wry grin.

  Charlotte elbowed me playfully, “Oh, stop. No one but a twin could understand. Whatever,” she said, and stashed the phone in the pocket of her cardigan.

  “A little refreshment for your grandmother and the men,” Jeanne said as she bustled out of the kitchen with the tea tray.

  Everyone fell into a reflective silence and focused on Jeanne’s delicious meal until she returned minutes later. “Status report?” I asked.

  “Your grandmother seemed to be holding up well. She didn’t look overjoyed, but she was listening to what Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard were saying,” Jeanne said, retying her apron.

  “Which was . . . ,” I prodded.

  “They were proposing some kind of plan where you and your sister would be accompanied everywhere you go,” she responded matter-of-factly, and then turned to check something in the oven.

  Georgia and I shot each other worried looks.

  “I know we’re waiting for Jean-Baptiste to give us instructions,” Arthur said, prying his attention away from my sister. “But we might as well get suited up until he’s done talking to Madame Mercier. I have no doubt he’ll send us on a scouting trip when we inform him that Henri’s team lost track of Violette.”

  Standing and taking his plate to the counter, Ambrose leaned down to give Jeanne’s shoulders a squeeze. “No dessert?” she asked.

  Ambrose patted his stomach with both hands. “Naw, I couldn’t, Jeanne. I’m watching my figure.” She guffawed as he walked toward the door. “I could use a bit of a workout if we’re just hanging out for a while. Swords, anyone?” he called.

  “That’s an invitation I can’t resist,” responded Charlotte, and thanking Jeanne for the meal, she followed Ambrose out the door.

  “I’m on for a fight!” exclaimed Geneviève, and Arthur stood to join her.

  “I’ll watch,” muttered a paler-than-usual Georgia. I smiled. It was just like her to hide out as long as possible rather than face Mamie’s wrath.

  “Leave your dishes, dears, and go work off some of that steam,” said Jeanne, waving them away from the table and out the door.

  “I’ll be right down,” I called. I was still picking at my lasagna, attempting to move pieces of it around my plate so that Jeanne would think I had eaten.

  “I see what you’re doing, mon petit chou,” she said as she stood at the sink with her back toward me.

  I laid my fork on the table. “Busted,” I replied.

  She turned, and her lips curved into a compassionate smile. “You know what? I have something for you. Something that might be a comfort in the hard days ahead.”

  Taking my hand, she led me out of the kitchen to her room down the hall. It was one she used on the rare occasion when she needed to spend the night, and I had never been inside.

  Walking across the carpeted floor, she switched on a frilly lamp and picked up an object sitting next to it. Returning, she placed it in my hand. It was a heart-shaped locket made of crystal and silver.

  I fingered the tiny bauble. A sprig of flowers was engraved into the silver side, and I ran my finger over the delicately grooved metal. “Forget-me-nots,” said Jeanne, and it felt like a hand clenched my heart and squeezed tightly. Vincent’s body was gone, but I would not forget him. Or would I? Would his face start disappearing from my mind like my parents’ had, replaced by the images of them preserved in photographs?

  I turned the locket over to the crystal side. Through the transparent glass I spotted something dark enclosed within and held it up to the light. It was a single lock of raven black hair.
>
  EIGHT

  “IS THIS VINCENT’S?” I GASPED.

  Jeanne nodded.

  “Where did you get it?” Stunned, I rolled the strange bauble around in my hand.

  “The locket is from Gaspard’s collection of memento mori,” Jeanne responded. “He said I could give it to you.”

  “No, this,” I said, holding it up to indicate what was inside the crystal prison. “Why do you have a lock of Vincent’s hair?”

  Jeanne thought a moment, and then said, “It’ll be easier to show you.” She gestured to a corner table that held an assortment of beautifully crafted silver and enamel boxes and candles in simple pierced-tin holders.

  “It’s a ritual my mother taught me when I took her place. A practice her mother had passed to her. We’ve always felt a special responsibility for our revenants. It makes us feel better to think we’ve got some say in their survival. I’m not a religious woman, Kate. But I do say prayers every day for my wards.”

  I picked up a tiny box from the front of the table and opened the embossed lid. A lock of red hair sat nestled inside the rich blue velvet lining. “Charles,” I breathed.

  “He’s the one I’ve been thinking of most, recently,” Jeanne said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “If ever a boy needed a candle lit for him, it’s that one.” She touched a box covered in a blue-and-green leafy mosaic. “That’s Vincent’s,” she said. I picked it up and opened the lid to see the empty cushioned interior.

  “Now that I’ve given you my little token of Vincent, I expect you to take over my prayers for his well-being,” Jeanne said.

  “I will,” I promised.

  Satisfied, she nodded to the back of the table, where dozens of the delicate boxes were lined up side by side and stacked on top of each other. “Even when they’re gone, I can’t bring myself to get rid of their boxes. Neither could my mother or even hers.”

  I shuddered. Those stacks must represent Jean-Baptiste’s kindred destroyed by numa.

  “Vincent’s still here on this earth, sweet girl,” she said, “even if only in spirit. You’ve got to be brave.”

  Only in spirit. Those words, along with Jeanne’s expression of heartbroken pity, drove home the fact that this lock of hair constituted Vincent’s only earthly remains. He was a phantom now. Immaterial. What could the future hold for a girl and a ghost? The great big empty space in my chest ached, and would keep on aching, until I could touch him again. Which will never happen because he’s gone, I reminded myself.

  Isn’t that what Vincent was trying to tell me when he disappeared? And he had been right . . . except for his conclusion: I will always be near. I’ll always be watching out for you. From now on, the only thing I can do for you is try to keep you safe.

  I pressed hard on my chest, as if that would help the pain go away. In my other hand I clenched the locket tightly. No, I thought. I refuse to accept the scenario Vincent described: continuing my life as if he no longer exists, while he watches over me like a stalker guardian angel. I will not live out that tragedy.

  And, abruptly, my thoughts turned to my parents and the great love they had shared. It had practically radiated from them, rubbing off on everyone nearby, making all around them happy. Filling others with hope.

  I could have had a love like that with Vincent. I had felt it. There had been something right about us: It was bigger than just two people in love. When we were together, it had been like one of nature’s true and rare beauties; like an impossible beam of sunlight piercing through black clouds, bathing the patch of earth before you in gold. Together, Vincent and I had created something beautiful.

  And, with that thought, something hardened inside me. A refusal. A rejection of the fate being shoved onto me. Even though I had no idea what form it would take, I would find a solution. Because a solution must exist.

  I touched the crystal locket to my lips. And pulling the cord holding the signum Vincent had given me over my head, I added the memento mori locket to the ancient symbol of the revenants and tucked them back under my shirt.

  Hearing a knock at the door, Jeanne and I turned to see Gaspard leaning in, his hair sticking out like an explosion. “Ah yes . . . excuse me for interrupting.” He averted his eyes as if allowing us to finish in privacy.

  “It’s fine, Gaspard. I had just finished showing Kate my boxes.”

  “Yes, yes. Good, good.” Gaspard nodded, tugging nervously on the hem of his jacket, straightening what was already ironed to perfection. “Your grandmother is ready to leave, Kate, and wishes you to go with her.”

  I kissed Jeanne and followed Gaspard to the armory, where we collected Georgia and walked the long hallway to the foyer.

  “We’re walking to the gallows,” Georgia said. “I wonder if she’ll ever let us leave the apartment again.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Gaspard murmured, but didn’t say anything else.

  We found Mamie at the front door, her mood much improved. “So tell me,” she was asking Jean-Baptiste, “regarding the portrait of your ancestor that I restored: Was the sitter actually you?”

  “Oui, madame,” the older revenant acquiesced.

  Mamie nodded, studying his face. “Well, even though I know there is magic involved, I must say I am terribly impressed at how well you’ve kept yourself,” she remarked admiringly.

  She turned, hearing us approach. “There you are, mes enfants,” she said, the stern look returning to her face. “Come along now. We will discuss everything with your grandfather when we get home.”

  Gaspard held the door open, and Georgia and I stepped out, Mamie shooing us ahead like a mother hen. Lacing her arms through ours, she turned to say good-bye.

  “I look forward to meeting your husband one of these days,” Jean-Baptiste said.

  “I’m not sure he feels the same way,” Mamie remarked with an amused gleam in her eye, “but I will have a talk with him and we will see how things develop. In the meantime, I thank you for your offer of protection. I will be in touch.”

  “As you wish, madame,” Jean-Baptiste responded. “You are in complete control of the manner in which things proceed between your family and mine. Just give me the word and I will provide whatever you request.”

  “Merci, cher monsieur,” Mamie said, nodding elegantly, and then turning, led us toward the gate.

  I knew we were fine when we passed the fountain and Mamie, unable to help herself, lifted a finger toward the angel and his lovely burden. “Did you notice that spectacular example of Romantic-era sculpture, Katya? The diaphanous quality of the woman’s dress could only have been achieved by a great master. Surely not Canova himself. But, then again, I wonder. In any case, truly exquisite.”

  Mamie’s fury had passed. I smiled. “Yes, Mamie. I’ve noticed it before.”

  NINE

  PAPY WAS WAITING ANXIOUSLY IN THE KITCHEN when we walked in, toying with an untouched cup of tea. “It’s time for us all to have a talk,” Mamie announced before Georgia and I could escape to our bedrooms. She herded us into the salon, gesturing at the chairs she wanted us to take.

  I hadn’t seen Papy since everything had happened. He glared at me, his features broadcasting anger, fear, and disappointment. “To say that I am furious would be a wild understatement,” he said, clutching the arms of his chair.

  “I’m so sorry, Papy,” I said, meaning it.

  He sat there looking hurt for another moment, and then all at once he was like a balloon deflating. He leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes, his look changing in a second from “force to be reckoned with” to “tired elderly man.”

  He opened his eyes and focused on me. “When I forbade you from seeing Vincent it was for your own protection. Not so you would throw yourself into the midst of a supernatural battle.”

  “There were bigger things going on than just me and Vincent, Papy,” I explained. “His whole house was in danger and I thought I knew who was betraying them.”

  “Damn his house,” Papy stated succ
inctly, his anger returning.

  Georgia broke the silence. “Vincent’s kind of a nonissue now, Papy, having been reduced to basically a ghost.”

  My chest tightened as she said it. Though I was already fully aware of the situation, it somehow made it worse to hear it stated so directly.

  “I told your grandfather what happened yesterday,” Mamie clarified.

  Papy huffed to show that though he was informed he still didn’t approve, but his stern look softened a little.

  “Okay,” I conceded. “Take Vincent and his house out of the equation. We’ll just talk about our house. About me.” I steadied my voice. Getting emotional was not going to help my case.

  “If you remember, Papy, the numa who showed up at your gallery weren’t after Vincent. They were after me, because one of his kindred had informed them I killed their leader. I was sure I knew who had told them. And Georgia and I went to prove it.”

  “I never thought it was Arthur,” began Georgia, but Mamie shot her the stink eye and she shut up.

  My grandfather shook his head in disbelief. “Why in the world would you girls take that upon yourselves?”

  “Because Vincent didn’t believe me,” I responded.

  “It’s true that Kate uncovered the traitor. No one suspected Violette,” remarked Georgia.

  Papy’s old, vein-lined hands curled into fists and pounded the chair’s cushioned arms. “The end result doesn’t matter. I wanted you to stay away from them, Kate. Not involve yourself even further in their problems.”

  I could have answered that in a dozen different ways, but felt it was wisest at this point to keep my mouth shut.

  Mamie let the ensuing silence settle before speaking up. “Well, you’ve said your piece, Antoine. And, Kate, you’ve heard your grandfather. Even though you didn’t disobey him in the letter of the law—you didn’t meet with Vincent behind your Papy’s back—your actions put you and your sister in mortal danger. And, whether or not Violette would have captured Vincent later, your actions yesterday led to his demise.”