When Vincent and Gaspard talk about their strategy in ridding France of the numa and their influence, I act as Ava’s counsel, helping her formulate how the French approach can be modified to work in the New World. Although I’ve been steeped in French tradition, I’m beginning to have a feeling for how things work in New York, and Ava welcomes my ideas with enthusiasm. She begins to look at me with new eyes, grateful for my help. I am earning her respect and am surprised by how gratifying that is to me.
Meanwhile, love has struck once again in La Maison. Charles and his German clan arrive first thing Tuesday morning, just as Faust awakes from dormancy. And from the moment Uta, their leader, lays eyes on him, the die is cast. She sets her sights on winning the foreigner’s heart and pours all her energy into showing him the best possible time during the rest of his stay in Paris. Her resolve is unbreakable. She is love-struck, and if Faust doesn’t immediately feel the same, no matter. She’ll wait it out.
Faust seems stunned by her attentions at first, not sure how to respond to her fluorescent hair, piercings, and tattoos. But her utter disregard of pretense finally wins him over. And by the end of the week, when she tells him she wants him to stay in Europe, he notifies Ava and me that he won’t be returning with us.
Kate and Vincent. Charlotte and Ambrose. Uta and Faust. It’s romance central at my Paris home—like Cupid packed up his quiver of arrows and moved into La Maison.
One morning, after studying maps of the Paris sewer systems side by side with diagrams of Manhattan subway, flood, and sewage tunnels, I notice Ava rubbing her eyes. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, my eyes are just burning from focusing for so long,” she says, raising her arms in a stretch and rolling her head from side to side.
“Have you seen the armory yet?” I ask.
“Only quickly when Kate gave me the house tour,” she says. “But a workout is exactly what I could use right now.”
“You should take advantage of having a European arms master at your disposal,” I say, bumping Gaspard with my elbow.
Gaspard rolls up an ancient map that he had been showing us and shakes his head. “Any time I get away from helping America’s new Champion strategize for a potential underground offensive against the numa, or, as Ambrose so charmingly dubbed it, ‘Attack of the Mole People’ . . .”
Ambrose fake-salutes and says, “Glad to contribute where I can.”
“. . . I need to help Charlotte with the wedding,” Gaspard finishes.
Ambrose rubs his hands together. “I’m always up for a fight. I’ll join you.” He stands and stretches his arms, cracking his neck and bouncing up and down on his toes.
As the three of us make our way down to the armory, Ambrose quizzes Ava on the type of weapons used by American revenants, and she explains the gun/sword combo. “Besides swords, the only weapon we really use is modified bow and arrow.”
“No crossbows? No battle-axes?” Ambrose asks. “How about scythes, maces, quarterstaffs?”
Ava shakes her head. “We have all sorts of specialized weapons in the Warehouse’s armory, but I’ve never seen anyone use them. I wouldn’t even know how to hold a few of them.”
Ambrose rubs his hands. “Then you, my American sister, are in for a treat.” I follow them down the stairs into the basement armory and show Ava where Kate and Charlotte keep their fighting gear. Ambrose rips off his shirt and pulls on a tight tank top over a pair of loose shorts. I would normally fight in just some drawstring karate pants, but I toss a soft gray T-shirt on top, knowing that Americans are a bit more sensitive to bared skin. And then I remember that Ava was a part of Warhol’s Factory, and strip it back off.
Ambrose notices my wardrobe hesitation and winks. “You look better like that,” he fake-whispers.
And then Ava walks out, and we’re both rooted to the spot. Her hair is bundled up on the top of her head, and she wears the one-piece catsuit that Charlotte uses when there’s a risk of getting sliced up.
Ambrose lets out a low whistle. “You are looking good, girl. And I’m saying that in a completely non-sleazy, I-love-my-fiancée kind of way.” Ava looks pleased. Her gaze swings to me.
I hold up my hands. “I could say the same thing, but since I don’t have a fiancée to hide potential sleaziness behind, I won’t risk anything beyond, ‘Why, Mademoiselle Whitefoot, you are looking extremely well today.’”
She bursts out laughing, and then, surveying my bare chest with a twinkle in her eye, says, “You are looking quite well yourself, Monsieur Marchenoir.”
I give her a low bow. Ambrose moans. “Come on, guys. Let’s get this fight on the road.” And grabbing a quarterstaff from its pegs on the wall, he throws it to Ava, who catches it without batting an eye.
And for the next hour we spar, switching weapons from time to time to change things up. Though Ava hasn’t used most of them, she follows Ambrose’s and my examples and quickly catches on. The three of us are fighting, sweating, quipping, teasing, laughing, and I can’t remember the last time that I have felt so good.
That night at dinner, Ambrose takes a chair next to Charlotte and, putting his arm around her, nods toward me. “Check out Jules,” he says.
“I know,” she says, and lays her head on his shoulder.
“What?” I ask.
She grins at me. “You look almost happy.”
Ava’s eyes dart over to meet my own, and I feel my face redden. “Yeah, must be the fact that I’m back in Paris.”
“Told you he missed us,” Ambrose says, and pulls Charlotte to him in a powerful side-hug.
It is a beautiful wedding, held in the stained-glass jewel box that is La Sainte-Chapelle. Charlotte wears a vintage wedding gown from the 1940s, the era she was human. And Ambrose wears a custom-made tux, since not a shop in Paris had one big enough to fit him.
Charles has brushed his burgundy Mohawk down and even forgoes eyeliner in order to give his sister away. He is as radiant as the bride—his new life suits him well.
After blessing the wedding, the revenant priest steps aside and lets Gaspard officiate—which he does with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. And when he says to kiss the bride, Ambrose lets out a whoop and swings Charlotte around before planting the kiss of the century on her rosy lips.
There isn’t a dry eye in the house.
Meanwhile, love has struck once again in La Maison. Charles and his German clan arrive first thing Tuesday morning, just as Faust awakes from dormancy. And from the moment Uta, their leader, lays eyes on him, the die is cast. She sets her sights on winning the foreigner’s heart and pours all her energy into showing him the best possible time during the rest of his stay in Paris. Her resolve is unbreakable. She is love-struck, and if Faust doesn’t immediately feel the same, no matter. She’ll wait it out.
Faust seems stunned by her attentions at first, not sure how to respond to her fluorescent hair, piercings, and tattoos. But her utter disregard of pretense finally wins him over. And by the end of the week, when she tells him she wants him to stay in Europe, he notifies Ava and me that he won’t be returning with us.
Kate and Vincent. Charlotte and Ambrose. Uta and Faust. It’s romance central at my Paris home—like Cupid packed up his quiver of arrows and moved into La Maison.
One morning, after studying maps of the Paris sewer systems side by side with diagrams of Manhattan subway, flood, and sewage tunnels, I notice Ava rubbing her eyes. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, my eyes are just burning from focusing for so long,” she says, raising her arms in a stretch and rolling her head from side to side.
“Have you seen the armory yet?” I ask.
“Only quickly when Kate gave me the house tour,” she says. “But a workout is exactly what I could use right now.”
“You should take advantage of having a European arms master at your disposal,” I say, bumping Gaspard with my elbow.
Gaspard rolls up an ancient map that he had been showing us and shakes his head. “Any time I get away from helping America’s new Champion strategize for a potential underground offensive against the numa, or, as Ambrose so charmingly dubbed it, ‘Attack of the Mole People’ . . .”
Ambrose fake-salutes and says, “Glad to contribute where I can.”
“. . . I need to help Charlotte with the wedding,” Gaspard finishes.
Ambrose rubs his hands together. “I’m always up for a fight. I’ll join you.” He stands and stretches his arms, cracking his neck and bouncing up and down on his toes.
As the three of us make our way down to the armory, Ambrose quizzes Ava on the type of weapons used by American revenants, and she explains the gun/sword combo. “Besides swords, the only weapon we really use is modified bow and arrow.”
“No crossbows? No battle-axes?” Ambrose asks. “How about scythes, maces, quarterstaffs?”
Ava shakes her head. “We have all sorts of specialized weapons in the Warehouse’s armory, but I’ve never seen anyone use them. I wouldn’t even know how to hold a few of them.”
Ambrose rubs his hands. “Then you, my American sister, are in for a treat.” I follow them down the stairs into the basement armory and show Ava where Kate and Charlotte keep their fighting gear. Ambrose rips off his shirt and pulls on a tight tank top over a pair of loose shorts. I would normally fight in just some drawstring karate pants, but I toss a soft gray T-shirt on top, knowing that Americans are a bit more sensitive to bared skin. And then I remember that Ava was a part of Warhol’s Factory, and strip it back off.
Ambrose notices my wardrobe hesitation and winks. “You look better like that,” he fake-whispers.
And then Ava walks out, and we’re both rooted to the spot. Her hair is bundled up on the top of her head, and she wears the one-piece catsuit that Charlotte uses when there’s a risk of getting sliced up.
Ambrose lets out a low whistle. “You are looking good, girl. And I’m saying that in a completely non-sleazy, I-love-my-fiancée kind of way.” Ava looks pleased. Her gaze swings to me.
I hold up my hands. “I could say the same thing, but since I don’t have a fiancée to hide potential sleaziness behind, I won’t risk anything beyond, ‘Why, Mademoiselle Whitefoot, you are looking extremely well today.’”
She bursts out laughing, and then, surveying my bare chest with a twinkle in her eye, says, “You are looking quite well yourself, Monsieur Marchenoir.”
I give her a low bow. Ambrose moans. “Come on, guys. Let’s get this fight on the road.” And grabbing a quarterstaff from its pegs on the wall, he throws it to Ava, who catches it without batting an eye.
And for the next hour we spar, switching weapons from time to time to change things up. Though Ava hasn’t used most of them, she follows Ambrose’s and my examples and quickly catches on. The three of us are fighting, sweating, quipping, teasing, laughing, and I can’t remember the last time that I have felt so good.
That night at dinner, Ambrose takes a chair next to Charlotte and, putting his arm around her, nods toward me. “Check out Jules,” he says.
“I know,” she says, and lays her head on his shoulder.
“What?” I ask.
She grins at me. “You look almost happy.”
Ava’s eyes dart over to meet my own, and I feel my face redden. “Yeah, must be the fact that I’m back in Paris.”
“Told you he missed us,” Ambrose says, and pulls Charlotte to him in a powerful side-hug.
It is a beautiful wedding, held in the stained-glass jewel box that is La Sainte-Chapelle. Charlotte wears a vintage wedding gown from the 1940s, the era she was human. And Ambrose wears a custom-made tux, since not a shop in Paris had one big enough to fit him.
Charles has brushed his burgundy Mohawk down and even forgoes eyeliner in order to give his sister away. He is as radiant as the bride—his new life suits him well.
After blessing the wedding, the revenant priest steps aside and lets Gaspard officiate—which he does with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. And when he says to kiss the bride, Ambrose lets out a whoop and swings Charlotte around before planting the kiss of the century on her rosy lips.
There isn’t a dry eye in the house.
