Eww, I thought, recoiling from the grotesque image this brought to mind.
“That’s not much of a sacrifice,” Ambrose said from next to me. “Whatever Violette lops off, it’s just going to grow back next time she’s dormant.”
The older revenant shook his head. “Besides the pain involved in the ‘lopping,’ as you put it, that is the sacrifice: The body part of the numa burned with the revenant corpse disappears forever. In the case of a binding, there is no regeneration.”
I leaned closer to Ambrose, fighting the sickened numbness that spread through me. Violette was going to sever a part of her own body in order to bind Vincent’s spirit? I knew she had killed him to get his powers. But permanently mutilating herself? Centuries of serving a fate she didn’t choose seemed to have cost the ancient revenant her sanity.
“I’ll ask him for you,” said Ambrose under his breath, and then speaking up said, “Jules wants to know if being bound to Violette means Vincent must obey her.”
I hadn’t been aware that Jules was with us until then, but knowing he was near, I felt comforted. “If the only reason Violette needs Vincent’s spirit is for transfer of the Champion’s power,” Gaspard responded, “we can hope she will release him once she achieves her goal. But even if she chooses to keep him bound, a wandering soul cannot be forced to act against its will.”
Arthur spoke up. “I beg to disagree,” he said apologetically. “There are historical examples of coercion.”
“For example?” Jean-Baptiste insisted.
“There is the account from our Italian kindred that dates back to the Renaissance,” Arthur stated. “A numa chief killed a newly formed bardia and bound her volant spirit to him by incinerating his left hand with her corpse. He manipulated her into serving his will by threatening to kill her still-living human family, and became extremely powerful through the strength of his spirit-slave.”
“Then it’s a good thing that Vin doesn’t have any human family left,” said Ambrose with a note of triumph. “No mortal bargaining chips for our Evil Empress to use against . . .” Realizing what he was saying, he stopped talking and lowered his face to his hands.
He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t have to. Because everyone else was.
THREE
“VIOLETTE USING . . . A HUMAN WHO IS DEAR TO him”—Gaspard avoided my eyes—“to blackmail Vincent is, as one would say in modern parlance, quite a long shot. She may not be aware of this ancient story. And even if she is, once she absorbs his power I doubt she will need the servitude of a much-weakened revenant spirit.”
His words were meant to comfort me. And they did, to an extent. What he said was rational. But Violette had already used me once to get to Vincent. The thought that she might use me again—this time forcing Vincent to act against his will—was unbearable.
Jean-Baptiste turned to address the crowd. His ramrod-straight posture, chest puffed out and hands behind his back, recalled the Napoleonic military leader he had been centuries earlier. “That’s enough talk of hypothetical situations. One of our kindred—my very own second—has been corporeally destroyed. We must act now to save his spirit and to stop Violette from achieving her plans.”
With that, he began organizing everyone. Arthur was appointed to lead a contingent to Violette’s castle in Langeais. He had lived there for centuries, and could effectively hide a group of spies to keep tabs on Violette’s movements. Since Jules was volant, he was to accompany them, enter the castle, and try to contact Vincent’s spirit. And Ambrose was placed in charge of defensive strategy against the numa remaining in Paris. “To begin,” JB asked him, “could you please see Kate safely home?”
“Home?” I leapt from the couch to face the revenant leader. “No! I want to help. There has to be something I can do.”
Jean-Baptiste read my expression. “Kate, my dear, I am not being condescending—I’m being realistic. There is nothing you can do at this time of the night except go home, sleep, and be ready for any updates we have in the morning.”
I eyed him skeptically, but he seemed sincere—it wasn’t a case of talking down to the weak, powerless human. But I didn’t agree with him. There was something I could do. Someone I could talk to who might have valuable information about what was happening. And the more informed I was, the more capable I would be to help Vincent.
As JB moved to address the next group, I asked Ambrose to give me a moment. Sitting with my back to him, I found Bran’s number on my phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “Bran,” I said, speaking softly, “it’s Kate.” I exhaled and pressed my eyes closed. “Violette told me that her men killed your mother. If that is true, then I am so sorry. But there’s something you can do to help us fight the numa. I need to talk to you. Please call me when you get this message, whatever time of the night.” I gave him my number and hung up.
Ambrose was waiting, watching me curiously, but didn’t pry. As I rose, he gave my shoulders a little side squeeze, and I winced. “Sorry, little sister, forgot about that cracked collarbone Vi gave you yesterday.”
“That’s okay,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder as we walked to the door. “Pain is actually a good thing. It means I can feel.”
Ambrose held my coat for me to slip into. “Okay,” he responded to someone I couldn’t see, and wrapped his arm cautiously around my shoulders. “Jules wants me to tell you not to worry about anything,” he said as we walked through the courtyard and out the gate. “That Violette has bigger things in mind than using Vincent as her puppet and you as bait.”
“If that was meant to reassure me, thanks. But the thought of Violette charging up to Paris as a Champion-fueled supernuma doesn’t make me feel much better,” I admitted.
We walked in silence down the dark street and across the boulevard Raspail. A church bell chimed twice, two low and mournful notes tolling from far across town. One lone taxi sped past us, the busy boulevard empty this early in the morning. It began to rain in a fine mist, and I snagged my hood to pull it up over my hair. When it flopped back down, I left it. The cold needles of rain felt good against my skin. Another reminder that I could feel. That I, for one, still had a body.
We turned onto my street, and I squinted up at Ambrose as raindrops dotted my eyelashes. “I’m not as concerned about Violette manipulating Vincent. That’s just a ‘maybe.’ An ‘if.’ What’s definite is that his body is gone, and he can’t ever get it back. He’s stuck as a”—my voice cracked from emotion—“ghost for the rest of eternity.”
I shuddered and Ambrose tightened his grip. “I know,” he said, and the note of despair in his voice showed me all the emotion that his face couldn’t. He cocked his head to the side, listened, and then nodded.
“What did Jules say?” I asked.
“He was using language that I couldn’t repeat in front of a proper lady like you, Katie-Lou,” he admitted.
“About Violette?”
“Yes.”
“Good. She deserves it, the evil bitch.”
Ambrose laughed and planted a kiss on the top of my head as we stopped in front of my building.
“Jules, will you be able to get close enough to talk to Vincent without Violette knowing you’re there? I mean, if he’s attached to her . . . or whatever.” I asked the air.
Ambrose listened for a second and then said, “He says he’ll do his best. But we’re pretty much clueless about this whole binding thing.”
“If you do talk to him, just tell him that we’re doing everything we can. And that I’m not giving up on him,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage.
Ambrose sighed and, taking my hands in his, stooped to look me in the eye. “I know you a bit by now, Katie-Lou. And I know you’ll go insane just waiting around. But Jules and I will keep you updated, I swear.” He smiled. “Girl, I saw the look on your face when JB told you this, but I have to agree with him. The best thing you can do now is get some sleep so you’ll be ready for whatever happens tomorrow.”
His words worked like magic on my spring-loaded nerves, and all of a sudden my anxiety turned to a fatigue so deep that I could have curled right up on my front steps and fallen asleep. Ambrose saw it, and his features flooded with compassion. “It’s been a long day,” he said. Carefully avoiding my hurt shoulder, he pulled me into a big American bear hug. And thank God for it. Sometimes those French cheek-kisses just weren’t enough.
Releasing me, Ambrose cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his hands together as if he could squish our grief between his palms. “Okay, little sis,” he said. “Call you in the morning.” And he was off.
Exhausted, I stumbled up the stairs, my thoughts racing with a million different scenarios of what could be going on in the Loire Valley castle. My stomach clenched painfully as I thought—and then tried not to think—of Vincent’s ghost bound to a freshly mutilated Violette. The image made me sick.
I had to do something. My thoughts returned to Bran. As a guérisseur to the revenants, he was the only one who might know more than the bardia about their arcane rites. He might actually hold the key to what was happening. I’ll call him again in the morning, I thought as I opened the door.
I didn’t realize I was walking straight into an ambush. My sister and grandmother waited in the sitting room: Georgia snorting as she awoke from where she was draped across one of the couches, and Mamie leaping up from her armchair. She took one look at my face and said, “Okay, girls. Do you want to tell me what this is about? Georgia, you claim that a stranger beat you up, and, Katya, you come home with red, swollen eyes at two a.m. on a school night.”
Ignoring Mamie, Georgia crossed the room in a flash and took me by the wrists. Her bruised face was a rainbow of sickening yellows, reds, and purples, one cheek swollen out of proportion. “Did they find him in time?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “No.” And the feelings I had been pushing away since Vincent’s voice disappeared over the river—the despair I kept trying to shove down over the last two hours in order to function, to string my words together and put one foot in front of the other—careened back up to the surface. “Oh my God, Georgia.” I choked and coughed on my tears as she wrapped me in her arms. “He’s gone. He’s really gone.” I leaned my head on her shoulder and began to weep.
“Let’s go,” Mamie said softly, and shooing us both out of the foyer, directed us down the hallway into my bedroom. Still crying, I peeled off my clothes and pulled on some pajamas. And as Mamie and Georgia settled on either side of me on my bed, it felt like we had time-traveled straight back to the previous summer when I had resolved not to see Vincent again: me sobbing; my grandmother and sister comforting. Only this was a million times worse. Last time it was a breakup, heart wrenching but reversible. This time it was a good-bye. It was forever.
I bent over double and sobbed into my folded arms as they rubbed my back and smoothed my hair. When my tears finally slowed, Mamie asked, “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“What have you already told her?” I asked Georgia, who was gently massaging her bruised jaw.
“All I said was that something bad had happened and we needed to be ready to support you when you got home,” she responded, glancing cautiously at my grandmother.
“What is it, Katya?” Mamie insisted. “You act like someone just died.” Another sob bubbled up from my chest, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from full-out weeping all over again. My grandmother’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
“We have to tell her, Katie-Bean,” Georgia said. “Papy knows already. And you’re going to need me and Mamie for support.”
“Speak,” Mamie commanded softly, and I began. At the beginning.
The next half hour was spent revealing the story to my grandmother, slowly and undramatically, for the least possible shock value. Mamie’s expression was wary. She knew I was building up to something bad. But when I got to the point where I discovered what Vincent and his kindred were, she raised her hand to stop me. “That’s impossible,” she said, as if it were the end of the discussion. “You girls have both gone insane if you actually believe something like that.”
“Papy believes it, Mamie,” I said. “It was the reason he told me I couldn’t see Vincent again.”
“He did what?” my grandmother exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
She thought for a moment. “That must be why he came to bed so late and was up so early this morning. He was avoiding me. I would have been able to tell something was up.” My grandmother met my eyes. “Surely Antoine didn’t believe a word of it. He’s not even superstitious, for God’s sake!”
I took her hand. “I know it’s hard to believe. Half the time I feel like I’m living in a really twisted fantasy novel. But, Mamie, try to—I don’t know—suspend your disbelief for now. You can talk to Papy about it later. Just please let me finish.”
She did her best not to interrupt again. “Yes, yes, I remember. That makes sense now,” she said from time to time when I linked the story to something she recognized: my breakup with Vincent (and subsequent makeup); Vincent’s outburst about Lucien at our dinner table.
I tried to skip the part where Vincent possessed me to kill Lucien, but Georgia couldn’t help herself from filling in the blanks—to my grandmother’s horror. By the end her palms were glued to her cheeks and her expression was one of shock and resignation.
“That’s not much of a sacrifice,” Ambrose said from next to me. “Whatever Violette lops off, it’s just going to grow back next time she’s dormant.”
The older revenant shook his head. “Besides the pain involved in the ‘lopping,’ as you put it, that is the sacrifice: The body part of the numa burned with the revenant corpse disappears forever. In the case of a binding, there is no regeneration.”
I leaned closer to Ambrose, fighting the sickened numbness that spread through me. Violette was going to sever a part of her own body in order to bind Vincent’s spirit? I knew she had killed him to get his powers. But permanently mutilating herself? Centuries of serving a fate she didn’t choose seemed to have cost the ancient revenant her sanity.
“I’ll ask him for you,” said Ambrose under his breath, and then speaking up said, “Jules wants to know if being bound to Violette means Vincent must obey her.”
I hadn’t been aware that Jules was with us until then, but knowing he was near, I felt comforted. “If the only reason Violette needs Vincent’s spirit is for transfer of the Champion’s power,” Gaspard responded, “we can hope she will release him once she achieves her goal. But even if she chooses to keep him bound, a wandering soul cannot be forced to act against its will.”
Arthur spoke up. “I beg to disagree,” he said apologetically. “There are historical examples of coercion.”
“For example?” Jean-Baptiste insisted.
“There is the account from our Italian kindred that dates back to the Renaissance,” Arthur stated. “A numa chief killed a newly formed bardia and bound her volant spirit to him by incinerating his left hand with her corpse. He manipulated her into serving his will by threatening to kill her still-living human family, and became extremely powerful through the strength of his spirit-slave.”
“Then it’s a good thing that Vin doesn’t have any human family left,” said Ambrose with a note of triumph. “No mortal bargaining chips for our Evil Empress to use against . . .” Realizing what he was saying, he stopped talking and lowered his face to his hands.
He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t have to. Because everyone else was.
THREE
“VIOLETTE USING . . . A HUMAN WHO IS DEAR TO him”—Gaspard avoided my eyes—“to blackmail Vincent is, as one would say in modern parlance, quite a long shot. She may not be aware of this ancient story. And even if she is, once she absorbs his power I doubt she will need the servitude of a much-weakened revenant spirit.”
His words were meant to comfort me. And they did, to an extent. What he said was rational. But Violette had already used me once to get to Vincent. The thought that she might use me again—this time forcing Vincent to act against his will—was unbearable.
Jean-Baptiste turned to address the crowd. His ramrod-straight posture, chest puffed out and hands behind his back, recalled the Napoleonic military leader he had been centuries earlier. “That’s enough talk of hypothetical situations. One of our kindred—my very own second—has been corporeally destroyed. We must act now to save his spirit and to stop Violette from achieving her plans.”
With that, he began organizing everyone. Arthur was appointed to lead a contingent to Violette’s castle in Langeais. He had lived there for centuries, and could effectively hide a group of spies to keep tabs on Violette’s movements. Since Jules was volant, he was to accompany them, enter the castle, and try to contact Vincent’s spirit. And Ambrose was placed in charge of defensive strategy against the numa remaining in Paris. “To begin,” JB asked him, “could you please see Kate safely home?”
“Home?” I leapt from the couch to face the revenant leader. “No! I want to help. There has to be something I can do.”
Jean-Baptiste read my expression. “Kate, my dear, I am not being condescending—I’m being realistic. There is nothing you can do at this time of the night except go home, sleep, and be ready for any updates we have in the morning.”
I eyed him skeptically, but he seemed sincere—it wasn’t a case of talking down to the weak, powerless human. But I didn’t agree with him. There was something I could do. Someone I could talk to who might have valuable information about what was happening. And the more informed I was, the more capable I would be to help Vincent.
As JB moved to address the next group, I asked Ambrose to give me a moment. Sitting with my back to him, I found Bran’s number on my phone. The call went straight to voice mail. “Bran,” I said, speaking softly, “it’s Kate.” I exhaled and pressed my eyes closed. “Violette told me that her men killed your mother. If that is true, then I am so sorry. But there’s something you can do to help us fight the numa. I need to talk to you. Please call me when you get this message, whatever time of the night.” I gave him my number and hung up.
Ambrose was waiting, watching me curiously, but didn’t pry. As I rose, he gave my shoulders a little side squeeze, and I winced. “Sorry, little sister, forgot about that cracked collarbone Vi gave you yesterday.”
“That’s okay,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder as we walked to the door. “Pain is actually a good thing. It means I can feel.”
Ambrose held my coat for me to slip into. “Okay,” he responded to someone I couldn’t see, and wrapped his arm cautiously around my shoulders. “Jules wants me to tell you not to worry about anything,” he said as we walked through the courtyard and out the gate. “That Violette has bigger things in mind than using Vincent as her puppet and you as bait.”
“If that was meant to reassure me, thanks. But the thought of Violette charging up to Paris as a Champion-fueled supernuma doesn’t make me feel much better,” I admitted.
We walked in silence down the dark street and across the boulevard Raspail. A church bell chimed twice, two low and mournful notes tolling from far across town. One lone taxi sped past us, the busy boulevard empty this early in the morning. It began to rain in a fine mist, and I snagged my hood to pull it up over my hair. When it flopped back down, I left it. The cold needles of rain felt good against my skin. Another reminder that I could feel. That I, for one, still had a body.
We turned onto my street, and I squinted up at Ambrose as raindrops dotted my eyelashes. “I’m not as concerned about Violette manipulating Vincent. That’s just a ‘maybe.’ An ‘if.’ What’s definite is that his body is gone, and he can’t ever get it back. He’s stuck as a”—my voice cracked from emotion—“ghost for the rest of eternity.”
I shuddered and Ambrose tightened his grip. “I know,” he said, and the note of despair in his voice showed me all the emotion that his face couldn’t. He cocked his head to the side, listened, and then nodded.
“What did Jules say?” I asked.
“He was using language that I couldn’t repeat in front of a proper lady like you, Katie-Lou,” he admitted.
“About Violette?”
“Yes.”
“Good. She deserves it, the evil bitch.”
Ambrose laughed and planted a kiss on the top of my head as we stopped in front of my building.
“Jules, will you be able to get close enough to talk to Vincent without Violette knowing you’re there? I mean, if he’s attached to her . . . or whatever.” I asked the air.
Ambrose listened for a second and then said, “He says he’ll do his best. But we’re pretty much clueless about this whole binding thing.”
“If you do talk to him, just tell him that we’re doing everything we can. And that I’m not giving up on him,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage.
Ambrose sighed and, taking my hands in his, stooped to look me in the eye. “I know you a bit by now, Katie-Lou. And I know you’ll go insane just waiting around. But Jules and I will keep you updated, I swear.” He smiled. “Girl, I saw the look on your face when JB told you this, but I have to agree with him. The best thing you can do now is get some sleep so you’ll be ready for whatever happens tomorrow.”
His words worked like magic on my spring-loaded nerves, and all of a sudden my anxiety turned to a fatigue so deep that I could have curled right up on my front steps and fallen asleep. Ambrose saw it, and his features flooded with compassion. “It’s been a long day,” he said. Carefully avoiding my hurt shoulder, he pulled me into a big American bear hug. And thank God for it. Sometimes those French cheek-kisses just weren’t enough.
Releasing me, Ambrose cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his hands together as if he could squish our grief between his palms. “Okay, little sis,” he said. “Call you in the morning.” And he was off.
Exhausted, I stumbled up the stairs, my thoughts racing with a million different scenarios of what could be going on in the Loire Valley castle. My stomach clenched painfully as I thought—and then tried not to think—of Vincent’s ghost bound to a freshly mutilated Violette. The image made me sick.
I had to do something. My thoughts returned to Bran. As a guérisseur to the revenants, he was the only one who might know more than the bardia about their arcane rites. He might actually hold the key to what was happening. I’ll call him again in the morning, I thought as I opened the door.
I didn’t realize I was walking straight into an ambush. My sister and grandmother waited in the sitting room: Georgia snorting as she awoke from where she was draped across one of the couches, and Mamie leaping up from her armchair. She took one look at my face and said, “Okay, girls. Do you want to tell me what this is about? Georgia, you claim that a stranger beat you up, and, Katya, you come home with red, swollen eyes at two a.m. on a school night.”
Ignoring Mamie, Georgia crossed the room in a flash and took me by the wrists. Her bruised face was a rainbow of sickening yellows, reds, and purples, one cheek swollen out of proportion. “Did they find him in time?” she whispered.
I shook my head. “No.” And the feelings I had been pushing away since Vincent’s voice disappeared over the river—the despair I kept trying to shove down over the last two hours in order to function, to string my words together and put one foot in front of the other—careened back up to the surface. “Oh my God, Georgia.” I choked and coughed on my tears as she wrapped me in her arms. “He’s gone. He’s really gone.” I leaned my head on her shoulder and began to weep.
“Let’s go,” Mamie said softly, and shooing us both out of the foyer, directed us down the hallway into my bedroom. Still crying, I peeled off my clothes and pulled on some pajamas. And as Mamie and Georgia settled on either side of me on my bed, it felt like we had time-traveled straight back to the previous summer when I had resolved not to see Vincent again: me sobbing; my grandmother and sister comforting. Only this was a million times worse. Last time it was a breakup, heart wrenching but reversible. This time it was a good-bye. It was forever.
I bent over double and sobbed into my folded arms as they rubbed my back and smoothed my hair. When my tears finally slowed, Mamie asked, “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“What have you already told her?” I asked Georgia, who was gently massaging her bruised jaw.
“All I said was that something bad had happened and we needed to be ready to support you when you got home,” she responded, glancing cautiously at my grandmother.
“What is it, Katya?” Mamie insisted. “You act like someone just died.” Another sob bubbled up from my chest, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from full-out weeping all over again. My grandmother’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
“We have to tell her, Katie-Bean,” Georgia said. “Papy knows already. And you’re going to need me and Mamie for support.”
“Speak,” Mamie commanded softly, and I began. At the beginning.
The next half hour was spent revealing the story to my grandmother, slowly and undramatically, for the least possible shock value. Mamie’s expression was wary. She knew I was building up to something bad. But when I got to the point where I discovered what Vincent and his kindred were, she raised her hand to stop me. “That’s impossible,” she said, as if it were the end of the discussion. “You girls have both gone insane if you actually believe something like that.”
“Papy believes it, Mamie,” I said. “It was the reason he told me I couldn’t see Vincent again.”
“He did what?” my grandmother exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
She thought for a moment. “That must be why he came to bed so late and was up so early this morning. He was avoiding me. I would have been able to tell something was up.” My grandmother met my eyes. “Surely Antoine didn’t believe a word of it. He’s not even superstitious, for God’s sake!”
I took her hand. “I know it’s hard to believe. Half the time I feel like I’m living in a really twisted fantasy novel. But, Mamie, try to—I don’t know—suspend your disbelief for now. You can talk to Papy about it later. Just please let me finish.”
She did her best not to interrupt again. “Yes, yes, I remember. That makes sense now,” she said from time to time when I linked the story to something she recognized: my breakup with Vincent (and subsequent makeup); Vincent’s outburst about Lucien at our dinner table.
I tried to skip the part where Vincent possessed me to kill Lucien, but Georgia couldn’t help herself from filling in the blanks—to my grandmother’s horror. By the end her palms were glued to her cheeks and her expression was one of shock and resignation.
