by Amy Plum
“I’ll tell you—all eyes were on Paris a couple days ago. Folks can’t stop talking about your Champion. As in, we need her here. Stat.”
I cringe inside. That’s all I need: to play musical countries with Kate. If she comes here, there’s no way I can stay.
Faust traces across a row of names and stops. “Let’s see. Green team’s got the sunrise shift. They’re taking off in a few minutes and are covering Williamsburg and the surrounding area. It would be good for you to get to know our hood.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really need this walk.”
“Got the craving?” Faust asks with concern. “How long’s it been?”
“Since I died? Only a few months.”
“And you probably loaded up on dark energy from the numa-slaying extravaganza in Paris,” he says, with the same wish-I’d-been-there look. Faust loves a fight, that much is obvious. He should team up with Ambrose—they’d be unstoppable.
I nod. “I killed six.”
He whistles. “You should be good for a while, then. Just need the fresh air?” he jokes.
“Close,” I say. “I could use the distraction.”
I stand outside the loading dock, the meet-up point listed on the schedule, waiting for the Green team to appear. My hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, I bounce up and down, trying to generate a bit of heat, and try not to think about what my kindred are doing in Paris. Celebrating their victory with their new Champion. I get a flashback of Kate’s face, not even two days ago in the midst of battle—streaked with blood and dirt and ash, glowing with the golden bardia aura. And though animating didn’t seem to have changed her features, in my eyes she was more beautiful than ever.
My chest aches. How long will it take me to get over her? I am relieved when I hear footsteps crunch on the frost-frozen pavement behind me.
I turn. It’s the girl from the council. The Frost Queen. At least she’s in her element, I think, as my breath puffs out in a thick cloud.
“Marchenoir,” she says in greeting, her face blank. Ice cold. She’s bundled up in a calf-length padded coat, and her long black hair cascades out from under an eggplant-colored slouchy knit cap.
I respond by giving her a full bend-at-the-waist, arm-thrown-to-the-side bow. “At your service.” I can’t help myself, unsure of whether I am trying to crack her facade or just annoy her in return for her iciness. Maybe both.
She ignores me and watches as Faust comes jogging up from behind us, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his arms for warmth. “I traded with Palmer,” he says, and gives me a grin. “Don’t want to shirk my ‘welcome rep’ responsibilities. Not that Whitefoot here couldn’t show you the ropes.” He gives her a playful punch on the arm, and she gives him a smile so warm I’m surprised it doesn’t melt half the ice in New York.
How does she do it . . . arctic to tropical in a second flat? I would be impressed if I wasn’t on the end of the stick reserved for polar bears.
With effort, Faust manages to pry his eyes away from her and hands me a leather belt with a holster on each side. “Two weapons?” I ask. He nods as I strap it around my waist.
“Short-sword,” he says, handing me the blade. I inspect it before slipping it into my belt: It’s brand-new, unlike the antique models we use in France, but well made. “And a Glock,” he says, handing me a pistol.
I look up at him in surprise.
“It’s enough, really. You don’t really need an automatic,” he explains, misunderstanding my expression. “We never come up against more than a few numa at a time. And even that’s pretty rare, unless we’re zombie hunting. Today’s just a regular walk around the block.”
I glance at “Whitefoot.” She’s amused by my confusion. “Like it or not, guns are the American way. Shoot to the head to stun, then use your blade,” she clarifies.
That’s the way Lucien cut down Gaspard to get into La Maison, I remember. Gunshot to the head, then—while the projectile worked its way back out of Gaspard’s bullet-rejecting flesh—decapitation by sword. American way, huh? I wonder if Lucien made any trips to the States before meeting his end at the tip of Kate’s blade.
I holster the gun and pull the sides of my long wool coat over the weapons to hide them. The Frost Queen, “Frosty,” I decide to christen her since I still don’t know her first name, has already turned and is walking away. She points up and says, “We’ve got your old colleagues with us, Faust.” And then, speaking to the air, she says, “Ryan, you go with Marchenoir, Tirado’s with Faust, and I’ve got Oreo. Let’s move it out.”
“Three volant spirits?” I ask.
Faust shrugs. “More of the American way, I guess.”
Okay. Guns. One volant per walking revenant. I can accept that. It’s the minor cultural differences that throw me more. Like the last name/nickname thing: It’s more like army-speak than talk among kindred. Though there’s no way two hundred bardia in one city could be as closely knit as our much smaller Paris crowd. Which, at the moment, is exactly how I like it. Arm’s length sounds pretty good to me.
We begin walking away from the river, into the central part of the Brooklyn neighborhood called Williamsburg. The voice of the volant spirit assigned to me appears in my mind. Hey Frenchie. Anthony Ryan here, Ground Zero. I’ve got your back.
“Hi,” I respond, and I hear Frosty and Faust check in with their invisible partners. Ghostly communication only works one way. They can get inside our heads—but we can’t get into theirs. “You can call me Jules.”
Okay, Frenchie, the voice responds.
Frosty starts giving orders. “Ryan, head north toward Greenpoint. Tirado, straight ahead toward Bushwick Avenue. And Oreo, sweep over toward Bed-Stuy and the Navy Yard. Start within a twenty-minute walk of our location, and then sweep back toward us.” I feel the volant spirits leave us, and it’s once again three dead guys—make that two dead guys and a girl—walking the streets in the frigid morning air.
Faust points things out as we go: the main street, called Bedford. The fact that this neighborhood has boomed in the last few decades, luxury apartments and wealthy tenants replacing the Polish and Italian immigrants in one part, European Jewish and Hispanic populations in another. We walk by brand-new bars and restaurants and pass hipster guys with tight jeans and beards and girls with tattoos and thick, winged eyeliner.
The changes have made things easier for the bardia. When the neighborhood was made up of families who stayed for generations, caution was an everyday concern. But with people constantly moving in and out, they don’t have to worry about hiding faces that never change.
I remember my volant spirit’s introduction. “What’s Ground Zero mean?” I ask.
“What about Ground Zero?” Faust asks.
“That’s how Ryan introduced himself,” I clarify.
Faust answers, “Ground Zero. Twin Towers. September eleventh . . .” And before he even finishes, I get it.
“Onze septembre,” I translate, “of course. Ryan was there?”
“We all were,” he responds, “most of us pre-council newbies you’ll meet at the Warehouse were. More bardia made that day than in the entire history of New York City.” His face darkens. “And a few numa too.”
We turn, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, and follow it away from the river. Frosty walks a few paces in front of us, but I can tell she’s listening to every word.
“We heard all about it in France,” I say, and think about the ramifications of what Faust just told me. “But the dead were so high profile! There were leaflets with your faces all over the place. How were you even able to stay in the New York area after animating?”
“Gold made sure those of us he recovered were certified dead and taken off the search lists. Those who had families or communities who might recognize them were moved farther away. Ryan, Tirado, Oreo, and me . . . we all decided to stay. My parents are dead, but I have a little sister I like to keep an eye on. I visit her when I’m volant.” He’s quiet, studying the ground in f
ront of his feet.
It’s got to be hard for him. He still has surviving family members he can’t show himself to. Everyone I knew before I animated has been dead for generations.
As if reading my mind, Faust glances up at me. “At least I get to do what I love: save lives. Never thought I’d be signing up for an eternal contract when I became a firefighter . . .”
Called it! I think. A century of watching people has paid off once again.
“. . . but I can’t think of a better reason to exist.”
Frosty slows, puts an arm around Faust’s shoulders, and gives him a sideways hug. “One of New York’s finest,” she says, and astounds me once again by giving him a peck on the cheek. He gives her a sad smile and then abruptly looks up, listening.
“Tirado’s got something over on Bushwick and Devoe. Three of our evil twins . . . on their way to stir up trouble, no doubt.”
“At this time in the morning?” I ask, as the three of us jog in the direction he had pointed.
“New York: the city that never sleeps,” quotes Faust.
Frosty fills me in as she runs. “We wondered if news of your battle in Paris had reached our city’s numa, and if so, if they would react. If it would make any difference to them. Their activity’s been growing steadily over the last decade, but recently something . . . different . . . seems to have been brewing,” she says, confirming what Faust said.
She throws a glance at me, a flicker of worry flashing across her blank-screen face, and says cryptically, “The dark prophecy that gave you your Champion doesn’t only refer to France. It’s the Third Age here too, you know.”
THREE
WE ARRIVE AT A FOUR-STORY BOX-SHAPED BUILDING that looks like it’s been sided with roof tiles. Green. Ugly. I shouldn’t care, but used to the beauty of Paris, I can’t help but cringe. It looks like an architect threw up on a blueprint and decided it looked good that way.
I’m back, Frenchie. Miss me? Ryan says in my head. I see Faust and Frosty talking to the air and know the volant spirits have congregated. “What do you see?” I ask him.
Top-floor apartment, he responds. Three numa versus four trust-fund-looking twentysomethings. His voice disappears for a moment, and then he’s back. The kids are selling drugs for the zombies and didn’t turn over all the money. Typical TV-cop-series scenario. Could have written a better script myself. Oh great . . . here come the numa volants.
Frosty talks to her spirit for another moment and then announces, “Okay, we’re on our own. The numa brought a volant each, and they’re blocking ours. I’ve sent Oreo back to the Warehouse for reinforcements. Ryan and Tirado, do what you can to stay with us.”
She turns from where she’s staring into space and focuses on Faust and me. “What’d you get from your volants?”
“Three numa, four twentysomething kids shifting drugs for them, deal gone bad,” Faust summarizes, fingering his weapons and looking up at the building.
“Same for me,” I say, “and Ryan specified top floor.”
“Oreo got more,” she says. “A numa forced one of the kids to overdose. Got the opioid injection?” she asks Faust. He nods. “We have two entries: one through the front door and the other at the back through a fire escape. Faust, go up that way and block the exit.” Faust takes off around the side of the building. “Wait for my signal, and then enter if you can without breaking the window,” Frosty calls after him. He waves to show he heard her.
She marches up the front steps, her long quilted coat flying open on either side as she unbuttons it, fishes around in the pockets, and pulls out a large set of keys. Leaning over to inspect the lock on the front door, she murmurs, “Schlage single cylinder,” and rifles through the key collection. Sticking one in the lock, she turns it and opens the door. I follow her into a small front-hall area with another locked door in front of us. Boxes and letters are stacked haphazardly on a side table.
Without hesitating, Frosty picks up a large Amazon box, inspects it, rings a doorbell labeled APT 1, and when a voice asks, “Yes?” she says, “FedEx.” The door buzzes open, she heaves the box toward a door marked 1, and we’re off, running noiselessly up the stairs.
From behind us I hear a door open, the shuffle of someone dragging the box into their apartment, and then the door closing. Good trick, I think with awe, understanding now why New York bardia insist on training out-of-towners in their ways before letting them loose. The simple technique of getting into a locked building without drawing unwanted attention would never have occurred to me. I can get into any building in Paris but would be totally lost here.
We get to the top floor, and Frosty pauses by the door, pressing her ear carefully to it, before slowly turning the door handle, testing. It’s unlocked.
I follow her lead as she draws only her gun, leaving her sword hidden beneath her coat. The Glock feels bulky in my hand, its screwed-on silencer weighing down the already heavy weapon. I haven’t held one of these since Ambrose, Vincent, and I posed as undercover security forces for a Paris embassy during the Gulf War.
“Take whoever’s near the door,” she whispers to me, and then, putting her fingers between her lips, lets out an ear-piercing whistle and shoves the door open, landing a forceful blow to whoever was behind it.
We’re in a short hallway. The open door blocks the access to the rear of the apartment, leaving whoever’s behind it for Faust to handle. We turn left and find ourselves in a chaotic living room, broken furniture tossed around, and drawn curtains blocking the morning light. Two young men and a woman huddle, crying, on a couch while two imposing numa, outlined in bloodred auras, loom over them, one pointing a gun at their captives. Another man is slumped over on the floor at their feet, eyes open, but obviously unconscious . . . if not already dead.
I take all this in at a glance, while from behind the door I hear the thick thud of a silenced gunshot, and Faust calls, “One down.”
Before his words are out, Frosty has put a bullet in the numa holding the gun, and he collapses. Rushing past her, I press my gun to the remaining numa’s temple as he reaches for his weapon. He drops his pistol and holds his hands up.
“Quickly,” Frosty says to the kids on the couch. “Take cover in the bathroom, and lock the door behind you.”
She doesn’t need to say it twice. In a second, they’re up and scrambling for a door across the room. They disappear behind it, I hear a lock turn from the inside, and then dead silence.
“What are you doing here?” Frosty steps over the numa she downed and strolls over to us.
My numa tenses, and I press the barrel tighter to his head.
“What’s it look like? Business,” he mutters.
“Whose business? Janus’s?” she asks.
He narrows his eyes at her and nods.
“So he dares to send his muscle a mere ten blocks away from our headquarters, just to put some scare into a bunch of stupid kids? Business must be booming.”
The guy just glares at her.
“You’re in our neighborhood, eight in the morning, full daylight. Know what that tells me about you and your friends?” she asks.
The man looks like he’s thinking it over, but before he can come to a conclusion, she points her own gun right between his eyes. “It tells me you’re expendable,” she says, and pulls the trigger.
As the man crumples, behind me I hear a clink of metal against wood. I turn to see the numa Frosty shot first flex his fingers, as the bullet that has worked its way out of his flesh rolls around on the floor inches from his forehead. He begins pushing himself up from where he lies in a small pool of blood.
“Blades,” Frosty says, and the three of us draw our swords, Faust and his fallen numa just visible in the hallway behind the open doorway. There is a second of silence as we hold them high, then, together, bring them down.
“Deliver us from evil,” Faust murmurs, crossing himself, as he nudges the numa head away with his foot and closes the door behind him. As the surge of dark energy hits
us, I see Faust clench his fists and take it like a shot of adrenaline. Frosty closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, storing hers up. I shudder as mine floods me. The big reward for killing numa: We get their energy when they die. And we also gift the world with one less bad guy. It’s a win-win situation.
“Treat the overdose,” Frosty calls to Faust, and he moves quickly to care for the unconscious boy. She turns to me. “Go downstairs and let our backups in,” she orders.
As I leave, I see her go over to the bathroom door and knock. “Is everyone okay in there?” she asks. Muffled affirmations come from behind the door. “Just stay where you are for the moment. Sit tight. You’re all going to be okay.”
Her voice is firm and reassuring, but as she turns away and my eye catches hers, I know she is telling a half-truth. These kids got out of this scene alive, but they’re already chin-deep in numa business. It’s going to take a lot of intervention on our part, if they’ll even accept our help, for them to truly be okay.
Frosty knows how things work here. She’s been around for a while, but not too long. I can tell from her aura . . . from her eyes . . . that she’s a much younger revenant than I. But the power I see in her leaves no question of her nature in my mind. She is trying to appear normal, chummy with her kindred, on equal terms with the others. But I’m from a place where hierarchy has reigned for centuries . . . millennia even. True leaders have come and gone: I’ve read about them in Gaspard’s records, and met a few at convocations. And I know without a doubt that this woman was born to be among them. Born to be a queen. Forget Ice Queen, Frost Queen. I’m in the presence of a girl who has the potential to be the Queen . . . of New York.
FOUR
TWO MONTHS CREEP BY, AND THINGS DO NOT GET better. Every day is like its own separate death, bullet-riddled with memories and gutted by the twisting knife of loss. Entwined with the memories of Kate, and the longing for a love that will never be, is the loss of my best friend. My mood swings wildly between missing the camaraderie of a brother I had for over seventy years, and resenting him for being the recipient of Kate’s love.
