My gaze fell upon a picture near the middle, probably because it was the most beautifully painted. Some guérisseur artists were obviously more talented than others. With most, the objective seemed to be getting the message across instead of demonstrating the artist’s skill. But this one could have been painted by Raphael or Michelangelo, the sumptuous beauty of the characters being this painter’s goal.
In it, a group of numa with red auras stood across a small stream from another group of golden-aura bardia. One of the numa was wading through the clear flowing water as he crossed over to the bardia’s side. A female bardia stretched her hand out to him. The numa in the water had a bloodred halo, but unlike those of his kindred, his aura was laced with veins of gold. Is he some kind of crossbreed revenant? I wondered. Or maybe like the bayata, was he another supernatural being altogether? I had so much to learn—an idea that simultaneously thrilled and scared me. I couldn’t wait to find out more about Vincent’s kind, but was leery of what type of creepy things were waiting to be discovered along the way.
As I hurried to scoop up the stack of books Bran had indicated and stow them carefully in my bag, I wondered about the things I had witnessed. How many other humans knew of this cave? Besides the actual guérisseurs, not many, I was sure. I felt awed—overwhelmed—by my inclusion in this group. Just a normal girl from Brooklyn standing in a magical cave underneath the bustling activity of one of the world’s major cities. A girl who is anxiously awaited by three undead guys outside the door of the cave, I remembered and, staring longingly back at the paintings I hadn’t had time to look at, I made a split-second decision. Grabbing my phone again, I lifted it to take a photo of the wall.
I can study them back in the safety of my own room, I thought. But it wasn’t until I pressed the camera icon that I remembered, in a flash of panic, the magic protecting the cave. Would it incinerate my phone? Would it incinerate me? When nothing happened, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed quickly toward the door.
Picking up a tool that looked like a giant candle snuffer hanging by the door, I used it to extinguish one of the torches. As I moved toward the other, I noticed that this wall was painted in comic-strip style like the wall facing it. But, judging from the characters’ clothes, these paintings were the most recent; all from the last couple of centuries.
I flicked on my flashlight before snuffing out the second torch. And as the flame began to die, I noticed the painting located just above the door. It was of a group of men in uniforms decorated with swastikas, standing in front of a giant map. In the middle of the group was a mustached man with slicked-down hair, who I recognized immediately. And just as the torch extinguished, I saw that the men around him—Hitler’s advisors—all had red haloes.
SEVENTEEN
JEAN-BAPTISTE WAS WAITING FOR US AT THE door when we returned. “From your triumphant expression, I trust your mission was a success, Kate?” he asked anxiously.
I patted my bag and smiled widely. “I’ve got the goods.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Wonderful. Come this way. Bran and Gaspard are waiting in the library.”
“We’re good too, JB,” Ambrose muttered, “thanks for asking.” He turned to Arthur. “How ’bout a workout?”
Arthur shook his head. “Thought I’d do some research. Don’t you ever get tired of fighting?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being an egghead?” Ambrose riposted, but when Arthur looked hurt, he laughed and mock-punched him in the arm. “Just kidding,” he said. “I love your books. Especially that one with the guy. And the girl. Yeah, that book was great,” and he walked off toward the armory.
“Do you need me, or can I check in with you once Bran’s had time to look through the books?” Arthur asked Jean-Baptiste.
“I’m sure we’ll be calling on your expertise very soon,” JB said, excusing him.
“See you later,” Arthur said, tucking his hair behind his ear and giving me a wink before wandering off toward his room.
“How was your visit to the archives?” JB asked eagerly as we walked up the stairs. “Did you see them too, Vincent?” he asked, and then stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. Guarded by guérisseur magic. How fascinating. Kate, what did you think of them?”
“The place was amazing,” I responded. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I feel truly lucky to have been there.”
“You are truly lucky to have been there,” he said wistfully. The fact that a mystical treasure trove of supernatural history existed a half hour’s walk from where he lived—one that he would never be able to see—seemed to be eating JB up. And I was sure Gaspard felt the same. Once again, I was awed that Bran trusted me enough to send me on such an important errand.
Bran and Gaspard were ensconced in a corner of the library, deep in conversation. They turned as they heard us enter. “Kate,” both said at once, and Bran said, “And Vincent,” looking at a space so close to me I might as well have two heads.
I pulled the stack of books from my bag and set them on the table before the men. Bran’s face lit up, as he ran his fingers lovingly over the cover of the top one. “I’ve never seen them all in the same place, outside the archives. My mother used to bring them home one by one to read them to me. And the only time I visited—just a couple of days ago—I was otherwise occupied.” He suddenly looked sad.
“I saw your mother’s tomb,” I said softly, pulling a chair to the table and sitting beside him. “It was beautiful.”
“Thank you, child,” Bran replied, looking consoled. “I’m glad you went. It could well be your only chance.”
“You never visited your family’s archives before this week?” Jean-Baptiste asked, astounded.
“No. Only the active guérisseur in the family is allowed within. That is why my mother brought the books to me, one at a time, as is the custom.” He glanced at the volumes. “I figured that today was a day for breaking rules.”
“Who actually wrote these volumes?” asked Gaspard. He appeared to be using superhuman restraint to resist leaping upon the books and devouring their contents.
“My ancestors,” Bran replied. “The guérisseurs in my family have been wielding their art for many generations. Although the active Tândorn guérisseur has maintained a continual presence in Saint-Ouen since medieval times, the nonpracticing rest of our clan lived in Brittany and were farmers.
“Like most peasants at the time, my ancestors were illiterate. They passed their stories from generation to generation, memorizing volumes full of accounts of their dealings. In the nineteenth century, the first Tândorn who could write took it upon herself to copy out the family’s oral history. Three of these books”—he nodded toward the volumes—“were written by her. There have only been seven or eight guérisseurs since her, and they added their knowledge to the last two books.”
He shuffled through the stack and pulled out one of the oldest-looking volumes.
“This is the one I remember containing the information the ancient one seeks: they mention a Vic . . . Champion-to-conqueror power transfer. This is an account from a foreign source, of course. As you know, there has never been a Champion in France.”
Gaspard leaned toward me and added, “Champions have appeared throughout history in other spots of the globe. Whenever the threat of numa has grown too great in an area, a Champion seems to arise.”
Turning the pages slowly and scanning each one, Bran stopped at a passage filled with tiny scrawl in brown ink that looked practically illegible from my vantage point. “Yes, here we are. An account from a guérisseur who had traveled with a caravan from India and met one of my ancestors.”
“Stop looking into the future, Vincent,” Jean-Baptiste said. “Why on earth would it scare Kate if it’s not even a possibility?” He turned to me. “Vincent doesn’t like what Bran is about to read and requested that we wait to discuss it until you are gone.”
“Thanks a lot, Vincent,” I said, feeling peeved. “Overprotective much?”
Sorry, mon amour, I heard him say. There are some stories I don’t think are completely necessary for you to know. Especially when they involve me.
“I think I can decide for myself what will upset me,” I countered. “Please, Bran, go ahead.”
Bran scanned through the story and then encapsulated it for us. “The story took place in medieval India under the Tanwar Dynasty. This Champion was destroyed and his spirit cast into an animal that was killed and eaten by his numa captor. It was thus that the Champion’s power was transferred into the numa. It took an army of bardia to bring him down, and only after he had used his multiplied powers of strength and persuasion to conquer an entire city.
My throat tightened. “Okay, I’m not upset, but I am disgusted,” I said, my stomach turning. “Vincent, is that what Violette tried with you? The animal bit?”
Yes, he replied, while Gaspard nodded. Vincent had obviously already told him the story.
“What happened?” I asked.
Kate, it’s really not important, Vincent pleaded. Not that I don’t think you can take it. It’s just that . . .
“Tell me.”
Violette forced my spirit into the body of a rabbit, which she then killed and ate raw. But sometime between the killing and the eating, my spirit left the animal.
“What would have happened to you if it had worked? If you had been the Champion?” I asked Vincent.
Bran responded for him. “Violette would have absorbed Vincent’s spirit, which would have been combined with her own. His identity would have been intertwined with Violette’s and his power added to hers.”
But, obviously, that didn’t happen, Vincent rushed to say.
My head hurt. A dull burn behind my eyebrows, like when I crunched on ice. I raised my hand to cup my forehead and felt tears sting my eyes. The very idea of Vincent’s and Violette’s spirits intertwined made me sick.
It’s okay. I’m here now, Vincent said consolingly.
“But when Violette jerks you back to her, what will you tell her? That she did the right thing, but it didn’t work since you aren’t the Champion?” I asked.
“No, he’s going to lie,” Jean-Baptiste said. “We will concoct some type of bogus ceremony for her to try on him in order to stall her a bit longer.”
Bran added his two cents. “Stalling isn’t actually going to solve anything. He’s still bound to her, and will remain so until one of two things happens.”
“And those would be . . . ?” I asked.
“Until Violette is destroyed or Vincent is re-embodied.”
I’ll kill her. Gladly, I thought, my fury making me even more nauseous. However, realizing that my slaying a revenant protected by a numa horde wasn’t the most probable outcome, I settled for practicality. “Then let’s find this account of the re-embodiment,” I urged.
“I remember my mother reading it to me when I was still a child. I haven’t actually seen it myself, so I have no idea which of these books contain the story,” Bran admitted. “I’ll need to work my way through them until I find it.”
“I’d be happy to help,” I offered. I reached for one of the books, but withdrew my hand when I saw his expression.
“I’m sorry, child, but these texts are full of my family’s secrets,” Bran said. “I have sworn to protect them and show them to no one.”
My heart sank. If Bran read through all of these books by himself, it could take a long time. And time was something we couldn’t afford.
“Do you mind if I wait here until I have to go home?” I asked.
And do what? asked Vincent. Watch him turn pages? You’ll be bored and you’ll drive him insane.
“There’s a lot here to keep me occupied,” I responded, gesturing at the walls of books. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
“You are welcome to stay,” Bran responded, to my relief.
“Vincent and I are going to take this opportunity to chat,” Jean-Baptiste said. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Violette and her plans.”
I’ll be back, mon ange, promised Vincent.
Bran spent the next hour carefully studying his books, while Gaspard hovered nervously to one side. He was more tic-y than usual, wringing his hands and trembling as he watched Bran work. I suspected his nervousness was due to the fact that he was in the presence of a wealth of arcane information that he couldn’t actually touch. The thought of what could be written in the books was enough to fill me with wonder, and I wasn’t a hyper-anxious nineteenth-century historian. Under the circumstances, I felt he was holding himself together quite well.
I spent the time reading a grisly account of pre-Columbian Aztec kings who used revenant Seers to find newly formed bardia. They forced them to serve as immortal bodyguards by threatening their loved ones. When the king died, their bardia slaves were immolated with them. Although I shuddered at the horror of it, the story’s disturbing content made me see our own situation in a different light: Things could be worse.
Finally Charlotte peeked her head through the door. “Your grandmother called to ask you to come home for dinner. Jean-Baptiste asked me to walk you back,” she said. “He’s still interviewing Vincent about Violette. There has been no numa activity since this morning, and since Violette is waiting to get something from us, JB feels you’re all safe staying at your house tonight.”
In it, a group of numa with red auras stood across a small stream from another group of golden-aura bardia. One of the numa was wading through the clear flowing water as he crossed over to the bardia’s side. A female bardia stretched her hand out to him. The numa in the water had a bloodred halo, but unlike those of his kindred, his aura was laced with veins of gold. Is he some kind of crossbreed revenant? I wondered. Or maybe like the bayata, was he another supernatural being altogether? I had so much to learn—an idea that simultaneously thrilled and scared me. I couldn’t wait to find out more about Vincent’s kind, but was leery of what type of creepy things were waiting to be discovered along the way.
As I hurried to scoop up the stack of books Bran had indicated and stow them carefully in my bag, I wondered about the things I had witnessed. How many other humans knew of this cave? Besides the actual guérisseurs, not many, I was sure. I felt awed—overwhelmed—by my inclusion in this group. Just a normal girl from Brooklyn standing in a magical cave underneath the bustling activity of one of the world’s major cities. A girl who is anxiously awaited by three undead guys outside the door of the cave, I remembered and, staring longingly back at the paintings I hadn’t had time to look at, I made a split-second decision. Grabbing my phone again, I lifted it to take a photo of the wall.
I can study them back in the safety of my own room, I thought. But it wasn’t until I pressed the camera icon that I remembered, in a flash of panic, the magic protecting the cave. Would it incinerate my phone? Would it incinerate me? When nothing happened, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed quickly toward the door.
Picking up a tool that looked like a giant candle snuffer hanging by the door, I used it to extinguish one of the torches. As I moved toward the other, I noticed that this wall was painted in comic-strip style like the wall facing it. But, judging from the characters’ clothes, these paintings were the most recent; all from the last couple of centuries.
I flicked on my flashlight before snuffing out the second torch. And as the flame began to die, I noticed the painting located just above the door. It was of a group of men in uniforms decorated with swastikas, standing in front of a giant map. In the middle of the group was a mustached man with slicked-down hair, who I recognized immediately. And just as the torch extinguished, I saw that the men around him—Hitler’s advisors—all had red haloes.
SEVENTEEN
JEAN-BAPTISTE WAS WAITING FOR US AT THE door when we returned. “From your triumphant expression, I trust your mission was a success, Kate?” he asked anxiously.
I patted my bag and smiled widely. “I’ve got the goods.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Wonderful. Come this way. Bran and Gaspard are waiting in the library.”
“We’re good too, JB,” Ambrose muttered, “thanks for asking.” He turned to Arthur. “How ’bout a workout?”
Arthur shook his head. “Thought I’d do some research. Don’t you ever get tired of fighting?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being an egghead?” Ambrose riposted, but when Arthur looked hurt, he laughed and mock-punched him in the arm. “Just kidding,” he said. “I love your books. Especially that one with the guy. And the girl. Yeah, that book was great,” and he walked off toward the armory.
“Do you need me, or can I check in with you once Bran’s had time to look through the books?” Arthur asked Jean-Baptiste.
“I’m sure we’ll be calling on your expertise very soon,” JB said, excusing him.
“See you later,” Arthur said, tucking his hair behind his ear and giving me a wink before wandering off toward his room.
“How was your visit to the archives?” JB asked eagerly as we walked up the stairs. “Did you see them too, Vincent?” he asked, and then stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. Guarded by guérisseur magic. How fascinating. Kate, what did you think of them?”
“The place was amazing,” I responded. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I feel truly lucky to have been there.”
“You are truly lucky to have been there,” he said wistfully. The fact that a mystical treasure trove of supernatural history existed a half hour’s walk from where he lived—one that he would never be able to see—seemed to be eating JB up. And I was sure Gaspard felt the same. Once again, I was awed that Bran trusted me enough to send me on such an important errand.
Bran and Gaspard were ensconced in a corner of the library, deep in conversation. They turned as they heard us enter. “Kate,” both said at once, and Bran said, “And Vincent,” looking at a space so close to me I might as well have two heads.
I pulled the stack of books from my bag and set them on the table before the men. Bran’s face lit up, as he ran his fingers lovingly over the cover of the top one. “I’ve never seen them all in the same place, outside the archives. My mother used to bring them home one by one to read them to me. And the only time I visited—just a couple of days ago—I was otherwise occupied.” He suddenly looked sad.
“I saw your mother’s tomb,” I said softly, pulling a chair to the table and sitting beside him. “It was beautiful.”
“Thank you, child,” Bran replied, looking consoled. “I’m glad you went. It could well be your only chance.”
“You never visited your family’s archives before this week?” Jean-Baptiste asked, astounded.
“No. Only the active guérisseur in the family is allowed within. That is why my mother brought the books to me, one at a time, as is the custom.” He glanced at the volumes. “I figured that today was a day for breaking rules.”
“Who actually wrote these volumes?” asked Gaspard. He appeared to be using superhuman restraint to resist leaping upon the books and devouring their contents.
“My ancestors,” Bran replied. “The guérisseurs in my family have been wielding their art for many generations. Although the active Tândorn guérisseur has maintained a continual presence in Saint-Ouen since medieval times, the nonpracticing rest of our clan lived in Brittany and were farmers.
“Like most peasants at the time, my ancestors were illiterate. They passed their stories from generation to generation, memorizing volumes full of accounts of their dealings. In the nineteenth century, the first Tândorn who could write took it upon herself to copy out the family’s oral history. Three of these books”—he nodded toward the volumes—“were written by her. There have only been seven or eight guérisseurs since her, and they added their knowledge to the last two books.”
He shuffled through the stack and pulled out one of the oldest-looking volumes.
“This is the one I remember containing the information the ancient one seeks: they mention a Vic . . . Champion-to-conqueror power transfer. This is an account from a foreign source, of course. As you know, there has never been a Champion in France.”
Gaspard leaned toward me and added, “Champions have appeared throughout history in other spots of the globe. Whenever the threat of numa has grown too great in an area, a Champion seems to arise.”
Turning the pages slowly and scanning each one, Bran stopped at a passage filled with tiny scrawl in brown ink that looked practically illegible from my vantage point. “Yes, here we are. An account from a guérisseur who had traveled with a caravan from India and met one of my ancestors.”
“Stop looking into the future, Vincent,” Jean-Baptiste said. “Why on earth would it scare Kate if it’s not even a possibility?” He turned to me. “Vincent doesn’t like what Bran is about to read and requested that we wait to discuss it until you are gone.”
“Thanks a lot, Vincent,” I said, feeling peeved. “Overprotective much?”
Sorry, mon amour, I heard him say. There are some stories I don’t think are completely necessary for you to know. Especially when they involve me.
“I think I can decide for myself what will upset me,” I countered. “Please, Bran, go ahead.”
Bran scanned through the story and then encapsulated it for us. “The story took place in medieval India under the Tanwar Dynasty. This Champion was destroyed and his spirit cast into an animal that was killed and eaten by his numa captor. It was thus that the Champion’s power was transferred into the numa. It took an army of bardia to bring him down, and only after he had used his multiplied powers of strength and persuasion to conquer an entire city.
My throat tightened. “Okay, I’m not upset, but I am disgusted,” I said, my stomach turning. “Vincent, is that what Violette tried with you? The animal bit?”
Yes, he replied, while Gaspard nodded. Vincent had obviously already told him the story.
“What happened?” I asked.
Kate, it’s really not important, Vincent pleaded. Not that I don’t think you can take it. It’s just that . . .
“Tell me.”
Violette forced my spirit into the body of a rabbit, which she then killed and ate raw. But sometime between the killing and the eating, my spirit left the animal.
“What would have happened to you if it had worked? If you had been the Champion?” I asked Vincent.
Bran responded for him. “Violette would have absorbed Vincent’s spirit, which would have been combined with her own. His identity would have been intertwined with Violette’s and his power added to hers.”
But, obviously, that didn’t happen, Vincent rushed to say.
My head hurt. A dull burn behind my eyebrows, like when I crunched on ice. I raised my hand to cup my forehead and felt tears sting my eyes. The very idea of Vincent’s and Violette’s spirits intertwined made me sick.
It’s okay. I’m here now, Vincent said consolingly.
“But when Violette jerks you back to her, what will you tell her? That she did the right thing, but it didn’t work since you aren’t the Champion?” I asked.
“No, he’s going to lie,” Jean-Baptiste said. “We will concoct some type of bogus ceremony for her to try on him in order to stall her a bit longer.”
Bran added his two cents. “Stalling isn’t actually going to solve anything. He’s still bound to her, and will remain so until one of two things happens.”
“And those would be . . . ?” I asked.
“Until Violette is destroyed or Vincent is re-embodied.”
I’ll kill her. Gladly, I thought, my fury making me even more nauseous. However, realizing that my slaying a revenant protected by a numa horde wasn’t the most probable outcome, I settled for practicality. “Then let’s find this account of the re-embodiment,” I urged.
“I remember my mother reading it to me when I was still a child. I haven’t actually seen it myself, so I have no idea which of these books contain the story,” Bran admitted. “I’ll need to work my way through them until I find it.”
“I’d be happy to help,” I offered. I reached for one of the books, but withdrew my hand when I saw his expression.
“I’m sorry, child, but these texts are full of my family’s secrets,” Bran said. “I have sworn to protect them and show them to no one.”
My heart sank. If Bran read through all of these books by himself, it could take a long time. And time was something we couldn’t afford.
“Do you mind if I wait here until I have to go home?” I asked.
And do what? asked Vincent. Watch him turn pages? You’ll be bored and you’ll drive him insane.
“There’s a lot here to keep me occupied,” I responded, gesturing at the walls of books. “I don’t want to go home yet.”
“You are welcome to stay,” Bran responded, to my relief.
“Vincent and I are going to take this opportunity to chat,” Jean-Baptiste said. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Violette and her plans.”
I’ll be back, mon ange, promised Vincent.
Bran spent the next hour carefully studying his books, while Gaspard hovered nervously to one side. He was more tic-y than usual, wringing his hands and trembling as he watched Bran work. I suspected his nervousness was due to the fact that he was in the presence of a wealth of arcane information that he couldn’t actually touch. The thought of what could be written in the books was enough to fill me with wonder, and I wasn’t a hyper-anxious nineteenth-century historian. Under the circumstances, I felt he was holding himself together quite well.
I spent the time reading a grisly account of pre-Columbian Aztec kings who used revenant Seers to find newly formed bardia. They forced them to serve as immortal bodyguards by threatening their loved ones. When the king died, their bardia slaves were immolated with them. Although I shuddered at the horror of it, the story’s disturbing content made me see our own situation in a different light: Things could be worse.
Finally Charlotte peeked her head through the door. “Your grandmother called to ask you to come home for dinner. Jean-Baptiste asked me to walk you back,” she said. “He’s still interviewing Vincent about Violette. There has been no numa activity since this morning, and since Violette is waiting to get something from us, JB feels you’re all safe staying at your house tonight.”
