If I Should Die

by Amy Plum

  “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 lon
e 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.

  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.