I turn. It’s the girl from the council. The Frost Queen. At least she’s in her element, I think, as my breath puffs out in a thick cloud.
“Marchenoir,” she says in greeting, her face blank. Ice cold. She’s bundled up in a calf-length padded coat, and her long black hair cascades out from under an eggplant-colored slouchy knit cap.
I respond by giving her a full bend-at-the-waist, arm-thrown-to-the-side bow. “At your service.” I can’t help myself, unsure of whether I am trying to crack her facade or just annoy her in return for her iciness. Maybe both.
She ignores me and watches as Faust comes jogging up from behind us, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his arms for warmth. “I traded with Palmer,” he says, and gives me a grin. “Don’t want to shirk my ‘welcome rep’ responsibilities. Not that Whitefoot here couldn’t show you the ropes.” He gives her a playful punch on the arm, and she gives him a smile so warm I’m surprised it doesn’t melt half the ice in New York.
How does she do it . . . arctic to tropical in a second flat? I would be impressed if I wasn’t on the end of the stick reserved for polar bears.
With effort, Faust manages to pry his eyes away from her and hands me a leather belt with a holster on each side. “Two weapons?” I ask. He nods as I strap it around my waist.
“Short-sword,” he says, handing me the blade. I inspect it before slipping it into my belt: It’s brand-new, unlike the antique models we use in France, but well made. “And a Glock,” he says, handing me a pistol.
I look up at him in surprise.
“It’s enough, really. You don’t really need an automatic,” he explains, misunderstanding my expression. “We never come up against more than a few numa at a time. And even that’s pretty rare, unless we’re zombie hunting. Today’s just a regular walk around the block.”
I glance at “Whitefoot.” She’s amused by my confusion. “Like it or not, guns are the American way. Shoot to the head to stun, then use your blade,” she clarifies.
That’s the way Lucien cut down Gaspard to get into La Maison, I remember. Gunshot to the head, then—while the projectile worked its way back out of Gaspard’s bullet-rejecting flesh—decapitation by sword. American way, huh? I wonder if Lucien made any trips to the States before meeting his end at the tip of Kate’s blade.
I holster the gun and pull the sides of my long wool coat over the weapons to hide them. The Frost Queen, “Frosty,” I decide to christen her since I still don’t know her first name, has already turned and is walking away. She points up and says, “We’ve got your old colleagues with us, Faust.” And then, speaking to the air, she says, “Ryan, you go with Marchenoir, Tirado’s with Faust, and I’ve got Oreo. Let’s move it out.”
“Three volant spirits?” I ask.
Faust shrugs. “More of the American way, I guess.”
Okay. Guns. One volant per walking revenant. I can accept that. It’s the minor cultural differences that throw me more. Like the last name/nickname thing: It’s more like army-speak than talk among kindred. Though there’s no way two hundred bardia in one city could be as closely knit as our much smaller Paris crowd. Which, at the moment, is exactly how I like it. Arm’s length sounds pretty good to me.
We begin walking away from the river, into the central part of the Brooklyn neighborhood called Williamsburg. The voice of the volant spirit assigned to me appears in my mind. Hey Frenchie. Anthony Ryan here, Ground Zero. I’ve got your back.
“Hi,” I respond, and I hear Frosty and Faust check in with their invisible partners. Ghostly communication only works one way. They can get inside our heads—but we can’t get into theirs. “You can call me Jules.”
Okay, Frenchie, the voice responds.
Frosty starts giving orders. “Ryan, head north toward Greenpoint. Tirado, straight ahead toward Bushwick Avenue. And Oreo, sweep over toward Bed-Stuy and the Navy Yard. Start within a twenty-minute walk of our location, and then sweep back toward us.” I feel the volant spirits leave us, and it’s once again three dead guys—make that two dead guys and a girl—walking the streets in the frigid morning air.
Faust points things out as we go: the main street, called Bedford. The fact that this neighborhood has boomed in the last few decades, luxury apartments and wealthy tenants replacing the Polish and Italian immigrants in one part, European Jewish and Hispanic populations in another. We walk by brand-new bars and restaurants and pass hipster guys with tight jeans and beards and girls with tattoos and thick, winged eyeliner.
The changes have made things easier for the bardia. When the neighborhood was made up of families who stayed for generations, caution was an everyday concern. But with people constantly moving in and out, they don’t have to worry about hiding faces that never change.
I remember my volant spirit’s introduction. “What’s Ground Zero mean?” I ask.
“What about Ground Zero?” Faust asks.
“That’s how Ryan introduced himself,” I clarify.
Faust answers, “Ground Zero. Twin Towers. September eleventh . . .” And before he even finishes, I get it.
“Onze septembre,” I translate, “of course. Ryan was there?”
“We all were,” he responds, “most of us pre-council newbies you’ll meet at the Warehouse were. More bardia made that day than in the entire history of New York City.” His face darkens. “And a few numa too.”
We turn, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, and follow it away from the river. Frosty walks a few paces in front of us, but I can tell she’s listening to every word.
“We heard all about it in France,” I say, and think about the ramifications of what Faust just told me. “But the dead were so high profile! There were leaflets with your faces all over the place. How were you even able to stay in the New York area after animating?”
“Gold made sure those of us he recovered were certified dead and taken off the search lists. Those who had families or communities who might recognize them were moved farther away. Ryan, Tirado, Oreo, and me . . . we all decided to stay. My parents are dead, but I have a little sister I like to keep an eye on. I visit her when I’m volant.” He’s quiet, studying the ground in front of his feet.
It’s got to be hard for him. He still has surviving family members he can’t show himself to. Everyone I knew before I animated has been dead for generations.
“Marchenoir,” she says in greeting, her face blank. Ice cold. She’s bundled up in a calf-length padded coat, and her long black hair cascades out from under an eggplant-colored slouchy knit cap.
I respond by giving her a full bend-at-the-waist, arm-thrown-to-the-side bow. “At your service.” I can’t help myself, unsure of whether I am trying to crack her facade or just annoy her in return for her iciness. Maybe both.
She ignores me and watches as Faust comes jogging up from behind us, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his arms for warmth. “I traded with Palmer,” he says, and gives me a grin. “Don’t want to shirk my ‘welcome rep’ responsibilities. Not that Whitefoot here couldn’t show you the ropes.” He gives her a playful punch on the arm, and she gives him a smile so warm I’m surprised it doesn’t melt half the ice in New York.
How does she do it . . . arctic to tropical in a second flat? I would be impressed if I wasn’t on the end of the stick reserved for polar bears.
With effort, Faust manages to pry his eyes away from her and hands me a leather belt with a holster on each side. “Two weapons?” I ask. He nods as I strap it around my waist.
“Short-sword,” he says, handing me the blade. I inspect it before slipping it into my belt: It’s brand-new, unlike the antique models we use in France, but well made. “And a Glock,” he says, handing me a pistol.
I look up at him in surprise.
“It’s enough, really. You don’t really need an automatic,” he explains, misunderstanding my expression. “We never come up against more than a few numa at a time. And even that’s pretty rare, unless we’re zombie hunting. Today’s just a regular walk around the block.”
I glance at “Whitefoot.” She’s amused by my confusion. “Like it or not, guns are the American way. Shoot to the head to stun, then use your blade,” she clarifies.
That’s the way Lucien cut down Gaspard to get into La Maison, I remember. Gunshot to the head, then—while the projectile worked its way back out of Gaspard’s bullet-rejecting flesh—decapitation by sword. American way, huh? I wonder if Lucien made any trips to the States before meeting his end at the tip of Kate’s blade.
I holster the gun and pull the sides of my long wool coat over the weapons to hide them. The Frost Queen, “Frosty,” I decide to christen her since I still don’t know her first name, has already turned and is walking away. She points up and says, “We’ve got your old colleagues with us, Faust.” And then, speaking to the air, she says, “Ryan, you go with Marchenoir, Tirado’s with Faust, and I’ve got Oreo. Let’s move it out.”
“Three volant spirits?” I ask.
Faust shrugs. “More of the American way, I guess.”
Okay. Guns. One volant per walking revenant. I can accept that. It’s the minor cultural differences that throw me more. Like the last name/nickname thing: It’s more like army-speak than talk among kindred. Though there’s no way two hundred bardia in one city could be as closely knit as our much smaller Paris crowd. Which, at the moment, is exactly how I like it. Arm’s length sounds pretty good to me.
We begin walking away from the river, into the central part of the Brooklyn neighborhood called Williamsburg. The voice of the volant spirit assigned to me appears in my mind. Hey Frenchie. Anthony Ryan here, Ground Zero. I’ve got your back.
“Hi,” I respond, and I hear Frosty and Faust check in with their invisible partners. Ghostly communication only works one way. They can get inside our heads—but we can’t get into theirs. “You can call me Jules.”
Okay, Frenchie, the voice responds.
Frosty starts giving orders. “Ryan, head north toward Greenpoint. Tirado, straight ahead toward Bushwick Avenue. And Oreo, sweep over toward Bed-Stuy and the Navy Yard. Start within a twenty-minute walk of our location, and then sweep back toward us.” I feel the volant spirits leave us, and it’s once again three dead guys—make that two dead guys and a girl—walking the streets in the frigid morning air.
Faust points things out as we go: the main street, called Bedford. The fact that this neighborhood has boomed in the last few decades, luxury apartments and wealthy tenants replacing the Polish and Italian immigrants in one part, European Jewish and Hispanic populations in another. We walk by brand-new bars and restaurants and pass hipster guys with tight jeans and beards and girls with tattoos and thick, winged eyeliner.
The changes have made things easier for the bardia. When the neighborhood was made up of families who stayed for generations, caution was an everyday concern. But with people constantly moving in and out, they don’t have to worry about hiding faces that never change.
I remember my volant spirit’s introduction. “What’s Ground Zero mean?” I ask.
“What about Ground Zero?” Faust asks.
“That’s how Ryan introduced himself,” I clarify.
Faust answers, “Ground Zero. Twin Towers. September eleventh . . .” And before he even finishes, I get it.
“Onze septembre,” I translate, “of course. Ryan was there?”
“We all were,” he responds, “most of us pre-council newbies you’ll meet at the Warehouse were. More bardia made that day than in the entire history of New York City.” His face darkens. “And a few numa too.”
We turn, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, and follow it away from the river. Frosty walks a few paces in front of us, but I can tell she’s listening to every word.
“We heard all about it in France,” I say, and think about the ramifications of what Faust just told me. “But the dead were so high profile! There were leaflets with your faces all over the place. How were you even able to stay in the New York area after animating?”
“Gold made sure those of us he recovered were certified dead and taken off the search lists. Those who had families or communities who might recognize them were moved farther away. Ryan, Tirado, Oreo, and me . . . we all decided to stay. My parents are dead, but I have a little sister I like to keep an eye on. I visit her when I’m volant.” He’s quiet, studying the ground in front of his feet.
It’s got to be hard for him. He still has surviving family members he can’t show himself to. Everyone I knew before I animated has been dead for generations.
