I Should Die

SIX



WHEN ARTHUR’S TEXT FINALLY CAME, WE MADE our way carefully out of the bunker and up some nearby stairs. Bran directed me to push open a wooden trapdoor at the top, and we emerged through the floor of a mausoleum, where aboveground marble tombs dominated the small room.

“This is so Buffy it’s not even funny,” Georgia said, supporting Bran as I waved curtains of cobwebs out of the way so that we could exit into the graveyard. Ambrose was waiting by the gate. As soon as he saw us, he sprinted over and hoisted Bran up in his arms. “Hurry it up,” he said. “It’s like numa central around here!”

He bundled Bran into the back of the car, and Georgia and I packed in on either side. As soon as Ambrose was in the passenger seat, Arthur sped off. “Perfect timing,” he said, peering into his rearview mirror. I turned to see a squad of numa round the corner of the cemetery wall and push open the gate we had come through just seconds before.

“Looks like our Evil Empress has got half of Paris’s numa trailing her as security,” Ambrose commented drily. “We sent Henri and some others to your shop, right after we talked to Kate,” he said, eyeing Bran. “But there was no sign of them. The door to the sewers had been smashed through so they could still be down there, weaving their way through toilet-level Paris looking for you.”

He shifted in his seat to shoot me an annoyed look. “And who do you think you are? Wonder Woman?”

“I would say Kate’s more Catwoman,” Georgia commented. “Much cooler. Less derivative.”

Ambrose ignored her. “What possessed you to go wandering off after I left you three messages to stay put since Violette and her numa were spotted heading toward Paris? Since when does ‘Stay in your house’ mean go directly to the location where your enemy is most likely to go?”

“I didn’t get your messages,” I admitted sheepishly. “I left my phone at home.”

He sighed deeply and shook his head in despair. “Gonna get you a cell phone holder that I can chain to your wrist. Vincent would kill me if he knew I let you anywhere near Violette.”

“Um . . . Vincent knows,” I said.

“What?” everyone exclaimed at once, except for Bran, who asked, “Who is Vincent?”

“The one I talked to you about on the phone last week,” I replied.

“The one suspected of being the Victor?” he asked.

I nodded, and then said to the others, “He talked to me when we were standing outside Bran’s cellar door.”

“What did he say?” Arthur asked, making a sharp turn to avoid a red light.

“He said he was bound to Violette. And that she had come looking for Bran because the power transfer hadn’t worked.”

“Well, that clears up why the brutes detained me,” Bran said. “Although after killing my mother, I don’t see why they’d expect me to volunteer to help them.”

“Um, I’m guessing that’s the reason they beat you up,” Georgia pointed out helpfully. “The whole point of coercion is that it doesn’t require volunteers.”

“Regardless, they would never have gotten it out of me,” Bran insisted stubbornly, and then wincing from some unseen injury, laid his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.

“Good man.” Ambrose leaned over the seat and patted Bran reassuringly on the knee before turning to Arthur. “Dude, can’t you drive this thing any faster?” he urged in a low voice. “Skeletor back there is fading fast.”

I watched Bran for a moment, wanting to ask him about Vincent—to see if he knew anything about disembodied spirits. His mother had mentioned family records when I had asked her to help Vincent resist dying. She had told me her line of healers knew some of the revenants’ secrets, and she would check their accounts to see if she could help us. I wondered if Bran knew everything his mother had. But seeing his exhaustion and battered face, I knew this wasn’t the time to ask.

In a record ten minutes we were entering the gate at La Maison, where a welcoming committee waited by the front door. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard stood on either side of a concerned-looking Jeanne, who made a rush for the car as we pulled up.

Georgia and I helped shift Bran out, then followed as Arthur and Ambrose supported him, his arms propped around their shoulders. They got him to the front door, where Jean-Baptiste waited. “I’ll be fine,” Bran reassured his bodyguards, and they carefully set him down as he extended a shaking hand toward JB.

“Bonjour,” he began, but as his fingers touched the revenant leader’s hand, a bright light, like a camera flash, exploded between them, causing everyone around to shield their faces. I blinked several times before the spots began clearing from my vision, and saw that Bran had gone stiff. He let out a deep moan, his head fell forward, and he sank unconscious to the ground.

“Are you okay?” Gaspard yelped, rushing to JB’s side. The revenant leader blinked a few times and shook his arm out experimentally.

“What the hell was—” Georgia began, but was cut off by Jeanne, who had leapt into emergency mode. “Up! Get him up!” she commanded, and Ambrose scooped Bran’s floppy form into his arms. Carrying him to Vincent’s room, he deposited him carefully on the bed. Jeanne was there in an instant, applying cold wet cloths to Bran’s head and wrists. Within seconds his eyelids were fluttering open.

“Where am I?” he mumbled. Jeanne handed him his glasses, which had fallen when he had. Pulling them on with shaking hands, he peered anxiously at our faces, looking downright startled when he saw me.

“What is it?” I asked, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t looking at someone else. His astonished look—like he didn’t recognize me after I had spent the last couple of hours scurrying around underground Paris with him—was freaking me out.

He kept staring for a few seconds, blinking a few times with his non-swollen eye. Then sighing deeply, he said, “Nothing, child,” and leaned back into the pillow.

“Are you okay?” Jeanne asked, tucking a blanket around his trembling form.

Ignoring her question, Bran asked, “May I suppose that your residence is safe from the evil ones?”

“You can bet your sweet . . . um, yes, sir,” said Ambrose, editing himself. “As long as you’re here with us you’ll be safe from the numa.”

“Safe,” breathed Bran. “No one will be safe until the Victor triumphs.”

“The Victor?” asked Arthur.

“He means the Champion,” I clarified.

Gaspard spoke up. “I am sorry to inform you, dear ally, that the Victor has been captured. He is now in the hands of our enemies.”

Bran considered Gaspard’s words. “Yes, your Kate has informed me of that,” he replied finally. “But Violette doesn’t yet have his power. And if she cannot figure out the magic of the transfer herself, she will not learn it from me. That will at least give us some time.”

Jeanne stepped forward. “Monsieur . . .”

“Tândorn.”

“Monsieur Tândorn, would you like me to call a doctor?”

“Non. Merci, chère madame. The brutes concentrated mostly on my face. The rest of me just feels bruised—nothing broken. I’m just very weak. I haven’t slept or eaten since they killed my mother.”

Jeanne’s face took on the look of a dangerous wildcat whose cub is threatened by hunters. I had seen this look before and knew exactly what it meant. The housekeeper’s power lay in her ability to take care of her wards. Seconds after she stalked out of the room, I heard pots and pans banging in the kitchen as she planned her assault on Bran’s feeble state.

Arthur approached Georgia. “How is your face?” he asked timidly, raising his hand to touch her bruised cheek.

My sister nimbly ducked out of the way. “You know, after that terrifying run-in with the numa, I could really use a mug of strong tea. Do you think you might have any?” she asked coyly.

“Of course,” Arthur responded, straightening and transforming back to his usual formal self. He ushered Georgia politely out into the hallway.

As they left, the others followed. Jean-Baptiste lagged behind for a second, looking like he wanted to stay, and then said, “We have much to speak about, Monsieur Tândorn, but I will let you rest. May I pay you a visit this evening?”

“Of course,” Bran responded wearily.

“Would you like to be alone, or would you prefer that I stay?” I asked.

“Stay, child,” he answered.

I pulled a chair next to the bed and settled myself in. “I was sorry to hear about your mother,” I said after a moment of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “She was an exceptional soul. A loving mother. A wise woman.”

I hesitated before continuing, but he seemed to want conversation. “Did she have time to pass her gifts along to you before she . . . was gone?” I asked.

He took a deep breath and, reaching for an additional pillow, stuffed it behind him so that he was almost sitting. His swollen eye was the color of a ripe plum and the other was magnified by his thick glasses so that it looked like a 3-D chestnut. He glanced at me, squinted curiously, and then looked quickly away again. I fiddled with my hair, wondering if there were cobwebs or debris from the underground passages still stuck in it.

“Yes. Yes, she did,” he responded. “I have inherited her healing gifts and am now a guérisseur myself.”

I smiled sadly, knowing that his newly acquired powers couldn’t make up for the loss of his mother. He touched my arm with long bony fingers, and his thin lips curved up at the corners. “It’s too bad you don’t have a migraine so that I could show you how it works. Although, like my mother, my gifts aren’t confined to the mortal realm.”

He pulled back his sleeve and showed me a fresh tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the flesh still pink around it. A triangle with flames flaring out from its three edges was enclosed within a circle.

“The signum bardia,” I breathed. And pulling the gold and sapphire version that Vincent had given me from beneath my shirt, I held it up for him to see.

“We have something in common, child. Both trusted by the kindred. And just look where it has brought us!” He smiled feebly. Letting go of my arm, he laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. It seemed the conversation was over.

“Bran, I’ve been wanting to ask you about something.” He opened an eye and blinked at me, looking exhausted. Now was not the time to quiz him, but I didn’t know when I’d have the chance again. “If your mother gave you her gifts, does that mean you have all her knowledge as well?”

“She has told me our stories since I was a child,” he responded tiredly.

Feeling a twinge of guilt for pushing him too far, I continued. “Well, she told me a few weeks ago that your family knew secrets about the revenants. And I was just wondering if you knew anything about what the bardia call wandering souls. That’s the state that Vincent is in now, since Violette destroyed his body. I wanted to know if there was any way—”

I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Gaspard stuck his head in. “Excuse me, Kate, but you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” I asked, confused.

The door swung forcefully open. Gaspard stepped aside and an elderly woman wearing a pink Chanel suit, four-inch heels, and a look of pure fury walked into the room. Lord help us all, Mamie was in La Maison.