Until I Die

by Amy Plum

  “Everyone knew Violette had distant ties with the numa. And they all depended on that to get the information they needed. But no one, including me, knew exactly what she was doing.

  “When she began communicating with Nicolas, I thought she was using him to get closer to Paris’s numa. So she could taunt them. Flirt with them in a way before we dug in to destroy them. In the past she has enjoyed toying with our enemies before killing them. But when Vincent told me the numa knew how Lucien was slain, I began to suspect she had—unwittingly—given the information away. I never once imagined she was working in conjunction with them.”

  I stared at him. He and Violette had been together for centuries. How could he have not known what she was up to? But his actions back at Montmartre, as well as the tortured look on his face as he watched me, convinced me that he was telling me the truth.

  I looked up to see Jean-Baptiste making his way down the double staircase. His usual rigid-as-a-general posture had crumpled as he strode slowly across the hall toward me. I knew Vincent was his favorite. His second. That he thought of him as a son. He paused in front of me, and then, in a gesture that was so uncharacteristic of him that I did my best not to wince when my shoulder touched his, he solemnly took me in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” was all he said.

  Those two words put the fear of God in me. This was Jean-Baptiste. And he was offering no long-winded speech about how we would get Vincent back. No encouragement about which options should be considered. Nothing except those two words—which might as well have been “No. Hope.” Because that’s essentially what he was saying.

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  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I HELPED GEORGIA HOME, THANKING MY LUCKY stars that Papy was at work and Mamie nowhere to be seen. I got her into bed, where the pain medication she had taken a half hour before kicked in. She began falling asleep before I even left the room. As I closed the door, she called after me in a dozy voice, “You’ll get him back, Katie-Bean. I just know it.”

  By the time I got back to La Maison, the troops had been dispatched. Jean-Baptiste informed me that Ambrose had taken a search party to the man-made caves that honeycombed beneath Montmartre. Not only had Violette met the numa at Sacré-Coeur, but several of the Paris revenants reported numa sightings in the area, so it seemed a logical choice.

  Jules, volant, had accompanied a group led by Gaspard, following another tip in the south of Paris.

  The two remaining revenants sat in the library, trying to draw up some kind of strategy. Arthur eagerly volunteered his knowledge of Violette and her habits. He had already informed JB about the most important fact: that Violette’s plan was to capture the Champion and overthrow Paris’s revenants. But since he had caught only that end of the conversation between Violette and Vincent, I started at the beginning and told them the whole story. And after that, I recapped everything else I knew. I explained every detail about my contact with Gwenhaël and Bran. I recounted every question that Violette had ever asked me about Vincent, and the information—however intentionally misleading it had been—that she had given me about the Champion and her stories about the numa.

  Jean-Baptiste took notes, and when I was finished, he thanked me in a way that meant I was excused to go. I stood, watching him and Arthur for a moment, until the older revenant looked back up at me expectantly. “What else can I do to help?” I asked him. Over the last hour, my despair had transformed into a burning determination, and if I left them, I didn’t know where I would go.

  “There’s nothing we can do now,” the older man said gravely, “except hope that our teams come up with something.”

  “But I want to do something. I need to do something.”

  “You have fulfilled your role, dear Kate. You alerted Ambrose as soon as it happened. You took care of your sister. You gave me some very valuable information. Now the only thing you can do is wait.” His tone was sympathetic but practical as he turned back to his notes.

  He was just as duped by Violette as the rest of us, I realized, and left the two revenants in the library to work out their own penance for having been so blind.

  News came a couple of hours later. A numa had confessed to Gaspard’s group that Violette and some others had taken Vincent’s body out of the city and were headed south. Upon being informed, Ambrose’s group returned—with a huge haul of weapons they had taken from a freshly deserted numa hideout.

  I was waiting for them outside, seated on the edge of the angel fountain.

  “What do you think she’ll do?” I whispered as Ambrose sat next to me, dressed from head to toe in Kevlar and black leather.

  “Katie-Lou, regarding Violette, I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “If she burns his body today . . .”

  “He’ll be gone. If she waits until he’s volant tomorrow or the next day, and destroys him after he leaves his body, his spirit will remain on earth. Or, if she gets in touch with us in time, and we can offer her something she wants badly enough, she might be willing to barter for his body. That’s what we will focus on, little sister. Don’t even think about the other options.”

  He leaned over and gave me a tender kiss on the cheek. “That’s from Jules. He says to tell you, ‘Courage, Kates. We’ll find your man.’”

  I wiped a tear away and thanked them both, as Ambrose left to report to Jean-Baptiste. I stayed, watching the moon rise in a spectacularly starry sky. In Paris the stars are usually invisible, unsuccessfully competing with the city’s lights. But tonight they were luminous, offering a breathtaking display for us mortals below. I was transported back to the months after my parents’ death, where at every turn I felt like nature was mocking my despair with its beauty. How could the world go on—how could this twinkling celestial extravaganza take place—when Vincent was helpless in the hands of his enemies? Nothing made sense.

  In need of a reality check, I took my phone out of my bag and texted Georgia.

  Me: Are you okay?

  Georgia: Pain drugs = good. Told Mamie & Papy I got mugged.

  Me: OMG!

  Georgia: Said you went to a friend’s house after school, so you weren’t with me.

  Me: What did they say?

  Georgia: They’re freaking and want you home.

  Me: I can’t. We haven’t found him yet.

  I had seen two missed calls from Mamie and knew I would have to come up with some explanation for not calling her back, but I couldn’t even think about that yet. A life in which I could return to the love and security of my grandparents’ home seemed like part of some other girl’s story. Finding Vincent was the only thing that mattered.

  I shivered in the cold, but resisted the urge to go back into the house and ask if there was any news. Someone would surely come tell me if there was. Or would they? For the hundredth time, I felt an overwhelming sense of not belonging. Anywhere. I had been training with the revenants. I knew their secrets and held their symbol around my neck. I was part of their world now, and they were a major part of mine. But I was not one of them.

  Neither was I comfortable in the skin of the human teenage girl I had been a year ago. I had gone too far now—out of the world of believing only what you can see and into one where the mystical was mundane.

  Vincent had been my link with the revenants. But—if I was honest with myself—without him I would be drifting between the two worlds with no anchor to ground me and no oars to navigate. I pushed that thought out of my head. We’ll get him back, I promised myself.

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  THIRTY-NINE

  THE MOOD AT LA MAISON WAS FUNEREAL. GASPARD had pressed his captive numa for further information, but it seemed that Violette didn’t trust her minions with
the details of her plans. A couple of other numa had been found in the meantime, and none knew where Vincent had been taken—only that their leader had left Paris with her prize.

  I found Ambrose in the armory, sharpening a battle-ax with an old-fashioned grinding wheel. He looked as antsy for action as me.

  “What’s all this mean? Where do we look next?” I asked him, unwilling to accept that we were all just . . . giving up.

  “We have no other leads, and no clue of where the numa have taken Vincent. JB, Gaspard, Arthur, and some others are working on a longer-term plan.” His eyes met mine as he turned the wheel, his frustration materialized in the sparks flying from the edges of the ax blade. “Because in the short term, Katie-Lou, there’s nothing else we can do but wait to hear from them.”

  I sat with him for a while, and then made my way back upstairs. Dozens of Paris’s revenants moved from room to room like ghosts, speaking in hushed voices and waiting for a phone call that might never happen. The hours passed and there was no news. Yet nobody left. The revenants were quiet, but on the alert. Ready.

  Jeanne had insisted on staying. She wandered around, placing trays of finger food on every available surface and cleaning up after everyone.

  “Do you want me to make you something special, my little cabbage?” she asked, hugging me for the millionth time since we had returned. I had cried the first time she held me, but my tears seemed to have dried up, leaving numbness in their place.

  “I can’t eat, Jeanne.”

  “I know,” she said, patting my shoulder. “But I had to offer. It’s the only thing I know to do for you.”

  Finally, around midnight, I told Ambrose I was leaving. I couldn’t stand the grave faces and hushed conversations another moment. “I’ll come back. I’m just going to take a walk.”

  “Then I’m going with you.”

  Shaking my head, I asked, “Ambrose, after the numa hunts that you and Gaspard staged today, do you really think any of them will be hanging around the center of Paris?”

  “No, but some of the humans around here can be just as bad.”

  I tried to smile. “I’ll be fine. But if you guys hear anything—” I began.

  He cut me off. “I will call you. I swear.”

  “Thanks, Ambrose.”

  I slipped out the front gate and headed toward the river. And when I reached its edge, it was if something possessed my arms and legs and I started running. My hurt shoulder ached with every step, but I ignored it, running from my heart’s pain and my mind’s fear. And even when those emotions were exhausted and the ghosts chasing me were overthrown by a second wind of determination and denial, I continued to run.

  I finally came to a stop, leaning over and panting to catch my breath. Beside me, the Pont des Arts stretched dark over the Seine. Without thinking, I moved toward it, climbed the steps, and stepped out onto the wooden walkway. When I got to the center of the bridge, I stopped and, leaning against the guardrail, stared down into the dark, churning water. A gust of winter wind blew my hair around my face, and I pushed it back and inhaled the marine smell of the river. And let myself remember.

  This was where Vincent and I had kissed for the first time, just five months ago. It seemed like a lifetime already. It was the day I had told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him anymore. That I would commit only to the next date and no further. And he brought me here and kissed me anyway. Now that I knew him better, I was sure he had planned it. He figured if he could steal my heart, I might abandon my reason, too. I couldn’t prevent the nostalgic grin that forced itself onto my lips.

  I wondered if I would see him again, and defiantly choked back the tears welling in my eyes. I couldn’t think like that. Because if I did, it would mean that Violette had destroyed him and he was gone. Forever. I spoke to the water rippling beneath me: “I refuse to believe it.”

  “You refuse to believe what?” came a low voice from behind me.

  I spun to see a man dressed in a long fur coat standing a few feet from me. And though I knew instantly who—and what—he was, I wasn’t afraid. Instead an incendiary hatred rose inside me. “You!” I snarled, and threw myself at him, fists raised and arms flailing. He dropped something he was holding and, moving quickly, grabbed my wrists before I could strike him.

  “Now, now. Is that any kind of way to greet a messenger?” Nicolas said, glancing at the objects at his feet.

  My eyes flew downward, and when I saw what was lying there, something broke inside me. “No,” I whispered. He let go of my arms, and I bent to pick up the white lilies scattered at my feet.

  “Violette said that if you didn’t have your book handy, I should tell you what they mean.”

  “White lilies are for funerals. I don’t need a flower manual to tell me that.” I wanted to strangle him, but instead I took the flowers in both hands and crushed them, ripped the heads off the stems, and hurled them over the side of the bridge into the water. “What have you done with him?” I demanded.

  “Our dauntless leader has taken your lover’s body to her castle in the Loire, where she will dispose of it when she sees fit. I was instructed to pass that message on.”

  “And what else were you instructed to do?” I felt my knees bend slightly and my fists clench as my body took on the defensive stance Gaspard had taught me.

  Nicolas smirked. “Charming. As if you could fight me. Actually, I am under strict orders not to touch you. Violette is of the opinion that letting you suffer would be more fun.”

  I finally voiced what I had been wondering since our battle at Sacré-Coeur. “What did I ever do to her?”

  Nicolas chuckled. “I wouldn’t think it’s anything personal. She merely wanted the Champion, and you helped her verify that it was indeed your Vincent. Now that she has him, she doesn’t need you anymore.”

  “Then why make me suffer?”

  “Oh, that. Probably because you’re human. She’s not very fond of mortals, you know. Five hundred years of saving you miserable beings in order to maintain her existence seems to have left her a tad bitter.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. If centuries of being obliged to rescue humans had warped Violette’s perception of the value of life, it didn’t seem to have done the same for Arthur. What could turn a young, hopeful human into a centuries-old bitter immortal? I just couldn’t understand.

  Something else had occurred to me. “Why would she go through the trouble of taking Vincent’s body hours away if she’s just going to destroy it?”

  “Well, now,” he replied pedantically, “she didn’t tell me that, and I didn’t ask. But in her negotiations with Lucien, she assured him that she held the secret to some sort of mystical transfer of the Champion’s power to the one who destroys him. Whether that means destroying him today to ensure his permanent riddance, or finishing him off tomorrow and keeping his ghost as a pet, I couldn’t really say. She’s the expert on all things Champion. Which, of course, is why we welcomed her with open arms.

  “And now that my commission is complete, I will leave you. I’m sure you will want to go back and inform the others. Oh, and please tell them that a rescue attempt would be useless. If Vincent’s not gone now, he will be before they can get to him.” He wrapped his coat snugly about him and strode off into the night.

  Stifling the desire to run after him and attack him from behind (he was right—I couldn’t take him), I slid down to sit with my back against the guardrail. Nestling my head against my bent knees, I closed my eyes. A church bell chimed twelve. My thoughts were battling over hope that Violette was lying . . . and utter hopelessness that she wasn’t. Over despair that I would never see Vincent again . . . and determination that I would do anything it took to keep that from happening. I knew I should call Ambrose immediately to pass along Nicolas’s message, but the thought of taking my phone out of my pocket seemed too monumental of a task.

  I felt the signum cold against my skin and, raising my head, traced the outline of the pendant through my shirt.
My attention was caught by something white floating beneath me on the surface of the water. The crushed lilies had floated under the bridge and were making their way toward the spotlit Eiffel Tower.

  And suddenly I knew. She had done it. Violette had destroyed Vincent. After more than eighty years of walking the earth, his spirit had now left it. If we’d lived in separate worlds before, now we were in separate universes. The finality struck me like an anvil.

  The smile that lit his face whenever he first caught a glimpse of me. His hand clutching mine as we walked the city streets. The look in his eyes before we kissed. Those experiences were now trapped in the past. And the future that I had imagined with him now drifted into oblivion like those mangled flowers.

  I had lost him.

  And as the weight of that realization snapped the last remaining threads of hope in my heart, I heard it.

  Two words spoken clearly inside my head: Mon ange.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK WOULD NOT BE HERE, RESTING IN your hands or playing on your audio book or appearing on your e-reader if it weren’t for the following people. I owe them all my deepest gratitude.

  My super-agent Stacey Glick of Dystel & Goderich, whose continued advice and hand-holding have provided me with a much-needed stabilizing force. Thank you, Stacey.

  My editor, Tara Weikum, and assistant editor, Melissa Miller, who helped me tame all of my wild ideas into ones that actually worked. The patience you’ve shown and insight you’ve given have shaped this book into something exponentially better than it would have been. I am eternally grateful.