by Amy Plum
“No, you didn’t, but I know anyway. And I don’t want him to feel he has to do that for me. It just seems like all our problems would be solved if I was a revenant like him.”
Jules shook his head in amazement. “All your problems would be solved? What . . . by you having to die? Not even knowing if you’ll reanimate?”
“That’s why we’re here,” I protested.
“Even so! Even if this guy tells you that you have the latent possibility of becoming a revenant, are you going to believe him?” Jules waved his hand toward the hundreds of knickknacks as proof of the man’s craziness.
“I don’t know. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out. At least if he gives me a definitive no, I can put that hope behind me.”
“You hope to be a revenant? You hope to be locked into an eternity of living to die? Over and over again? Of becoming obsessed with your rescues? Of being bound by something that controls you?”
“Saving people’s lives isn’t such a dishonorable raison d’être,” I spat back.
Jules sighed. “You’re right, Kate. There is a fulfilling side to being what we are. To knowing that you have saved people—delivered them from death for however more years they remain on earth. Changing their future, and that of their family and loved ones. But there are so many drawbacks to being a revenant.”
“More drawbacks than being human?” I asked.
Unable to answer, he just pitched himself back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
Monsieur Pelletier returned holding an ancient-looking notebook and flipping through its pages as he walked. “Let’s see here . . . ,” he murmured, and then, glancing up at me, explained, “My grandmother’s notes.”
He sat down in his armchair and continued turning the thin pages, which were filled with old, spidery-looking writing. “Warts, burns, eczema”—he stopped and peered more closely at a faded page—“‘Them,’” he read. Looking up at Jules, he said, “She only refers to your type here as ‘Them.’ But I know you’re what she’s talking about. Stories have been passed down through the family.”
“Like what?” asked Jules.
“Are you family?” the man asked abruptly.
“No,” Jules admitted, taken aback.
“Then don’t ask.” He looked down at his book. “Mamie wasn’t very good about explaining things. When she passed the gift to my dad, she just told him to trust his instincts. Which is exactly what he said when he handed the gift to me. Dead now, both of them, so it’s not like I can call them up and ask.”
“What’s the book say?” I asked, impatient. I couldn’t see what was written from where I was sitting, but there wasn’t much on the page.
“Well, it says, ‘Them’ and then it says, ‘You can tell from their aura.’” He closed the book. “That’s all it says.”
“Do I have an aura?” I asked.
“Of course, everyone has an aura,” he responded, as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard.
“Well?” I asked. “What’s it tell you?”
“See, now, I’m not really sure. You have a human aura, but it’s a strange one, that’s for sure. It’s kind of sizzling, shooting off little sparks around you. Whereas his”—he looked back at Jules, shaking his head as he studied him—“his looks like a damn forest fire. Never seen anything like it. He’s definitely one of ‘Them.’”
“What’s all that supposed to mean?”
“Where you from?” he asked, sidestepping my question.
“New York.”
“Well, you see. I don’t get out much. Been to the beach a couple times. Went up to Normandy once.” He pointed toward an ashtray with a picture of a boat on it as if providing evidence. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever met someone from New York before. Especially someone who keeps this type of company,” he said, nodding to Jules. “So maybe you don’t have that odd of an aura for someone like that.”
“Your aura can change with the people you hang out with?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nice teenage kid starts hanging out with the wrong crowd at school—stealing, doing drugs, whatever—their aura can change from one week to the next. Core stays the same. It’s the part around the edges that changes.”
“But you can’t tell from mine if it has the potential to be like his,” I said, interrupting him.
“Of course not. You’d have to die first.” This pronouncement sent him into a fit of coughing, as if all this excitement was too much for his lungs to take. “That’s enough to change anyone’s aura,” he said when he had composed himself.
This was a total waste of time, I thought, and began to rise.
“Listen, missy. All I can tell is you’re different from any other human being I know. That’s for sure. But heck, as far as I know, you might be some other sort of . . . mystical being or whatever it is these guys are. You might not be one of them. Might be something else completely.”
He pried himself from his chair and said, “Sorry I can’t be of more help. I could keep looking into it . . . see if I can’t find anything else in my ancestors’ documents. Let me just write down my telephone number for you,” and he left the room again. I heard him digging around in the hallway while Jules and I grabbed our coats and walked toward the door.
Jules picked up a ceramic figurine standing among a dozen others on the entry table. It was a dancing fawn playing the panpipes. “Believe in me, little girl,” Jules said in a tiny voice, jiggling the fawn as it spoke. “My owner knows the secrets of the universe. Which is why he keeps me and a hundred other freaky knickknacks hanging around his living room.”
“Put that down,” I whispered to Jules as Monsieur Pelletier bustled back into the room holding a piece of paper in his extended hand. “Call me in a few weeks. Probably won’t have anything else for you, but you never know.”
Jules bowed slightly as he started out the door.
I nudged him, and he set the fawn figurine back on the table. “Just wanted a souvenir from this nuthouse,” I heard him mutter.
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face the man once I was outside on his doorstep.
He glanced briefly at Jules and lowered his voice. “It’s probably none of my business, but why’s a nice girl like you getting mixed up with a bunch of monsters?”
“They’re not monsters. They’re more like angels.”
“They’re the walking dead. Why do you want to know if you’re like them? Got a death wish or something?”
“No. I’m in love with one.”
That shut him up for an entire ten seconds. He rubbed the top of his head miserably and said, “Dangerous company you’re keeping. That’s all I’ve got to say. In any case, I feel bad I wasn’t able to do anything for you.” With visible effort, he replaced his concerned expression with a joking smile. “You don’t have any warts, now, do you?”
“No,” I said, stifling a laugh. “No eczema, no warts, no baby. But I’ll be sure to call you if anything changes.”
He nodded and put his hand up in the air for a final good-bye.
Jules was waiting for me on the other side of the gnome minefield. When I looked back, the door was closed. The man had disappeared inside, and with him, my one chance to discover if I could hope for a different future.
ALTERNATE “KATE GETS BANNED” SCENARIO
The next day Georgia and I stepped out of the Métro at the rue du Bac stop to see a welcome committee waiting for us. Violette, Ambrose, and Jules were lined up in front of the magazine kiosk, standing solemn and unspeaking, as if they didn’t know one another.
“Wow, what happened here? You found a wrinkle and finally realize you’re as old as the crypt-keeper?” Georgia jibed, looking Violette up and down as if they were the last two competitors in a beauty pageant.
As soon as she spoke, Jules approached me so fast he was almost running. “Kate, everything’s going to be okay. I told Violette and Ambrose not to come, but JB told Ambrose to tell you, and Violette wanted to be here to support yo
u. But I wanted to be the one. . . .”
He paused, seeing the confusion on my face, and, ignoring everyone else, took me into his arms. “This is pure stupidity, Kate. It has nothing to do with any of us, and we will fight it to the end.”
“Fight what? What happened?” I asked, pulling back and searching those chestnut-brown eyes that felt as familiar to me now as a brother’s.
Ambrose and Violette walked forward until they were flanking us, and Ambrose said with a shake of his head, “Katie-Lou, Jean-Baptiste has banned you from coming to the house. And he wants us to stay away from you. He asked me to give you the message. But off the record, I have to say, I think he has gone completely bonkers. And although the house is his, we’re not. No one’s going to abandon you.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, stunned. As the realization of what they were saying set in, my body went slack and Jules tightened his grip on me.
“He says he has reason to think you were fraternizing with numa. That you passed them some valuable information,” Violette responded. Pulling me away from Jules, she took my hands lightly in her own. “Oh, dear Kate. What abominably horrible news to pass on to someone I consider a friend.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Um, excuse me, she’s mine,” Georgia said, jerking me away from Violette’s grasp.
“Georgia!” I hissed, touching Violette’s arm in contrition.
“I have to say, I’ve been waiting for this,” my sister said, grabbing my hand back and holding it in hers. “That aristo-snob stepfather of yours has gone too far this time. Banning me from your house, I understand. I made a very unfortunate choice in hooking up with an evil zombie whose only goal in his happily shortened afterlife was destroying the lot of you. I’m also not always Little Miss Sunshine and Daisies. If I don’t like someone, they’re going to know it.” With this, she threw a burning glare in Violette’s direction.
“But”—and she hesitated here, long enough to look the revenants in the eyes, each in turn—“my sister is better than me. She’s a prize. More loyal to people than they ever merit. If your leader”—and she paused on this word, as if challenging them to contest his control—“doesn’t have faith in her, well then, he doesn’t deserve her. None of you do.” And taking me by the arm, Georgia pulled me away from them and across the street toward home.
I awoke the next morning with a sense of expectancy. Something was different. I could feel it as my brain moved from fuzzy to clear. And then, before anything could register, I heard my phone ring. I picked it up and groggily said, “Hi.”
“Kate, before you open your eyes . . . know that I love you.”
And then it all came back. The hot flush of shame bleeding down through my face. I was banned. Banned from the house of the one who I loved. Banned from my only real friends. Although they said they wouldn’t respect Jean-Baptiste’s wishes, my seeing them would put them in opposition to the man who was like a father to them. I couldn’t be responsible for that. I was basically alone now.
As if he heard my thoughts, Vincent responded, “You’re not alone. We’re all behind you.”
“You’re not all behind me. Jean-Baptiste actually banned me. He said he thought I was the leak. As if!”
“I know, Kate. I spoke with everyone this morning as soon as I became volant. Jean-Baptiste refuses to tell me why he did what he did. Trust me—I don’t think I will ever forgive him.”
“Vincent,” I breathed. “The last thing I want to do is pit you against Jean-Baptiste. But I wish I could understand. What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything,” came Vincent’s words. “I don’t know what has possessed him, but as soon as he realizes his error, he will regret it. And when he realizes how much he has hurt me by hurting you—unfoundedly—I can only hope that things will change. Permanently. Kate . . . this will all turn out fine. Better than fine. I promise. I’m coming back. Today. I’ll be at your house by tonight.”
That day at school was pure hell. It didn’t matter what Vincent had said. Or that no one at school had any clue what I was mixed up in. Forget the Scarlet Letter. A red A sewn to my sweater would have been a welcome alternative to feeling like I was wearing a huge sign that read, Rejected—by dead people.
But when three o’clock came around, I found Jules and Ambrose waiting outside the school in their 4x4. Georgia took one look at them and walked directly to the bus stop. For my sister to refuse a ride home, I knew she was making a major statement.
“So,” I said, hands on my hips, “what are you guys doing here at the American School of Paris?”
“Um, officially, Katie-Lou, we’re ‘walking.’” Ambrose said, making the huge vehicle look like a baby’s playpen as he popped the top back and lifted his massive frame up from within.
“That would mean you’re protecting a human from life-threatening circumstances,” I said, peering around behind myself as if looking for someone being pounced on in the ultrasafe Parisian suburb.
“Come on, Kates,” Jules said. “We’re just checking on you. Vincent told us you didn’t want him hanging around today. We thought we could cheer you up.”
I eyed them for a few seconds, and then asked, “Hey, do you guys have business expenses?”
They both stared at me quizzically.
“Do you have one of Jean-Baptiste’s credit cards?” I clarified. The two boys nodded, confused.
“Georgia!” I called. “We’re going out. Jean-Baptiste’s treat!”
My sister was in the 4x4 in ten seconds flat.
For some crazy reason, knowing that Jean-Baptiste paid for high tea for four at Angelina made me feel a lot better. Like he had said “sorry”—only against his will. Over the steaming-hot pots of chocolate and plates of meringues and butter cookies, we talked about everything but the reason I was there and not back hanging out with Vincent’s dead body in his bedroom.
But finally I had to say something. “Gaspard told me . . . well, I sort of tricked him into telling me . . . that it was Arthur who told JB I had talked to the numa. As if I would even know any numa to talk to!”
A look passed between Ambrose and Jules. “Yeah, we heard that,” Ambrose said. “But it’s not his fault, he just passed along the message from another revenant.”
“Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Arthur has something against me? Maybe not as a human, but because he doesn’t think humans and revenants should mix? Maybe he wants me out of the house, and this was a good opportunity?” I asked, slathering a dollop of whipped cream atop my cup of melted chocolate.
“Ha!” Ambrose laughed. He shoveled half the cookies off the three-tiered platter in the middle of the table and onto his delicate flowered plate.
“You guys know that I’m totally innocent,” I insisted.
“Yes, we do,” Jules said, reaching over and tousling my hair. “But we also know that Arthur is one solid dude.”
“So what do you guys think?” I asked. “Who would leak information about your house to the numa?”
Ambrose shrugged. He studied a macaroon as if he were hoping it would double in size from the pure intensity of his stare.
“There isn’t one among us who would betray the rest of the group to our enemies. It’s unimaginable. Therefore, it had to be some sort of mistake,” Jules said matter-of-factly, and raised his hand to flag the waiter.
(Much later, after Violette has betrayed them all . . .)
Jean-Baptiste looked at me curiously for a second and then shook his head dismissively. “Now that Arthur has explained everything, I believe that Violette was lying. But I must impress upon you the fact that I had to trust her. She is one of us.”
“So just because she’s a revenant and I’m human, that makes her more credible than me?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you feel now that she’s gone all Anakin Skywalker on you?”
“Kate, you have to understand, we live by a certain creed. I would always believe a revenant over a human.”
“Looks like that’s turned out real well for you,” I seethed. I seriously wanted to hurt this man.
“You are completely justified in your anger, Kate. How can I convince you of my regret? Besides, of course, reversing the ban on you. And your sister. You are both of course welcome—”
I cut him off. “You know where you can put your welcome, you hypocritical old bastard. All I want is my boyfriend back.”
KATE GOES WITH AMBROSE TO LOOK FOR VINCENT’S BODY
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. A blast of heavy-metal music came through the earpiece, as a voice speaking in an American accent said, “I’m parked in front of the house, Katie-Lou. Put on your fighting gear and get your butt outside. We’re going to find your boyfriend.”
We looked like a scene straight out of a fantasy role-playing game: a dozen characters entering a cave, dressed in leather and Kevlar and carrying enormous medieval-looking weapons.
Ambrose had decided to lead a search party to the man-made caves, old gypsum mines, that honeycomb beneath Montmartre. Not only had Violette met the numa at Sacré-Coeur, but several of the Paris revenants reported back to Jean-Baptiste that they had sighted numa in the area, so it seemed a logical choice.
Jules had gone with a group led by Gaspard, who was following another tip in the south of Paris. Without a volant guide, we were entering the caves with no idea of what we would find inside. Even so, I wasn’t afraid. Over the last hour my despair had transformed into a burning determination. The only thing that mattered to me was finding Vincent, and I was ready to face anything to get to him. I could tell that the others felt the same: The revenants accompanying us marched unflinchingly forward, with jaws set and weapons at the ready.
The cave opening was large enough to drive a car into, and the fresh tire tracks in the dusty cave soil made it clear that someone had been there recently. Our party filed silently in, and then, following Ambrose’s gesture, turned to walk two by two into a dark passageway leading downhill from the entrance.
