by Amy Plum
“Ha! Yes, I am really. Or rather, my family is. Although I’ve never been consulted on the subject of revenants. It’s been a few hundred years since one of us has. So this is quite exciting for me, really.” Her eyes sparkled, as if to prove it. “You must have found both of the books?”
“Um, yes. How did you know?”
“Ah, well, we had a bit of a problem back in the eighteenth century. Some of the baddies—the numa, they’re called—got their hands on one of the books and came to find us. Very nasty occasion, that was. So my ancestor took possession of it and tracked down the nobleman who owned the only other existing copy. They are the ones that did that little bit of ink work on the two manuscripts to make us hard, but not impossible, to find. We do have our purposes,” she clucked proudly. “You don’t happen to have the books with you, do you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Well, that’s a shame. I would have loved to see them. All I’ve got is a handwritten copy of the text that my ancestor made. We couldn’t exactly keep the originals. That would be a bit counterproductive, wouldn’t it?”
“Um, yes,” I said, working hard to keep my thoughts moving as rapidly as she was throwing out new information.
“So, tell me . . .” She waited.
“Kate. Kate Mercier.”
“Tell me, Kate Mercier, what have you to ask me?” She spoke the words as if they were a formula she had been told to follow.
“I . . . I’m in love. With a revenant.”
The woman’s face dropped. “Oh, my dear.”
Her look of pity only bolstered my resolve. “He’s still young: He’s only been a revenant for eighty-five years. So the compulsion to die often is still really strong. I love him. But I’m not strong enough to stay with someone who dies the gruesome deaths they do . . . over and over again.”
“Very few would be, my dear. Unless you cast all feeling from your heart, it would be a terribly traumatic life for you. And if you were able to succeed in numbing your emotions to that extent, well, you wouldn’t be the same sensitive girl that you are now—the girl that he fell in love with.”
I thanked her silently for understanding. “I’m searching for a way to ease the suffering that comes with his resisting death. So that he can hold out for longer. Perhaps for my lifetime,” I said, but in my mind the words were, Until I die. “I don’t want him to suffer for me.”
“I understand,” she said, sighing. “But I must tell you, I don’t have any kind of mystical cure sitting around. No bottle of healing unguent or potion hidden away in a cupboard. As you remember, the boy in the story never made it to my ancestor in the end. But after the story was passed to us, the gifted ones in my family have, over the ages, written down their thoughts on this and other matters.
“I will have to find my records, Kate, to see what I can come up with. There are things I know about the revenants. Secrets I’ve been given. But none of them would provide a solution to your particular problem. You have chosen a hard path, and I do not envy you that. But I will do my best to find something to ease the suffering—for both of you.”
She stood and walked to the door. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. I followed her down and into the shop, where we came to an abrupt halt as we took in the scene before us.
Jules stood in the middle of the room, the tip of his drawn sword pressed to the chest of the bottle-glassed man, who looked like he had shrunk a foot under the revenant’s fierce gaze.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man was stuttering. “There’s no one here but me!”
“I know the girl is here, now take me to her!” Jules roared, and pressed harder with the sword, trapping the man against the front desk.
“Jules, stop!” I yelled.
Both men turned, and Jules dropped his sword, slipping it into its sheath as he walked quickly in our direction.
“Kate. Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for me.
“An aura like a forest fire,” said the old woman, staring at Jules. “You are one of them.” And then, slowly, she curtsied as if he were visiting royalty.
“What the—” Jules said, astounded.
The lady stood and held out her hand for Jules to take. “I am Gwenhaël, and this is my son, Bran.” She gestured toward the bug-eyed man, whose hand was clutching his chest as if Jules had actually wounded him.
Jules threw me a What the hell is going on? look, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Is this the boy in question?” the woman asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Well,” she responded, studying Jules’s face as if trying to memorize everything she saw for future reflection. Jules raised his eyebrows and looked at me pointedly.
“We are honored to have your visit, sir,” she said finally, and then turned to me. “As we are to have yours, dear Kate. Give me a week and then come back. That will give me time to go through all my ancestors’ texts. Maybe I will have some information that can help you.”
“Merci, Madame . . .”
“Just Gwenhaël,” she responded, and patted my hand. “I will see you in a week.”
Keeping a careful distance from Jules, Bran handed me a card with only a telephone number printed on it. “You can call before you come. Save you a trip. Good-bye,” he said, giving us a quick bow and then staring at us with his huge, reflected eyes as we stepped out of the store and into the street.
We had barely taken three steps before Jules turned to me. “Do you plan on telling me what that was about?”
“No,” I responded stubbornly.
“Then you plan on telling Vincent about it?”
“At some point, yes.”
Jules shook his head. “You were in there for twenty-five minutes. You could have at least waved from the window to let me know you were okay.” He looked angry, but I could tell it was because he had been worried sick.
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
We got into the car, and Jules pulled out of the parking lot and headed south. After fifteen minutes of silence, he spoke. “Kate, you have to tell me what you were doing back there with that crazy old lady and Raven-boy.”
“Raven-boy?”
“Bran. It’s a Breton name that means ‘raven.’”
Okay.
“Kate . . . how did that woman know what I was?”
“She’s a guérisseur whose family has links to the revenants.”
He paused, absorbing that information. “And you were there because . . .”
“I’m trying to find a way to help Vincent. So that he doesn’t have to finish this stupid experiment he’s doing at the moment. Whatever it is looks like it’s hurting him, not helping him.”
This seemed to defuse his tenseness, and his voice became softer. Understanding. “Honestly, Kate, I don’t even know what to say. I don’t think that you realize what you’re getting yourself into by exploring our world like this . . . by yourself. Those people could have been dangerous. They could still be dangerous. Everything having to do with revenants is. Because everything that has to do with us also includes the numa. Those people could have ties with our enemies.”
“They don’t, Jules. I’m sure of it. Gwenhaël even mentioned that her family had had a problem with numa hundreds of years ago.”
“WHAT? You see, Kate?” Jules yelled, banging his hand on the steering wheel.
“They aren’t aligned with the numa, Jules. They’re on your side. The revenants’ side. Our side. And I was never in danger.”
“And how do you know that from a twenty-minute chat?” Jules asked, his words short and clipped.
“I just know.”
“If the numa knew where this family of guérisseurs was hundreds of years ago, they might still know where they are now,” he said softly, almost to himself. He glanced at me, and then turned his gaze back to the road.
“Kate,” he said, weighing his words. “I care about you. You don’t even know how—” He cut himself off
before he could finish and placed his hand on mine. I felt its warmth for one long second before he squeezed tenderly and moved it back to the steering wheel. “And what you’re doing right now scares the hell out of me. Swear that you will not put yourself into a dangerous position like that again. Not by yourself. Not without warning one of us what you’re doing.”
“I swear,” I said.
“I’m not sure if I believe you, but I’ve said my piece.” He glanced over at me and then back at the road, gritting his teeth. “So, Kate. You think of me as a friend, right?”
I nodded, wondering what in the world could be coming next.
“Then why did you involve me in something like this? Vincent is the person I am closest to in this world. When he finds out I took you to that place, behind his back, he is going to go ballistic. And he won’t be mad at you. He’ll be mad at me.”
“You’re not going to tell him?” I gasped.
“No. I’m going to leave that to you.”
“Well, I will tell him,” I said, suddenly feeling defiant. “As soon as I have more information. While he’s making himself look like an anemic insomniac, I’m not just going to sit on my butt and wait for him to come up with a solution to our problems.”
As we pulled up in front of my house, Jules looked at me with a strained expression. “Kates, I’ve got to give it to you—you are one determined, ballsy chick. But if you ever plan on doing something that’s going to piss Vincent off, leave me out of it.” It was his tone of voice, his obvious loyalty to his kindred, that got to me.
“I swear I didn’t think it through before I asked you to do this,” I said, choking a little on the words. “The last thing I want to do is cause a problem between you and Vincent. I am sorry for that part, Jules.”
He nodded his acceptance of my apology. “Out,” he said with a tired smile.
After pulling myself from the car, I leaned back in and said, “Thanks,” and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Aren’t your grandparents going to wonder why you’re home so early?”
“Papy’s at his gallery, and Mamie’s working on a weeklong project at the Louvre. Unless you tell them, they’ll never know.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow morning, seven thirty sharp.”
My smile was difficult to pull off with the lump in my throat. “So you’ll still guard me?”
“With my life.” He gave me a one-handed salute, put the car into gear, and drove away.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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TWENTY-EIGHT
VINCENT PHONED THAT NIGHT WHILE I WAS doing my homework. “Guten Tag,” I said. He responded with a flood of German words, pronounced so quickly that even if I spoke German, I doubt I would have understood. “Um, danke? Lederhosen? Sorry. That’s all I can add to that conversation. So, getting off the topic of leather Alpen-wear . . . did you find Charles?”
“Yes, I did. I’m here in the house with Charles and the kindred he’s staying with.” From behind Vincent, speed metal was pumping so loudly that I could barely hear his voice.
“Why don’t you go outside?” I yelled into the phone.
“I am outside,” he said. “Just a sec.” And I listened as the music got farther and farther away. “Okay. I’m down the block now. Can you hear me?”
I laughed. “Just what kind of German ‘kindred’ have adopted Charles?”
“Well, I can definitely say that it’s a big change from Jean-Baptiste’s house.”
“Is Charles okay?”
“He’s not only okay. He actually seems happy—for a change. Although he feels pretty bad for abandoning Charlotte. He’s just not ready to come back yet. And believe it or not, I actually think this place is good for him.”
“That is great news!”
“Yeah. Now we just have to track down the revenant who gave Charles’s group the information. They don’t really know him that well, so they aren’t sure where to find him. I’ll probably be here another couple of days. And then I was thinking I should go to the south to see Charlotte. Fill her in on how Charles is doing and see how she and Geneviève are getting along.”
My heart plummeted. “So you won’t be back until next week, then.”
“Well, I was actually hoping that you’d come along with me. I thought you’d enjoy seeing Charlotte, and—more selfishly—I’ve been wanting to get away with you. To take you somewhere for once.”
My heart stopped its descent and shot back up, lodging in my throat so I could barely speak. “Us? Go on a trip? To the Côte d’Azur? Really?”
“Do you think your grandparents would be okay with that?”
I tried to compose myself, but my lungs insisted on hyperventilating. “Oh, Vincent, that would be so amazing! And if we’re staying with Charlotte and Geneviève, I know Mamie and Papy won’t mind.”
“Then it’s a plan. I’ll make sure I’m back from Berlin by Friday. If we take a four p.m. train, we’ll be in Nice by ten that night. And we can come back Sunday evening. It only gives us a day and a half there, but I wouldn’t want you to have to skip school.”
My face flushed. What would he say if he knew that I had skipped school—to do something he might not be happy about? And had made Jules my accomplice. Make that when he knows. I’m going to tell him, I thought. I just have to find the right time.
On Thursday, I asked Jules to make a detour at La Maison on the way home from school.
“What—do you miss Vincent so much you’re just going to hang out in his room?” he teased.
“No, I actually borrowed a book from Jean-Baptiste’s library and keep forgetting to return it.” Okay, why was that so easy to say to Jules when I couldn’t to Violette? I wondered.
“Ooh—beware . . . you risk the wrath of Gaspard, Guardian of the Books. Which, I can assure you, is truly something to fear,” he said, narrowing his eyes and lifting his eyebrows dramatically.
I laughed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded if I had asked. But since I didn’t, I wanted to return it before he notices it’s gone.”
“You are a very conscientious young woman,” Jules quipped, and I play-punched him in the shoulder. He waited for me in the car as I ran into the house, and seeing no one around, I went directly to the library.
The door was open, so I fished the book out of my bag and unwrapped it from the scarf I had used to protect it from stray pens and hairbrushes. I had just pulled the box off the shelf when I heard someone clear his throat. Whipping around, I scanned the room to see Arthur sitting in a corner—pen and notebook balanced on his knee and a pile of open books scattered around him.
“Hello, Kate,” he said.
“Uh, hi, Arthur,” I replied, slipping the book into the box and replacing it on the shelf as quickly as I could. As if I went fast, he wouldn’t notice. Silly me.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked.
“Oh, just a book I found the other day,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted, while knowing full well that I was the worst actress in the world. I was practically radiating guilt vibes.
“About what?”
Suddenly my mood switched and I thought, What business is it of his, anyway? “It was about werewolves. No, wait . . . maybe it was vampires. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a clueless human, and it’s so easy for me to get all of you monsters mixed up.”
He stood and took a step toward me. “Kate, I apologize for humiliating you in front of everyone. I really didn’t”—he hesitated, weighing his words—“want to. But it is true that there is information that humans shouldn’t possess. Things we discuss in our meetings. Even the books in this library. Not because you don’t deserve to. But because it could put you in danger.”
Furious, I held my hand up in a “talk to it” gesture. “Don’t even get started, Arthur, because I don’t want to hear it.” I fingered the signum under the fabric of my shirt, as if dra
wing strength from the fact that at least one revenant—the only one who really mattered to me—thought of me as kindred. And then the dam burst.
“You might be from a time when humans were looked down on by beings like yourself. A time when men were the only ones considered smart enough to educate”—I gestured toward his pile of books—“and girls like Violette had to have protectors. But this is the twenty-first century. And I’ve got this”—I pulled out the signum and held it up for him to see—“that says I’m kindred. And I’ve got this”—I pointed at my head—“that says I’m as smart as you. And I have this”—I held up my middle finger—“that says go to hell, you immortal bigot.”
And with that I spun around and stomped out the door, filing the expression on Arthur’s face in a mental folder labeled “Kate’s Proudest Moments.”
Friday afternoon Vincent and I arrived at the Gare de Lyon to find pure chaos. The railroad employees were on one of their frequent strikes, and only one out of three trains was scheduled to leave. We checked the departures board to find our train.
“Canceled,” read Vincent. Seeing my face fall, he squeezed my hand. “Don’t give up yet. Let’s see when the next train is.” He worked his way down the list, mouthing the names of the destinations silently to himself until he found it: “Paris–Nice: tomorrow morning, getting in at two in the afternoon.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “We won’t even be there for twenty-four hours . . . that is, if there even is a train back when we need it.” I looked from the board to him. “How long does it take to drive?”
“Eight and a half hours if we don’t stop and if there’s no traffic. On a Friday night we wouldn’t make it in less than ten. So driving’s not an option.” He thought for a moment and then pulled out his phone and began texting. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s find a taxi.”
A half hour later we were at Le Bourget Airport, boarding a tiny private jet. “It’s Jean-Baptiste’s. We only use it in case of emergencies,” Vincent yelled over the noise of the engine as we walked up the stairs.
