by Amy Plum
Ambrose watched as we entered the school grounds, and once we were through the doors, he drove off. Georgia turned to me. “Well? I got the intel on what Arthur’s up to. What are we going to do with it?”
“This is our chance,” I said. “We know where he is right now. We can stake out the house and see where he goes when he leaves.”
“You heard Ambrose. Arthur’s supposed to be going somewhere with the Royal Pain.”
“Well, what will it hurt to spy on them for a couple of hours? Besides skipping school, that is. This is our only chance not to be followed by the revenants.”
“Or the numa, for that matter,” Georgia agreed. “Everyone thinks we’re in school. We’ll have to go now—we don’t know how long Gaspard’s kick-ass training lasts.” She glanced around the hallway, and her eyes landed on an athletic-looking guy carrying a pile of books. “Hey, Paul!” she yelled. “Remember that time you offered to loan me your scooter?”
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THIRTY-FIVE
MY SISTER AND I HUDDLED AT THE END OF THE rue de Grenelle, looking ridiculously suspicious as we hid behind the corner, throwing glances every few minutes down the road toward Jean-Baptiste’s mansion.
“What time is it now?” I asked, my teeth chattering in the February cold.
“Five minutes after the last time you asked,” Georgia growled. “It’s eleven oh five and we have been here a total of an hour and thirty-five minutes. How long do your training sessions with Gaspard run?”
“An hour,” I said. “But I’m sure that Violette and Arthur can go for longer than me, and we have no idea when they started.” My heart dropped an inch as our mission began to seem much stupider than it had within the hallway of our warm and safe school.
“Wait!” Georgia hissed in a dramatic whisper. “The gate is opening. And here comes . . . it’s Arthur! He’s wearing a motorcycle helmet, but I know it’s him—he’s got on the same leather jacket he wore at the café yesterday.”
I struggled to look past her, but she pushed me backward. “Shh!” she insisted, even though we were yards out of his hearing range. “He’s driving the motorcycle slowly to the end of the block. He’s getting off and walking the bike backward onto the sidewalk. Holy cow—he looks like he’s hiding!”
Georgia’s commentary was beginning to sound hysterical. “What do you mean ‘hiding’?” I pushed her out of the way. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Okay. Far end of the street. Just behind the last building. He’s hiding down there.”
“Did he see us?”
“No! He didn’t even look our way when he came out of the driveway.”
“Then why is he—”
“Wait!” Georgia interrupted me. I poked my head around the corner of the building above hers. A taxi had just turned past us to drive down the road and was now parked in front of the hôtel particulier. The gate swung open again, and Violette stepped out, peering both ways before jumping into the cab. We pulled back, waited a second, and then stuck our heads around the corner.
The taxi drove to the end of the street and turned left on the one-way avenue. Georgia and I had our helmets on in a second and were on the borrowed scooter, heading down the rue de Grenelle, as we saw Arthur’s motorcycle pull out onto the road a safe distance behind Violette’s taxi. We turned left onto the avenue, a few cars behind Arthur.
The next twenty minutes were spent maneuvering our way between cars and trucks, trying to stay out of view even though Arthur never once looked around. His attention was fixed on Violette’s taxi, and he was obviously using the same defensive tactics we were to avoid her seeing him. We headed north over the river, and up past the Louvre and across town until we arrived at the steep hill called Montmartre and began inching up its tiny one-lane roads.
“They’re heading toward Sacré-Coeur,” I yelled, looking up at the white-domed basilica perched on the hilltop. A refrigerated yogurt truck that had served as our camouflage for the last few blocks stopped in the middle of the street, and its driver jumped out to make a delivery. We spied Arthur half a block up, parking his motorcycle at the base of the rue Foyatier staircase—the landmark that pretty much everyone in the world recognizes from black-and-white Paris postcards. Its multiple flights of steep steps are lined with old-fashioned black metal streetlights, and it is so Old Paris–looking that you half expect everyone on it to suddenly break out into an impromptu Moulin Rouge can-can routine.
“Quick!” I yelled. Georgia pulled up behind Arthur’s bike and locked the scooter to a lamppost. There were enough people around that even if he turned, he probably wouldn’t have noticed us huffing and puffing up the stairs a few flights behind him. Once he got to the top, he turned right and began jogging toward the far side of the church. The sun was directly overhead, and the church’s white stone was blinding in the midday light, making it difficult to follow Arthur’s form as he wove in between the groups of tourists and pilgrims lined up to enter the basilica.
He disappeared through the swarms of people around the far edge of the church. Pressing toward him through the crowd, I reached out to touch Georgia and instead grabbed an extremely hairy forearm. A tall man in a “Heck Yeah Cowboys” baseball cap looked down at me with an amused smile. “Well, hello there!” he said in a Texas accent.
“Sorry,” I blurted, and cast around for Georgia. I caught sight of her about thirty feet in front of me, being swept along by a crowd led by a tour guide waving an Italian flag. She had just begun to realize I was gone, and turned to look for me when the tour group surged and I lost her again.
Pushing my way out of the group of Americans, I followed Arthur’s path, turning the same corner that he had disappeared behind.
I was thrust into darkness as I came around the edge of the basilica onto a deserted stone patio to the side of the edifice. It took my eyes a second to adjust from the brilliant daylight to this sun-hidden courtyard that was empty of tourists and as quiet as a crypt.
The patio was large—the shape and size of a skating rink. Its outer edge bordered a precipice and was sided by iron guardrails to protect the monument’s visitors from the perilous drop. Hulking statues of saints and angels circled the patio, casting weird shadows in the half-light and creating a distinctly creepy atmosphere. Georgia was nowhere to be seen.
I blinked, looking for Arthur, and saw him nearby, hiding behind a statue. He was staring at some people who were half-concealed in the building’s dark shadows. Right in front of me was a larger-than-life figure of an avenging archangel, crouched with sword extended as it fought its invisible enemy. I took Arthur’s example and crept behind it, squinting out from under its sword-bearing arm at the figures across the terrace.
A jean-clad girl was speaking authoritatively to two large, menacing-looking men. With a chill, I recognized them as the numa from Papy’s gallery.
As the speaker gestured, her head turned slightly. My hand flew to my mouth to suppress a gasp. “No,” I whispered. What was Violette doing? She didn’t seem to be threatened by the numa. If anything, they seemed to be hanging on her every word.
I glanced over at Arthur. He was looking at the same scene I was, yet he was hiding. I didn’t understand.
And then—suddenly—I did.
As a wave of comprehension washed over me, I felt immediately and violently ill. I clutched my stomach and prayed that I wouldn’t vomit then and there.
Then a third man stepped forward from the shadows behind the church. It was the man I had seen Arthur talking to at La Palette. And now that I saw what he was wearing—a long fur coat that looked like it had been designed for a Renaissance lord in a costume drama—I knew where I had seen him before. He was the man between the tombs at Père Lachaise cemetery the day of Philippe’s funeral. I had been right to be afraid then. Because now, without a doubt, I could tell that the trick-of-lig
ht colorless thing going on in the air around him meant just one thing. He, too, was a numa.
He got down on one knee in front of the tiny revenant and, bowing his head, raised her hand to his lips. And just as Violette touched him lightly on the head, bidding him to rise, I saw someone sprint past me into the middle of the terrace. Blinded by the sudden change in light, she called, “Kate?”
I wanted to reach out and pull her to safety. I wanted to somehow warn her to run without giving her away. But it was too late. Because just then Violette turned and saw my sister.
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THIRTY-SIX
VIOLETTE CHARGED TOWARD GEORGIA, SEEMINGLY propelled by fury alone.
Momentarily frozen in place, my brain fought what my eyes said was true. It wasn’t supposed to be Violette meeting with the numa: Arthur was the traitor.
Puzzle pieces began fitting together in my mind. Violette’s fascination with Immortal Love and her frustration when she couldn’t get her hands on it. Soon after, revenant dwellings around Paris were ransacked by numa looking for . . . not documents but a book.
Another puzzle piece fell into place: The day after I replaced Gaspard’s book in his library, Papy’s copy—which must be read along with it to find the guérisseur—had been stolen. Someone had put the clues together and sent numa after Gwenhaël. And when they couldn’t find her, they had come after me with questions about the Champion. Now it was clear that Violette had been behind it all.
Why was she interested in the Champion? She had acted like the whole story was a stupid old fairy tale. Why did she even care?
Unless she believed it. It was she who had offered to come to Paris to help Jean-Baptiste. To live in the same house as Vincent. I thought of her unceasing questions about us as a couple and the way we could communicate. About Vincent and his superior talents. About his waning strength. And suddenly it all made sense. For whatever reason, all Violette had ever wanted was the Champion.
It was with my heart in my throat that I emerged from behind the statue and ran in their direction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Arthur leave his hiding place and run toward me. I sped up, still unsure of whose side he was on.
But before I could reach my sister, Violette had shoved her violently backward, and pressed her against the guardrail. “What are you doing here?” she yelled, as Georgia glanced fearfully down the side of the precipice and then quickly straightened herself.
“The question should be what are you doing here, Little Miss Mata Hari?” Georgia’s vehemence made her sound confident, but I could tell she was scared. Violette lunged for her again, but my sister grasped the handrail behind her with both hands and kicked out, landing a blow to Violette’s hip.
As Violette stumbled back a few steps from the shock of the blow, I ran to stand beside Georgia, positioning myself defensively with fists raised.
“I guess this means our coffee date is canceled,” I said. The betrayal gnawing at the pit of my stomach turned my voice to frost. She just shrugged, demonstrating with one gesture that I was nothing to her. I wanted so badly to rush her, to push her, to demand an explanation. But I had seen her fight before and knew that even without a weapon, Violette was lethal.
There was a movement from behind her as two of the numa rushed out of the shadows toward us. In the same second I saw Arthur, who had been hanging back, leap toward them.
“These humans are mine!” the tiny revenant screamed without even looking over her shoulder. All three men came to a standstill a few yards behind her. Maintaining a careful distance from the numa, Arthur called, “Violette, let the girls go!”
She spoke, never taking her eyes off Georgia and me. “You’d like that, Arthur, wouldn’t you? Whatever happened to my old companion, who agreed that humans were barely worth the blood we spilled for them?”
“That was your opinion, Vi. It was never mine.”
“I know you, Arthur. I’ve known you for half a millennium. We’re practically the same person. Why didn’t you come with me when I asked? We have a new road to follow now.”
“I never thought it would be this road, Vi. And I’ve played your whipping boy for long enough. I said what you told me to about leaving Kate out of house meetings. And I looked the other way when I knew you were in contact with our enemy. Hell, I even dropped off a message from you to that one . . . that Nicolas,” he said, pointing back in disgust to where the fur-coat guy stood motionless in the shadows. “You’ve always used them for information, but I never thought you’d stoop to working with them. Or bowing down to their new-blood American numa overlord, for God’s sake.”
“There is no American, Arthur,” Violette said, with a short laugh as I gasped. “I made him up and claimed to be his emissary. I played an influential bardia in the pocket of a numa in case they balked at obeying me. But they’ve been following my orders for over a year. If Lucien hadn’t botched up the order to bring me Vincent’s head, you and I wouldn’t have had to endure this whole charade with Jean-Baptiste. The numa take orders from me now, and the revenants will soon be overthrown.”
“What do you mean they obey you?” Arthur asked, incredulous. “Four numa attacked us in an alleyway. You killed one of them. And you’ve stood by and watched Vincent destroy more than one.”
“Let’s just say I had a few troublemakers who didn’t want to accept my authority, whom I was more than happy to dispose of. It was very effective in allowing me to measure our Vincent’s strength. I do love strategizing, as you well know, dear Arthur.
“But now that everything has been set in order, you can take your place next to me as my consort. Give me your allegiance, and I will forgive your reluctance.”
“Never.” Arthur’s proclamation made him sound like the medieval knight he had once been. Or like his namesake, the king of knights.
Violette gave an enraged growl and—spinning so quickly I barely saw her move—landed a karate-style kick to the side of Georgia’s head, taking out her fury on my sister.
I threw myself on Violette, wishing I had something besides my body to fight her with. A sword. A quarterstaff. Any weapon that I had trained in, since I had never fought hand to hand.
I did my best to remember Gaspard’s lessons as I ducked and bobbed to avoid Violette’s martial arts–style attack. Although I couldn’t get a punch in edgewise, my actions distracted her from my sister, who was cursing loudly as she pushed herself up on her hands and knees. “Run, Georgia!” I yelled. “Get out of here!”
“And leave you to fight alone?” Georgia said indignantly. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her pull herself up into a crouching position and spring back toward us.
I heard the numa fighting with Arthur and knew he was too occupied to help. This was our fight, and though Georgia and I were inexperienced, I bet on the two-on-one ratio giving us the advantage.
My hopes were quickly dashed as Violette’s fist connected with my shoulder. I heard something crack and felt a sharp pain as I staggered backward. She used the moment to kick Georgia in the ribs. My sister backed up to the guardrail, her hands pressed to her side and her face contorted in pain.
“I’ve seen the way you look at Arthur. Did you think you could steal my partner?” Violette asked Georgia in a cold, even voice.
“From what I understand, he’s not yours to lose,” Georgia said, a bitter smile curving the corners of her mouth.
“How would you know that, you stupid mortal?” Violette said, and spun to glance toward Arthur. Which gave me just the opportunity I was waiting for.
I used my good arm to land a punch to her head. My knuckle crunched hard against her jawbone. She screamed in rage and staggered backward a pace, but seemed otherwise unaffected. Violette was stronger—and tougher—than I could ever have imagined.
Behind her, Arthur was battling the two numa, with Nicolas standing patiently
, watching from the other end of the terrace. Jean-Baptiste had said he was Lucien’s second. Even though he had offered his fealty to Violette, the noble-looking numa seemed happy enough not to get his hands dirty defending her.
For once, neither side had thought to bring weapons—the numa planning on a peaceful meeting with Violette, and Arthur trusting her too much.
Violette called out: “Alain! Back me up, and take the girl.” Before I could defend myself, the smaller of the two numa had defected from the fight with Arthur and was behind me, clasping my arms in a viselike grip. My injured shoulder flared painfully. I kicked and fought, but my captor was so strong it made no difference.
There was no way my sister could take on Violette herself. And no one could come to our rescue, since nobody knew where we were. Violette executed another kick to Georgia’s head, and I watched my sister slump to the ground. Despair gripped me as forcefully as my captor’s grasp. I wouldn’t live to see Vincent again. I thrashed one last time to escape my captor’s grip.
“Drop her,” came a voice from across the terrace. I twisted around to see Vincent, his dark face contorted in rage, coming around the corner of the church. Without slowing, he passed the giant statue of the archangel and, grabbing its marble sword in both hands, broke it off below the hilt. Swinging it at the head of Arthur’s attacker, he felled him with one violent blow, and the stone weapon shattered upon contact.
In his surprise, my captor dropped me. I landed like a cat on all fours and then sprang to my feet. “Kate!” called Vincent, and pulling a sword from beneath his coat, he threw it to me, hilt-first. Time slowed as I watched the silver blade soar through the air and felt the leather grip in my hand as my fingers closed tightly around it. Then it sped up again as I swung upward with all my might and caught the numa under his chin. The blade sliced cleanly through his neck, and his headless body toppled to the ground.
