by Amy Plum
“Fine,” I say, thrusting my hands into my pockets as I step over the pieces of a crumbled stone. “I didn’t plan to come back so soon, but I’m on a special mission from Gold.”
He nods. “Theodore actually invited me to return to New York. Claimed I had a lot to teach them, especially now that some new issues have arisen, or so he said. But I told him that once in a lifetime is my limit for transatlantic trips. Not that I didn’t enjoy it. I just don’t like to be that far from home.”
“Yes, well, he sent his emissary instead,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll have a lot to ask you. I was planning on translating, but just discovered she speaks perfect French. So it seems I’m only serving as chauffeur.”
“Whatever the reason, I’m more than happy to welcome you to my home. You were the first revenant I ever laid eyes on. That day marked the beginning of my life’s true path.”
We walk up a narrow set of steps and into Bran’s grassy back garden to see Louis carrying a tray of food out the back door. He places it on a round white garden table that’s been set for lunch. “You’re back,” he says in French, “just in time for sandwiches.”
Ava steps out with a pitcher of water. “Where do you want me to put this?” she asks Louis in French. She turns and, seeing us, yells, “Oh, hello!”
Bran looks up, and when his eyes meet hers, it’s like everything stops. And then restarts in slow motion.
Bran ducks his head and raises a hand in front of his face, like he’s shielding his eyes from a blinding light. “An aura that blazes like a star on fire,” he murmurs.
Ava gets this look on her face like she’s just gotten word that someone died. The pitcher in her hand starts shaking, splashing water on the grass. She slowly leans over and sets it on the table, and then stands again to face Bran.
She’s in shock, but she’s not confused, like I am for a few seconds before the realization dawns on me.
Ava suspected. Gold suspected. That’s why she’s here, to consult Bran not as guérisseur, but as VictorSeer.
“Jules,” he says, turning his head to squint at me from behind his raised hand. “You’ve brought me another Champion.”
THIRTEEN
AVA DIDN’T CRY IN THE CAR WHEN SHE TOLD ME about her death. Or even when she described her fiancé’s betrayal. But she’s crying now. She stands there hugging herself, tears rolling down her cheeks, and chin raised, like she’s ready to face her doom.
I make a move toward her, but Bran gets there first, squinting so hard his eyes are practically closed. He puts his arms around her, and she lets him lead her into the house. “Louis, bring Ava some water,” he calls, and Louis scrambles for the pitcher. I follow them into an old-fashioned parlor set with overstuffed chairs and jam-packed with odd objects. Bran deposits Ava onto a couch that has so many pillows there’s barely room to sit. He yanks an ancient crocheted blanket off the back of it and wraps it around her shoulders.
Her face is in her hands now. I look frantically around the room, spot a box of tissues between a golden hand reliquary and a stuffed fox, and leap for it. “Thank you,” Bran says, taking it from me as he wedges himself between the pillows next to the weeping girl. “If you could perhaps give us a bit of time . . . ,” he suggests.
“Are you sure?” I ask, feeling suddenly responsible for leaving Ava with people she’s barely met.
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine,” says Ava from behind her fingers. So I go.
Louis’s making his way into the house with the glass of water, his face etched with concern. He obviously has no clue what’s going on but looks eager to help. I’m the only one here without a role.
I brush out past him and look at the lunch spread on the table, but feel too weird to sit there by myself with Ava having a breakdown just yards away. So I grab a sandwich and set off among the menhirs.
I end up walking to the beach, a mile away, and sit on a boulder watching the waves as I eat. Now that the initial shock of discovering that Ava is a Champion has worn off, I’m trying to understand why this news is so traumatic for her. I run back over the story she told me in the car and realize she’s spent the last fifty years keeping people at arm’s length. Living a convenient distance from the Warehouse, but not in it. Mingling with her kindred when she felt like it—obviously enjoying the contact when she was there—but able to go home to a life by herself. She’s been trying for a quiet existence—the opposite of what she had at the Factory. No drama. No limelight. No one to count on who could let her down. Self-sufficient.
Now all that would change. She would once again become the center of attention. The entirety of New York’s bardia—and probably kindred farther away—will be looking to her to lead them. This has got to be the very last thing she would want.
I finish my sandwich and walk for miles along the coastline, killing time. Thinking. A few hours pass before I make my way back, taking a different path in order to pass the famous gargantuan menhir locals call “the Giant.” I finally find it, not far from Bran’s, standing on its own in the middle of a field. And there, at its base, is Ava, legs bent up against her chest, chin on her knees, lost in thought.
I walk over to her, the setting sun casting my elongated shadow at her feet, and she lifts her head. She’s composed now, the tears long gone.
“May I?” I ask, gesturing to the ground in front of her.
“Be my guest,” she says.
I lower myself to sit cross-legged facing her. My legs almost touch her feet, but I am careful not to get too close. She gives me a sad grin.
“Not the news you were hoping for?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “But not a complete surprise. Things have been happening for a while. My vision changing. My perceptions altering. I didn’t know what it was at first, so I didn’t tell anyone about it. But then, when the New York revenants you took to the battle in Paris returned with stories about Kate and her powers, I went to talk to Gold.
“He informed me of the Champion’s ‘qualifications’ as per Gaspard: anterior powers of persuasion, perception, and communication, and the rest. It all seemed so vague—like it could apply to anyone.”
I shake my head. “Not anyone. Especially persuasion. That one’s a no-brainer. From what you told me about the Factory days, everyone was drawn to you—practically enchanted by you. And seeing how you interact with your New York kindred, I’d say that hasn’t changed.”
I pause. Breathe. “You’re a lot like Kate in that way. She charmed everyone at La Maison. She even got Jean-Baptiste to let her into the house before he knew who she was. But it wasn’t a surface-level thing. She wasn’t using her charms to manipulate us. We were charmed because she was honestly good. A genuine person who cared about others and wasn’t in it for herself. Which seems a lot like you.”
Ava squeezes her eyes together, and then exhales hard. She holds out a hand to me, and I scoot forward until her feet are tucked under my legs. I fold my hands under my arms and wait.
Finally she speaks. “Bran says there’s no question. I’ve just come into my powers. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been seeing these crazy red columns of light at a distance. I thought something was wrong with my eyes. Or my mind. Something that would fix itself the next time I was dormant. But when I awoke, it was still there. Bran says Kate has the same thing—it shows her where numa are located.”
She looks at me for confirmation. I nod.
She winces, then continues. “And for the last few weeks, I’ve been able to hear my kindred’s thoughts if they’re directed toward me. When I tried, I was able to speak to Theodore’s mind. That’s when he decided to send me here.”
“Try now,” I say. “Tell me something.”
Ava looks me in the eyes, and in the same way I hear a volant spirit speak to my mind, I hear her say, I don’t want to be the Champion, Jules.
Yep. She’s got the Champion mind-speak. “Why?” I respond aloud. “Because you’re going to be the focus of attention again? Because if it’s just a m
atter of self-doubt, I’ve got to tell you, Ava—you are capable. Fate, or whatever, wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t.”
Ava bites her lip. “Even if I’m capable . . . I don’t want it. I wish it were anyone else. What am I going to do, Jules?”
I reach forward and take her hands in mine. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Ava. You’re going to be the strongest leader New York’s kindred have ever seen. You’ve got it in you. That’s as clear as day. The way people watched you at the council meeting, crowded around you afterward, listened to every word you said—you’re a natural-born leader. And the day we walked together, you handled that situation better than any seasoned bardia I’ve seen: You commanded your team with precision, were merciless with your foes, and not only managed the humans on the spot, but from what I heard, made sure they got protection from their numa contacts afterward.”
She smiles at me sadly.
“Ava, you have not only survived the dark side of human selfishness without it crushing you, but you adapted to your immortality by building a safe life for yourself where you could handle the fallout from your human years. I have no question you’ll find a way to carve out a niche for the privacy that you need within the public role you’re going to have to accept. And do you know why?” I ask.
“Why?” she responds.
“Because, Ava, you are supremely kick-ass.”
She bursts out laughing.
“And don’t think I give that compliment to just anyone,” I continue with a playful grin. “No, that one’s got to be earned. You started by scaring the crap out of me, and now that I know you better and am a little less frightened, you impress me to no end.”
She shakes her head, and her smile is irrepressible. And I feel like I’ve just won the lottery for bringing that out in her. For making her happy. It’s kind of like the expansive, helium-balloon feeling I used to have when I flirted with a girl—flattered her ego with beautiful words. But back then, I was doing it for myself too. To get something in return: a kiss, a date, a night.
This time it’s one-way only. I know she doesn’t like me, I mean . . . at least she doesn’t still hate me. But it is exceedingly clear that making Ava feel good will get me nowhere. And that is actually fine.
I am sitting in a Brittany field, next to a prehistoric monument, in the presence of a woman who embodies New York for me, when I have my revelation. I realize I am ready to put aside my sadness in order to follow the possibility of doing something good.
I’ve been focusing this whole time on what I wanted—what I thought I needed—and suffering because I couldn’t have it. Maybe my road to recovery will involve turning that on its head and focusing on giving someone else what they need.
Ava needs a friend right now. Someone to lean on. Someone to help her with the challenge she faces. I could be that person for her. And with this flash of inspiration, I finally feel I’ve turned a page.
FOURTEEN
WE RETURN TO PARIS THE NEXT DAY. AVA IS TOO deep in thought to want conversation. I respect her silence and fill the hours with old French songs that I find on Ambrose’s iPod, singing along heartily to Edith Piaf and Michel Polnareff, which makes her smile. And my resolve to pour my energy into supporting Ava suddenly seems like the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had. A smiling Ava is definitely something I could get used to.
Bran makes sure the news of a new Champion precedes us to La Maison, and the welcome when we arrive is enthusiastic to the point of overwhelming Ava once again. She stays in her room for the first day, after taking some books from Gaspard’s library, claiming she needs to catch up on Champion lore. But after hiding out for twenty-four hours, she suddenly appears, ready to meet with my kindred to mine them for information and talk strategy.
And though the wedding preparations seem to multiply and accelerate, and the house begins filling with guests, everyone makes it a priority to spend time with Ava. She gratefully accepts my self-appointed role of assistant and counselor and rewards me with a smile every time she sees me waiting for her in the corner of the library that Gaspard designated for the informal meetings.
While Kate talks with Ava about the particulars of her experience as Champion, I take mental notes as to how I, and the New York revenants, can make things easier for her. How some of the weight of her responsibility can be placed on others. How an infrastructure can be set up to support her.
When Vincent and Gaspard talk about their strategy in ridding France of the numa and their influence, I act as Ava’s counsel, helping her formulate how the French approach can be modified to work in the New World. Although I’ve been steeped in French tradition, I’m beginning to have a feeling for how things work in New York, and Ava welcomes my ideas with enthusiasm. She begins to look at me with new eyes, grateful for my help. I am earning her respect and am surprised by how gratifying that is to me.
Meanwhile, love has struck once again in La Maison. Charles and his German clan arrive first thing Tuesday morning, just as Faust awakes from dormancy. And from the moment Uta, their leader, lays eyes on him, the die is cast. She sets her sights on winning the foreigner’s heart and pours all her energy into showing him the best possible time during the rest of his stay in Paris. Her resolve is unbreakable. She is love-struck, and if Faust doesn’t immediately feel the same, no matter. She’ll wait it out.
Faust seems stunned by her attentions at first, not sure how to respond to her fluorescent hair, piercings, and tattoos. But her utter disregard of pretense finally wins him over. And by the end of the week, when she tells him she wants him to stay in Europe, he notifies Ava and me that he won’t be returning with us.
Kate and Vincent. Charlotte and Ambrose. Uta and Faust. It’s romance central at my Paris home—like Cupid packed up his quiver of arrows and moved into La Maison.
One morning, after studying maps of the Paris sewer systems side by side with diagrams of Manhattan subway, flood, and sewage tunnels, I notice Ava rubbing her eyes. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, my eyes are just burning from focusing for so long,” she says, raising her arms in a stretch and rolling her head from side to side.
“Have you seen the armory yet?” I ask.
“Only quickly when Kate gave me the house tour,” she says. “But a workout is exactly what I could use right now.”
“You should take advantage of having a European arms master at your disposal,” I say, bumping Gaspard with my elbow.
Gaspard rolls up an ancient map that he had been showing us and shakes his head. “Any time I get away from helping America’s new Champion strategize for a potential underground offensive against the numa, or, as Ambrose so charmingly dubbed it, ‘Attack of the Mole People’ . . .”
Ambrose fake-salutes and says, “Glad to contribute where I can.”
“. . . I need to help Charlotte with the wedding,” Gaspard finishes.
Ambrose rubs his hands together. “I’m always up for a fight. I’ll join you.” He stands and stretches his arms, cracking his neck and bouncing up and down on his toes.
As the three of us make our way down to the armory, Ambrose quizzes Ava on the type of weapons used by American revenants, and she explains the gun/sword combo. “Besides swords, the only weapon we really use is modified bow and arrow.”
“No crossbows? No battle-axes?” Ambrose asks. “How about scythes, maces, quarterstaffs?”
Ava shakes her head. “We have all sorts of specialized weapons in the Warehouse’s armory, but I’ve never seen anyone use them. I wouldn’t even know how to hold a few of them.”
Ambrose rubs his hands. “Then you, my American sister, are in for a treat.” I follow them down the stairs into the basement armory and show Ava where Kate and Charlotte keep their fighting gear. Ambrose rips off his shirt and pulls on a tight tank top over a pair of loose shorts. I would normally fight in just some drawstring karate pants, but I toss a soft gray T-shirt on top, knowing that Americans are a bit more sensitive to bared skin. And then
I remember that Ava was a part of Warhol’s Factory, and strip it back off.
Ambrose notices my wardrobe hesitation and winks. “You look better like that,” he fake-whispers.
And then Ava walks out, and we’re both rooted to the spot. Her hair is bundled up on the top of her head, and she wears the one-piece catsuit that Charlotte uses when there’s a risk of getting sliced up.
Ambrose lets out a low whistle. “You are looking good, girl. And I’m saying that in a completely non-sleazy, I-love-my-fiancée kind of way.” Ava looks pleased. Her gaze swings to me.
I hold up my hands. “I could say the same thing, but since I don’t have a fiancée to hide potential sleaziness behind, I won’t risk anything beyond, ‘Why, Mademoiselle Whitefoot, you are looking extremely well today.’”
She bursts out laughing, and then, surveying my bare chest with a twinkle in her eye, says, “You are looking quite well yourself, Monsieur Marchenoir.”
I give her a low bow. Ambrose moans. “Come on, guys. Let’s get this fight on the road.” And grabbing a quarterstaff from its pegs on the wall, he throws it to Ava, who catches it without batting an eye.
And for the next hour we spar, switching weapons from time to time to change things up. Though Ava hasn’t used most of them, she follows Ambrose’s and my examples and quickly catches on. The three of us are fighting, sweating, quipping, teasing, laughing, and I can’t remember the last time that I have felt so good.
That night at dinner, Ambrose takes a chair next to Charlotte and, putting his arm around her, nods toward me. “Check out Jules,” he says.
“I know,” she says, and lays her head on his shoulder.
“What?” I ask.
She grins at me. “You look almost happy.”
Ava’s eyes dart over to meet my own, and I feel my face redden. “Yeah, must be the fact that I’m back in Paris.”
“Told you he missed us,” Ambrose says, and pulls Charlotte to him in a powerful side-hug.
