Louis glances over at me as we follow them. “Don’t worry, we won’t let them take you back,” I say. “You’re only here so I can get close enough to Violette to fight her. As soon as you’re able, go back and regroup with Vincent and the others.”
“I won’t let you down,” he swears.
“I know,” I say, and, taking his hand, squeeze tightly before letting go.
We emerge from the corridor into a large open space. Monumental stone bleachers in a broken arc encircle a plot of dirt as big as a circus ring. There is another tunnel-like corridor identical to the one we just emerged from directly across from us. And around its opening and spilling over into groups sitting on the fanned bleachers are a hell of a lot of numa.
On the floor of the arena itself, Violette stands alone in front of a recently lit bonfire, flames licking one corner of a stack of wood as big as a semitruck. By her feet is a body bag, unzipped and lying open. Geneviève’s long platinum-blond hair drapes over the sides. I unconsciously pat the sword hilt at my waist, reassuring myself that I am ready for battle.
Seeing us approach, Violette’s face transforms into a mask of victory. Vincent and Jean-Baptiste hesitate, and then lead the bardia away from us, arranging them on the stone steps directly across from the numa. Only Louis and I continue down the path.
Entering the arena, we walk across the dusty ground until we’re within five feet of Violette. The fire shoots up high behind her. Its blazing backlight gives her the appearance of a lovely young demon, her eyes dark coals and long black hair whipped up by the early-morning wind.
“Now, just look at us,” she says. “How civilized. You have what I want, and I have what you want. So why all the backup?” Violette tilts her head to one side and crosses her arms across her chest like a pouting child.
“Same reason you’ve got yours,” I say, nodding toward the forty-some numa positioned on the bleachers. “Except I’m not hiding most of mine behind the wall. Which is a bit unsportsmanlike, I would say.”
“It would be if I were expecting any sport,” says Violette, with exaggerated calm. I have surprised her.
“They are merely my security detail,” she explains. “I can’t help it if I have more loyal followers than Vincent does.”
She pauses, then unable to resist, says, “You can see my men from afar?”
I nod.
“Aura columns?” she asks, intrigued.
I nod again, reassured that she didn’t already know the specifics of my powers.
Satisfied, she gestures toward the body bag. “There is your corpse, now give me my consort.”
“I don’t want the corpse. And your consort isn’t going with you. He’s chosen to side with us.”
“What?” Violette exclaims in feigned shock. “Why else would you come here tonight?”
“To fight you.”
A wide smile spreads across her face. “I was kind of hoping you would say that. I did so want a second chance at absorbing the Champion’s power.” She peels off her cloak and lays it gently on the ground.
“I assume that’s what the fire’s for,” I say. “Unless this is just a ruse to invite us all to a monster-marshmallow roast.”
“You were always a smart girl,” Violette retorts. “I’ve got to give you that.” Her gaze moves to the young numa standing next to me. “Louis, you’ve been such a good boy. It’s time to cut the act. Do something useful.” Her eyes flick to me and back to him.
Louis hesitates, not knowing what to do. Think quickly, I command, Grab me and pretend to hold me for her. Do it now!
He lunges for me and grabs me by the upper arms. I thrash wildly, trying to break his hold. To make this look real. But he’s fighting me as hard as I am him and within seconds has me trapped, both arms pinned behind my back. Ow! I think, and hear him whisper, “Sorry!” He loosens his grip slightly.
“Louis, how could you? You swore to side with us!” I berate him loudly. He says nothing, just continues to pin me, but his grip gets increasingly tighter.
And for a second I feel a twinge of apprehension and wonder if he has been playing the double agent and that this charade had been planned by Violette. You’re still with me, right? I ask worriedly. He responds with a slight squeeze on one of my arms, relieving my doubt.
I hear a roar from the bleachers on my left, and see Vincent and our kindred pouring down the steps toward the arena floor. They don’t know about our act and think that Louis has betrayed us. It’s okay, I think, glancing at Vincent. He nods at me, looking confused, and holds up his hand to try to stay his troops.
“Stop!” yells Violette, and crosses the space between us before I can draw my weapon. Her sword tip grazes my neck: I feel its razor-sharp edge slice my skin and blood drip from the nick she’s given me. “Anyone moves, and your Champion is dead!” I feel Louis’s grip on me loosen and realize he’s about to let me go. Don’t move, I order him, and he readjusts his hold, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel his heartbeat racing against my back and know he must be scared witless. Just wait, I say.
Violette glances over to where Vincent and the others have frozen in place, then shifts her gaze back to me. “You stupid, gullible girl. Louis can join you but he can’t ever become one of you. Numa are damned! They can’t change into bardia. Everyone knows that.”
“So I’ve been told,” I respond. “But I don’t believe it. The flame-fingered guérisseurs recorded it as happening: I’ve seen it depicted in one of their paintings.”
There is a gleam in Violette’s eye—her curiosity is piqued, I can tell—but she lifts her sword tip to place it just beneath my chin. She either isn’t buying it or doesn’t care.
“There’s still time for you to change too, Violette,” I continue. “I don’t subscribe to all this fixed destiny crap. We have a guérisseur who can actually disperse revenant spirits. Who can ease the pain of withstanding death. And I think there’s a reason for that. It’s the way things were supposed to be before everything went wrong in the revenants’ history. No one is really forced to continue existing as something they don’t want to be. Geneviève wanted out. And she will have her peace.”
“I have been around for half a millennium,” Violette responds. “I think I know more than you. You are a waste of the power that is within you.”
“Tell me, Violette, what would you do with it?” I ask.
“With the Champion’s powers of persuasion, I could convince heads of state to follow me and command great forces of numa. If what you said about aura-sight is true, I could see my kind—and maybe even yours—from far away with enhanced powers of perception. What better way to build a numa army or wipe out a bardia population? And with the Champion’s strength? Well, that’s the one thing it seems I won’t get since even as the Champion, you are a pitiful compassion-crippled weakling.”
She is done talking and ready to deal the deathblow. I can tell by the look of premature victory on her face, the flex of her biceps, and slight lean backward that she is about to pivot to the side and swing with all her might.
Louis, as soon as she starts to swing, drop me and move out of the way, I think.
I meet her gaze. “You want my power, Violette? You can come and get it.”
A wicked smile curves her lips, and she takes the sword in both hands. In my peripheral vision I see both bardia and numa surging down from the bleachers, yells erupting as they charge into battle.
I feel Louis release me and I duck into a crouch as Violette’s sword flashes forward, whistling through the air where my neck had been. I have just enough time to leap aside and draw my own weapon before she recovers and her blade comes crashing down on me once again.
Violette’s sword clashes loudly against mine, and I pull up with all my might until her blade slides off and she stumbles back. She finally has a second to see where Louis went. He stands a few feet away from us, paralyzed, watching our fight and looking lost. “You traitor!” she screams. “What could you be thinking by helping them
? They can’t change what you are!”
The lost look disappears from Louis’s face, replaced by one of despair. Don’t believe her, I say.
Violette turns her attention back to me. I am matching all of her moves, but barely. If I slow down at all or make one false move, she will win this fight. “I am faster and stronger than you,” she spits as she lunges toward me, slashing at my sword arm.
I leap out of her way. “Maybe. But you don’t have a heart,” I say, meeting her sword with my own mid-swing and knocking her back a step. Our armies have now stopped a few yards on either side of us, not daring to move while we are in the midst of mortal combat.
“A heart makes one feeble,” she says, glaring. “In order to wield true strength, one must be merciless.” She spins and swings her sword two-handed in a horizontal arc, coming mere inches from my face as I skip backward.
“I disagree,” I say, my breath ragged. “Mercy is the key. You can force people to follow you but you will never have their respect or love.” I begin to swing, but Violette anticipates my move and knocks my sword out of my hands onto the ground. I reach for it, but her blade is once again lifted—she is too close this time—and I choose to face her weaponless rather than be cut down as I scramble for my sword.
“Love is for the weak,” Violette says, her face distorted with scorn. With a grunt of effort she brings her steel down for the deathblow. My instinct is to duck, but I force myself to hold my ground.
Now’s your time, Louis, I call to him. Your chance to control your own destiny. There is a flash of metal and Violette is stumbling sideways. She drops her sword and throws her hands forward, catching herself from landing face-first on the ground.
Trembling with effort, Violette props herself up on her elbows and turns to Louis, who is staggering backward, watching her with horror. “What. Have. You. Done?” she wheezes, staring at the boy, her eyes wide with pain.
“The right thing. Finally,” he says, and stands tall, banishing his fear.
“You are numa,” she gasps. “We don’t change sides. Once a betrayer, always damned.” Slumping, she rolls over to her side. And pulling the knife out of her chest, she studies it as if she’s never seen a dagger before. The arena erupts in a riot of battle cries, but no one dares approach.
I look around our tragic triangle, and in a flash of clarity, I am finally convinced of something I’ve suspected since talking with Uta. The Champion’s strength isn’t a physical thing. It’s not in my body. It is in my spirit. It is an inner strength—one that will inspire loyalty. One that will help me lead my kindred back to the way things were meant to be before revenants were condemned to suffer while carrying out their fate.
And with the gift of perception—the ability to see auras reflecting not only what destiny has dealt a numa like Louis, but that he holds the capability to transform himself and even change sides—maybe I am not only the Champion of the bardia but of all revenants.
I am suddenly and irrevocably certain of it. “You know, Violette,” I say, lifting my sword and crouching into an offensive stance. “I’m here to change all of that.”
The flames have risen to their full height behind her: The fury in her eyes echoes its blaze. Gesturing to one of her numa sentries fighting nearby, she points to Louis and screams, “Kill him!”
I step forward, sword lowered, ready to strike. Violette makes a lightning-fast movement; metal flashes midair, the knife reflecting the golden red of the bonfire, before sinking deeply into my flesh. I clench my sword tighter in my right hand and try to ignore the knife embedded in my other shoulder, swinging back as powerfully as I can and aiming my blade for Violette’s neck.
In the same second, a whistling noise comes from the direction of the numa. Louis falls to the ground, an arrow clean through the center of his forehead.
Around us the battle rages in a tumult of screams, flailing bodies, and clashing of metal, but my focus remains steadily on my foe. The white-hot pain in my shoulder drives me to do what I know I must. My blade meets her neck and slices cleanly through and Violette falls backward, dead.
FIFTY
I STAND STARING AT THE BLOODY MESS THAT was Violette, paralyzed by horror and relief. But I can’t afford the luxury of reflection since there is a battle-axe swinging dangerously close to my head. I leap out of the way and feel strong hands grab me. I begin to struggle, and then hear Vincent say, “It’s me.” He grasps my hand, and we make a run for it, sprinting past the concentrated area of fighting to the edge of the arena.
We crouch down behind the fire, the ear-splitting clang of clashing metal almost deafening, and I drop my bloody sword to the ground. Vincent turns me toward him and grasping my head in his hands, kisses me quickly and firmly. I never thought sweat and smoke could taste so good.
“Had to do that first,” he says with a ghost of a smile. He turns me carefully to the side and inspects the knife in my shoulder. “Does it hurt?” he asks, as he grasps the bottom of his T-shirt, rips off a wide band of cloth, and drapes it over his arm.
“No, I can’t feel it at all,” I admit.
“Okay, Kate, close your eyes and clench your teeth,” he says. Then bracing my upper arm with one hand, he uses the other to wrench the knife from where the blade enters my shoulder and exits my back, just a hair’s breadth outside the edge of my Kevlar vest.
I muffle my scream with my hand, but it doesn’t matter—it is swallowed by the noise around us. Vincent whips the cloth off his arm and binds it tightly around the wound, under my armpit, and back around, twice. “Can you move that arm?”
I try, and a piercing pain shoots from my hand to my shoulder, causing me to cry out.
Vincent tears another strip off his shirt. Bending my useless arm in front of me, he secures it to my chest. “All the entrances are blocked,” he says as he works, “so I can’t get you out of here without fighting.”
“We’re not leaving,” I say, scanning the arena. Although the numa began with more than double our number, they are falling fast. The Germans are acting like tag teams: fighting single numa in pairs, slaying them, and then quickly tossing them onto the fire. I count ten corpses already aflame, and the punk contingent isn’t slowing.
A shrill whistle comes from next to the bonfire and Vincent and I turn to see Uta gesturing toward us. She holds Violette’s head by the hair, brandishing it like Perseus did with Medusa’s. “You are witnesses,” she yells, and with a nod her men toss Violette’s body onto the pyre while she releases the head to the flames.
My feelings are mixed as I see my enemy’s body ignite. The broken, bitter girl is gone and I am awash with both pity and relief. Vincent grasps my hand. “You okay?” he asks, second-guessing my emotion. I breathe deeply and nod once. That story is over.
I turn away to look for our kindred and spot Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard fighting back-to-back, their movements synchronized so well they appear to be one person: the deadliest of warriors, bringing death to all it touches.
Not far from them, Charlotte has elevated herself above the fray, perched with her crossbow atop a broken stone column in one corner, steadily picking off our enemies one after the other. Her firing hand moves to her quiver, sweeps out fresh bolts, loads, and shoots them with deathly speed. Arthur stands below her defending her position, slashing away at anyone who nears.
We leave our shelter behind the fire and start in Charlotte’s direction.
Although I can’t see much of the battlefield, there are fewer red columns surrounding the area. More of our enemy is down, and two bardia with spiky Mohawks pass us, pulling another numa corpse toward the fire. A glimmer of hope flashes in my mind. We are doing it, evening the odds. We may actually win.
Vincent and I are a few yards away from Charlotte, when I see the arrow hit her chest. Shocked, she looks down at the projectile and then crumples and falls to the ground. Vincent pinpoints the numa archer and takes off after him while I throw myself into the fray to get to Charlotte. But before I reach her, a n
uma girl begins dragging her toward the fire.
“Drop her!” I yell. The girl looks up. In an instant she has drawn her sword and crouches in a defensive position. I raise my sword, but before I can move, Charles leaps in front of me, swinging his sword forcefully against hers. “I’ve got this one,” he yells. “Just get my sister’s body away from the fire.”
Trying not to look at my friend’s sightless eyes and gaping mouth, I tuck her feet under my good arm and begin pulling her toward the arena wall. An arrow whizzes past my ear, and I lunge to my left to dodge another three or four projectiles that are unleashed on me.
A noise erupts from the edges of the battle, and the fighting pauses as all turn to see what is happening. Pouring through the corridors on both sides of the arena is a tidal wave of armed strangers. I recognize their auras at once; they are kindred. My heart soars. Victory is ours. Or will be soon.
Suddenly, Charlotte is jerked out of my grasp. Someone has grabbed her hands and is pulling in the other direction. “Don’t touch her!” I scream, and fumble for my sword. Whipping around toward my opponent, I find myself gazing into familiar chestnut brown eyes.
“Jules!” I gasp, and throw myself into his arms.
“Nice to see you too,” he responds, “but this isn’t the best place for a hug.” An arrow whizzes by our heads and we duck back down. “Take her feet,” he says. And then, seeing my wounded arm, he says, “Just take one foot,” and we begin dragging her toward the wall.
“You’re here!” I say, blinking as I am momentarily blinded by sweat from the fire’s blistering heat.
“And you’re the Champion,” Jules replies with a sly grin. “Sorry I’m late. A dozen of us just arrived from New York. Jeanne sent us straight here.”
“Just a dozen?” I scan the arena, which teems with new arrivals. “But who are all the other bardia?”
“I don’t know,” he admits.