by Amy Plum
WHEN GEORGIA AND I LEFT OUR BUILDING THE next morning to see Jules waiting for us in his car, my heart did a little leap. Vincent must have already left. I checked my phone to see his good-bye text, and the heart-leap became a staccato patter. Today was my day.
“So what’s up with the chauffeur service?” I asked as I jumped into the front with him while Georgia settled in the back.
“Vincent would have been here this morning, but he had a flight at six a.m. Which means he was at the airport at five.”
“Good thing you guys don’t sleep,” I said.
From habit, Jules’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to see if Georgia had heard. And then I saw him remember—She already knows—and he relaxed again.
He does think of me as one of them now, I mused, and I smiled as I touched the pendant hidden under my shirt.
“That’s actually not my question. What have we done to deserve a ride to school? Were there more numa attacks during the night?”
I meant it as a joke, but Jules’s unchanged expression informed me that I had hit the nail on the head. “No!” I gasped.
“Yes, two other revenant homes in the Paris area were ransacked—one last night and the other early this morning, both times when the occupants were out.”
“So what’s that have to do with us?” piped up Georgia from the backseat. “Not that I don’t appreciate door-to-door service to high school, of course.”
Jules peered at Georgia in the mirror. “That attack after your boyfriend’s concert, followed a week later by four break-ins by our enemies, all adds up to the fact that the numa are back in action. And Vincent is worried that you, Kate, could be a target.”
“Why me?”
“The numa know he’s JB’s second, and they know you’re with him. Kidnapping you—or worse—would be the perfect way to provoke him. Vincent just wants someone to keep an eye on you until he’s back and can do it himself.”
That was a lot to process. “I feel like saying that I can fend for myself. But after facing off with those guys in the alley, I think I’ll just thank you for the offer and shut up about it.”
“So, Jules,” Georgia said, leaning forward, “not that I’m not appreciative that you are protecting my sister from evil murderous zombies. But since that conversation’s run its course”—she paused for effect—“Kate tells me that Arthur is a writer.”
To my dismay, my sister had not given up on her crush on Arthur. And ever since she and Sebastien had broken up the previous week, she had mentioned the revenant at least once a day.
“He asked about you, actually,” Jules said matter-of-factly.
“He did?” Georgia purred. “Do tell!”
“He was just wondering if you had recovered from the trauma of your numa attack. He saw you on the street the other day and said you looked well.”
“Looked well? I wonder if that means ‘looked hot’ in fifteenth-century speak?”
“And she’s off,” I murmured, drawing a laugh from Jules.
“No offense,” he continued, “but I think what interests him is that Violette seems to hate you so much. It provides entertainment for that otherwise dull practically-married-without-benefits life of his.”
“Mmm . . . benefits,” Georgia said, rolling the word around in her mouth like it was candy. “Be sure to mention to Arthur that I’m single again, you know, when the topic of me comes up.”
I shook my head, and Jules burst out laughing. As we pulled up to the school, and Georgia got out of the car, I leaned over to him. “Can you wait for a minute?” He nodded, looking confused, as I stepped out of the car.
“Georgia, I’m skipping today. Can you cover for me?”
My sister eyed me curiously. “This is so unlike you that I’m assuming it must be of vital importance. Like Nancy Drew–style sleuthing for questionably existent healers kind of importance. Hmm. What’ll you swap for my silence?” She smiled craftily.
“Okay, okay. I’ll make sure Jules puts in a good word with Arthur.”
“Make it a date with Arthur, and I’ll write you a sick note signed by Mamie.”
I laughed—“I’ll see what I can do”—and turned to get back into the car.
“Hey, Kate,” Georgia called, her voice serious now. I hesitated. “Be careful, whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Promise,” I said, throwing her an air-kiss and lowering myself into the passenger seat.
“What’s up, Kates?” Jules said unsurely, fiddling with the radio dial.
“A day trip,” I said.
That got his full attention. “Where to?”
“To Saint-Ouen.”
“You’re skipping school to go to the flea market? Does Vincent know you’re doing this? Wait . . . don’t tell me. Of course he doesn’t or you’d wait till he got back to go.”
“Did Vincent ask you to guard me today?” I asked. Jules nodded. “Well, I’m going to Saint-Ouen. So you can either drop me off at the Métro station or take me there yourself. Whatever your guard-sense feels is right.”
Jules’s lips formed an amused smile. “Kates, has anyone ever told you that you are one persuasive girl? Are you on the debate team at school?”
I shook my head.
“Pity,” he said as he put the car in gear. Swinging it around to face Paris, he gunned the motor and we were off.
“Jules?”
“Um . . . hmm?”
“How did you die?”
We had been stuck in traffic on the Périphérique for a half hour. Up to now our conversation had consisted of small talk—which meant in the revenants’ case things like how Ambrose and Jules had recently saved people in a tourist bus that drove into the Seine. But I had been wondering this for a while, and sitting in gridlock felt like the perfect time to ask.
“I mean, you told me you died in World War One,” I continued, “but did you die saving one particular person, or was it more the abstract fact that you were defending your countrymen as a soldier?”
“There aren’t any abstracts in becoming a revenant,” Jules replied. “Just fighting in a war doesn’t count. If it did, there’d probably be a lot more of us.”
“So who did you save?”
“A friend of mine. I mean, not exactly a friend, but another artist whose group I hung out with in Paris before the war. Name was Fernand Léger.”
“The Fernand Léger?” I gasped.
“Oh, you’ve heard of him?” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Come on, Jules. You know I love art.”
“Well, he wasn’t as famous as the others in his group: Picasso, Braque, Gris.”
“He’s famous enough for me to know him. And wasn’t it his gallery at the Museum of Modern Art that I saw you hanging out in last summer? You know . . . when you pretended you were someone else because I recognized you from the subway crash?”
Jules grinned at the memory. It was his postmortem appearance that had sent me running back to Jean-Baptiste’s house to apologize to Vincent, only to find him dead on his bed. Which led me to my discovery of what he was. A historic day in the life of Kate Mercier, to be sure.
“Yeah, he’s got an unrecognizable portrait of me hanging in there. Not very flattering. I look like a robot. Actually more like a robot-skeleton. Which is understandable, I guess, since I was dead by the time he painted it.”
“Are you talking about The Card Players?” I asked in awe.
“Yeah. There was a lot of downtime in between fighting. We played a lot of cards. After the war, when I was volant this one time, I overheard him telling someone that the soldier on the right was the one who saved him. But I still can’t see a resemblance for the life of me.” Jules cracked a smile at his own joke.
“How did it happen? I mean the saving bit?”
“Gave him my respirator during a German mustard-gas attack. Once I was down, the enemy came through and shot all of us who were on the ground.”
What an awful way to die, I thought. Althou
gh I was horrified, I tried to make my voice sound matter-of-fact so that he would keep on talking. “Why did you do it?”
“I was young and he was an older, established artist. I respected him. Worshipped him, in a way.”
“Even so, how many starstruck kids would give up their life for their hero?”
Jules shrugged. “I’ve talked about it with other revenants. We all feel like in our human life there was something inside us that was almost suicidally philanthropic. It’s the only characteristic we all have in common.”
He was silent after that, leaving me to wonder if I would have what it took to give my life for someone else. I suppose it was something I wouldn’t know until I was there, on the spot—looking death in the face.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into a parking lot a few blocks away from Le Corbeau.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Jules asked for the fortieth time.
“Nope,” I said as we got out of the car. Spying a tiny café nearby, I gestured to it and said, “But you can wait for me there.”
“The answer to that command is ‘Non, madame la capitaine.’ Not on your life am I letting you go on some unknown errand—one you obviously don’t want Vincent to know about—on your own. You guilt-tripped me into bringing you here by appealing to my sense of duty in guarding you. Now you’ve got to live with what you asked for.”
We stared each other down for a few seconds. But when I saw he wasn’t going to budge, I nodded, and we began walking in the direction of the shop. It was actually nice to have him along, because I was starting to feel nervous—unsure of how I would handle things when I got there.
From a block away I could see that the lights were on, and my heart started pounding like crazy. The carved raven atop the sign seemed to regard us menacingly as we neared. We came to a stop outside the door, and Jules turned to me with the most incredulous look on his face. “You dragged me halfway across Paris to buy a”—he peered at the window display, and then back at me—“a plaster Virgin Mary?”
“No.”
“Then what?” He glanced back. “A Pope John Paul night-light? Kate, what the hell are we doing here?”
“The question is, ‘What am I doing here?’ and the answer is, ‘It’s none of your business, Jules.’ I’m sorry for dragging you along, but there’s something I need to do. And I would rather you wait out here.”
“What?” Jules shouted.
“I have to talk to the owner about something. If I’m wrong about it, I’ll be back out in a second. If I’m right, it might take a little more time. But it’s something I want to do myself.”
“Kate, I honestly don’t know how Vincent puts up with you. You are . . . infuriating.”
“But you’ll do what I ask?”
Jules ran his hand through his curls, looking very unhappy. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. If you’re not out, I’m coming in to get you.” And he stalked off to sit on the step of a boarded-up storefront across the street.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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TWENTY-SEVEN
I PUSHED THE DOOR SOFTLY. WHEN IT DIDN’T budge, I put more force into it, practically bursting into the shop when the sticky door finally gave way. I glanced around self-consciously to see a room chock-full of stuff, even more crowded than the window displays. And from the looks of things, I could tell they had put the cheap inventory in the windows—probably to discourage theft—because surrounding me were the most interesting objects I had ever seen outside a museum.
A very old ivory Madonna—the sway in the hip on which she balanced her child following the natural curve of the elephant tusk—sat next to an ornate box—a reliquary—with a realistic metal finger attached to the lid. Old coins with images of saints on them, antique rosaries hanging from every available protrusion, and crucifixes made of precious metals and stones. Although each piece was individually beautiful in its own way, with all of them amassed chaotically together in such a small space, the place felt seriously creepy. Like a tomb stocked with goods for the afterlife.
I stared at the front desk for an entire second before I realized that someone was behind it—staring right back at me. He stood so unnaturally still that when he spoke, I jumped. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. What can I do for you?” he said in a slightly accented French.
My hand flew to my heart. “I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I didn’t see you there.”
His head tilted slightly sideways at my words, as if he found the idea of someone being surprised by a speaking statue curious. What a strange man, I thought. With his slicked-back, dyed-black hair and the huge eyes that projected surreally from bottle-thick glasses, he looked like a cartoon version of the store’s avian namesake. Serious creep factor, I decided, shuddering.
“Um . . . someone told me that I could find a guérisseur here?” I said, my voice coming out embarrassingly timid.
He nodded oddly and stepped from behind the desk to display a skeletal frame dressed in strange, old-fashioned clothes. “My mother is the guérisseur. What ails you?”
I thought of my conversation with the woman in the next-door shop and blurted out, “Migraines.” There was something about this man—about this whole situation—that made me very nervous. If meeting the revenants was like traveling to a strange new country, this made me feel like Neil Armstrong, touching his toe to the virgin surface of the moon.
He nodded in comprehension and lifted a stick-figure arm to gesture toward a door at the back of the room. “This way, please.”
I wove my way through stacks of old books and waist-high statues of saints, and then followed him up a steep and winding set of stairs. He disappeared through a door on the landing, and then reappeared, waving me inside. “She will see you,” he said.
Upon entering the room, I noticed an elderly woman sitting by a fireplace in a worn green chair, knitting. She glanced up from her work and said, “Come, child,” nodding to an overstuffed armchair facing her own. As I stepped into the room, the man left, closing the door behind him.
“I hear you suffer from migraines. You are young for that type of affliction, but I have cured children as little as five years old. We’ll fix you right up.”
I settled myself in the chair.
“Now tell me about the very first time you experienced this problem,” she said, continuing her knitting.
“Actually, I don’t have migraines,” I said. “I came to talk to you about something else.”
She looked up, curious but not surprised. “Do tell, then.”
“I found this really old manuscript. Immortal Love, it was called. It talked about a guérisseur living in Saint-Ouen who had special abilities regarding . . . a certain type of being.”
Although I had planned my speech ahead of time, it wasn’t coming out right. Because now that I was here, I wasn’t at all sure of myself. Even though everything seemed to point to this being the right place, honestly . . . what were the chances that this old lady was the descendant of the healer in the book? After all these years? And out of the thousands of guérisseurs that must exist in France?
The woman’s needles stopped their clicking, and she stared at me, giving me her full attention for the first time. Suddenly I felt extremely foolish. “A certain type of immortal being . . . called a revenant,” I clarified.
She stared for another second, and then, placing her knitting in a tapestry bag next to her chair, she put her hand on her chest and leaned forward. At first I thought she was having some kind of attack. And then I realized she was laughing.
After a few seconds she stopped to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, dearie. I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that . . . people think that we guérisseurs are magic, which leads to all sorts of misconceptions. And I know that the shop below must add to my mystique—all the religious artifacts make locals think I’m a witch of some sort. But I’m
not. I’m just an old lady whose father passed a simple gift to her: the gift of healing. But that’s all there is to it. I can’t conjure up spirits. I can’t cast evil spells on your enemies. And I don’t know anything about . . . immortal whatever they are.”
I felt my face redden, not only from shame but from the weeks of pent-up expectation that had been mounting inside me. Which had all just run headfirst into a brick wall. My eyes stung, and I took a deep breath to keep myself from crying. “I am so sorry to have bothered you,” I said, and stood to go. “Um, am I supposed to give you something for your time?” I began fishing in my purse.
“Non,” she said sharply. Then, her voice softening, she said, “All I ask is that you write your name on one of those cards, and place it in the dish. That way I can send you good wishes in my prayers.” She nodded to a stack of index cards on the table next to my chair. I scribbled my name on the card and leaned over to place it in the bowl. And froze.
Painted on the inside of the dish was a pyramid inside a circle. A pyramid surrounded by flames. I spun to see the old woman sitting immobile, staring at me with one eyebrow raised. Waiting.
I thrust my hand inside my shirt, pulled out my pendant, and held the signum out for her to see.
She sat there stunned for a second, and then stood to face me. “Well, if you had shown me that when you arrived, we wouldn’t have had to go through this charade, my dear,” she said, her expression changing from distant and professional to complicit and friendly. “Welcome, little sister.”
It felt like a dozen bees were buzzing around in my head as I sank back down into the chair. I couldn’t believe it: Was this really happening?
“Are you okay, ma puce?” she said, looking worried, bustling over to a sideboard where she poured me a glass of water from a pitcher. She set it on the table next to me and then sat back down.
“Yes!” I said, a little too loudly, my voice sounding strange to my still-ringing ears. “Yes, I’m fine. I just . . . I’m so surprised that you’re really . . .” I didn’t know what else to say, so I just shut up and waited.
