A tar pit of anger began bubbling deep in my chest. “So you want me to find someone else? A human boy?”
That would be the best thing for you, mon ange. Someone who is flesh and blood. Who can give you a good life. A normal life.
“And you’re just going to float around like my invisible bodyguard and watch me love someone else,” I prodded, trying to control my voice.
I’m not saying I’m going to like it. But I can’t have you. And I can’t leave you. What other choice do I have?
“That is total bullshit!” I yelled. “For one thing, who are you to say what’s best for me? Maybe I don’t want flesh and blood. Maybe I don’t want a normal life. Maybe I still have hope that there is some way of having a life with you. Violette found that arcane binding spell. Maybe there are other spells out there that we don’t know about. You’re giving up before we even start to look for answers.
“So don’t go telling me what I’m going to do. What I’m going to feel. Even if you have my heart, I’ve still got my brain. And I am going to keep using it to find a solution, damn it!”
I sat there fuming, wishing I could see where Vincent was so that I could stare him down. There was silence for a good long moment, and then I heard something that sounded like laughter. “You better the hell not be laughing at me,” I growled.
I’m not laughing at you, chérie, came his voice, which sounded muffled by an effort to sound serious.
“You are totally laughing at me, Vincent Delacroix.”
It’s just that you’re so cu . . . I mean incredibly attractive and seductive . . . when you get angry and curse, he replied, stifling serious laughter.
My anger melted in a second, and I couldn’t repress a smile. “Vincent, you are seriously impossible,” I muttered, and then started laughing myself. I flopped back onto the couch grinning irrepressibly as I heard his laughter bubble forth in my mind.
Stretching out, I laid my head on a cushion and, kicking off my shoes, pulled a cashmere throw up to my shoulders. I waited to see if Vincent would talk first, but he seemed to be fine with just hovering. “Are you still there?” I asked finally.
I am as close to you as I can possibly be.
I hugged the cushion tightly and wished it were him.
Vincent was quiet for a long time after that. I savored the silence, knowing that he was near. When I closed my eyes I could imagine his lean muscular form stretched beside me. After a while it seemed so real, I could almost feel the weight of his arm draped over me and his head nestled next to mine. He was like the ghost lover in one of those tragic Victorian stories. But unlike the swooning, fainting heroines of those tales, I felt empowered by my resolve that tragedy would not be our fate.
FOURTEEN
MON AMOUR, GASPARD’S ON HIS WAY UP TO GET US. They need me now.
The hour we had spent in Jules’s room had felt like seconds. After not knowing if I’d ever hear from Vincent again, I needed more time with him. My craving for closeness had barely been met. It was like giving just one bite of chocolate to a starving man.
Vincent read my mind. I will come to you tonight. I promise.
“You’d better,” I said, wondering how I could be so ungrateful for the miracle of his being here.
It’s because you know it isn’t permanent, and you’re protecting yourself. This answer came from that honest part of my brain that didn’t let me get away with things. It was like having my mom live in my head—always ready and willing to provide all kinds of valuable advice, whether or not I asked for it. I knew I should listen, but at the moment I just wanted it to shut up.
I met Gaspard on the stairs and we made our way to Vincent’s room, where Jeanne had shooed Jean-Baptiste from Bran’s bedside so that he could eat.
As we entered, Bran’s eyes flew to the air next to me. He stared at Vincent’s ghost for a moment, and then said to Gaspard, “Tell me. Do you plan on attempting a re-embodiment, or will you leave Vincent in this state to aid in the upcoming war with the ancient one?”
Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard stared at him, and then at each other, confused.
I knew it! I thought, my heart racing. I had hoped Bran would have information the bardia didn’t, and I had been right. “What’s a re-embodiment? How does it work?” I begged.
JB pulled up a chair next to Bran. “I don’t think you understand, healer. Vincent’s body has been destroyed. How would we give him another? He can’t just take over a revenant body; we are bound to our spirits until we are destroyed, and sharing a revenant’s body—cohabitation—is harmful to the host’s psyche if continued for any substantial period.”
He continued in a patient manner, speaking respectfully, but as if he didn’t expect Bran to understand how all-things-revenant worked. “As for using a dead human, a volant revenant can possess a fresh corpse—it has been done in exceptional situations—but the possession doesn’t stop the body from decomposing at the natural rate. After rigor mortis set in, the body would be useless to Vincent.”
Although the image conjured by Jean-Baptiste’s reasoning made my stomach turn, I listened intently to understand every angle. Each revenant rule.
Bran blinked a couple of times, and then said, “But I am not referring to a possession. I’m talking about re-creation of his own body.”
No one moved. Finally Gaspard spoke. “Healer, we are unaware of this type of . . . miracle. If indeed there is a method for ‘re-embodiment,’ as you call it, then it is not known to our kind. Is this thing truly possible?”
Bran nodded. “Yes. It is. You honestly have no accounts of this in your records? I would have assumed . . .”
“No,” Gaspard confirmed. “It seems that the separation of our kind and yours over the centuries has led to a loss in what I am beginning to guess used to be shared information between our groups.”
Bran rubbed his fingers across his forehead, and glanced at us doubtfully, as if wondering if he should say more. “My family archives have been fiercely guarded from discovery by those outside our clan as well as by revenants. I always supposed it was so numa couldn’t use our information against us. Or against you. But I assumed that the bardia would have much of the same knowledge as we had. At least for such important traditions. Maybe I’ve said too much. But in this case, I think my indiscretion is warranted.”
He cleared his throat and carried on. “The topic of re-embodiment was recorded in one of my family’s accounts, written by an ancestor many generations back. It explained that for revenants who are destroyed against their will and trapped as a wandering soul, there is recourse. Their body can be re-created and their spirit introduced into it. I do not know the exact process used. I just know the solution exists.”
As the meaning of Bran’s words sank in, I felt dizzy. Up to now, Vincent had been silent. Now he spoke. Don’t get too excited, Kate. This is probably just a legend. A story.
But I couldn’t help it. This faint glimmer of possibility had already banished my despair. There might be a way to get Vincent back. The slimmest of chances was enough to give me hope.
“Do those records still exist?” Jean-Baptiste was asking Bran.
“Yes. They are the same ones that contain the information Violette is searching for. But I must caution you; although I remember my mother reading me one story about re-embodiment, I’m not sure it spells out what must be done during the ritual. It could just be a dead end.”
“No matter. Any information at all is more than what we currently possess. We can send someone immediately for your records.” JB was already moving toward the door. “Where are they kept?”
Bran hesitated. “Somewhere revenants are not allowed to go,” he said, causing JB to stop and turn. His expression fell somewhere between taken aback and furious.
“How about humans?” I asked. “I’ll go.”
No, Vincent said. I ignored him and kept my eyes on Bran.
“My dear, we are trying to keep you out of danger, not throw you into the middle of it,”
said Gaspard.
“Actually, since Kate holds the signum bardia, she would be allowed to enter my family’s archives,” Bran said thoughtfully. He rubbed his stubbled chin as he considered.
“Vincent tells me that he forcefully objects to the possibility of Kate going on her own,” Gaspard said, holding up a cautionary finger.
“You could have her accompanied to the entrance if you are worried about her safety,” Bran offered, “but once inside, I assure you she will be perfectly safe.”
“I’m going, Vincent,” I said to the room. “If there is even the slightest possibility we can get you back, there’s no way you will stop me.”
But, mon ange, he said.
“No! I will not listen to you. Jean-Baptiste, will you send someone with me?”
“Of course, dear girl,” he responded immediately.
“Bran has promised I will be perfectly safe once inside, and I’ll have guards until I get there. You can’t say no to that. And even if you do . . .”
Okay, Kate! You win, Vincent conceded. But I’m going with you, too.
Satisfied, I turned to Bran. “When can I go?”
“You will have to wait a few hours—until nightfall. The entrance is in a place that is all too visible during the day.” Although Bran had made it clear that a revenant couldn’t enter his family’s archives, he seemed grateful that I had volunteered. He trusts me, I realized, the thought filling me with inexplicable delight.
“I’m dying of curiosity. Where is it?” I asked. I knew Paris like the back of my hand, and couldn’t imagine where that type of secret place would be hidden.
“It has been in Paris since Roman times,” Bran responded, “and was built as an offshoot of the dwellings of the regular guérisseurs—those healers who dealt with humans, I mean. Where would a Roman soldier likely go for healing and relaxation?” he quizzed me with a tired smile.
“To the Roman baths,” Gaspard and I responded together.
Bran nodded. “My family’s archives are located in a cave beneath the Roman baths, underneath the Cluny Museum.” And with a smile he added, “Hidden underneath one of the city’s busiest neighborhoods: the Latin Quarter.”
“I will fetch Arthur and Ambrose,” Gaspard said. “If you could brief them on the access to your family’s archives, we will send them to guard Kate.” He turned to me. “Perhaps you would like to replace Arthur in your sister’s fight training?”
Now that we had a plan, I wanted to get started . . . not waste the next few hours waiting for nightfall. Come on, I heard Vincent say. I would hate to miss a chance at seeing Georgia with a sword.
“That’s because there’s no possible way she can chop any of your body parts off,” I said, feeling buoyed by Vincent’s joking mood. Although he wasn’t letting on, he must also hope that Bran’s family secrets contained a solution . . . or at least a clue . . . to escape his disembodied state.
“I, however,” I continued, “am in grave bodily danger. Georgia with a sword . . .”
. . . might be dangerous enough to actually be of some use against the numa, Vincent said, the voice in my head trailing off in a chuckle as we headed downstairs to the armory.
FIFTEEN
“VERY WELL DONE,” ARTHUR SAID AS HIS SWORD clattered to the armory floor. Georgia smiled and, placing one hand on her hip, circled her sword in a victorious flourish, causing Arthur to duck to avoid grievous bodily injury.
“Hi, Katie-Bean!” she yelled, spotting me coming down the stairs. “Guess what? I totally rock at sword fighting! Just wait till all those haters see me do this—” she said, lunging in a crazed Three Musketeers move, forcing Arthur to skip nimbly out of the way.
“Vincent’s back!” I announced, powerless against the wide smile spread across my face. “Or at least his ghost is. Violette’s freed him for three days.”
“Oh, Kate, that’s wonderful!” Georgia squealed and, dropping her sword, ran over to throw herself on me. “And even better,” I continued, once she stopped jumping up and down and let go of me, “Bran has heard of wandering spirits like Vincent getting their bodies back. I mean, it’s a story that he heard a long time ago, but they’re going to start researching it right away.” I didn’t mention that I was going to go in search of that story in a couple of hours. Georgia would definitely want to join me.
“That’s very good news,” Arthur commented. “I can’t wait to talk to Vincent myself.”
“I just sent Ambrose up to the library to meet with Jean-Baptiste,” I told Arthur. “Your ‘presence is required,’” I quoted JB.
“Please excuse me,” he said to Georgia, bowing slightly.
“Only if you promise me more . . . ,” she said with a crooked smile. Arthur promptly turned bubble-gum pink and choked on whatever he was about to say. “More sword lessons, that is,” Georgia said, her smile widening as she saw him sputter.
“It’s urgent,” I prodded.
“Yes, of course,” said Arthur. He left at top speed, taking the steps two at a time.
“So where exactly is our lover boy?” Georgia asked.
“Upstairs talking to JB and Gaspard,” I said. “Revenant business.”
“Then do you wanna practice with me?” Georgia asked, posing her sword tip on her toe, and then recoiling as it went through her shoe. “Ouch!”
“Um, yeah. They’re sharp. Why don’t you practice with one of the blunt-tipped practice epées,” I asked.
“Oh, please,” Georgia said. “I’m not a complete wimp.”
“Well, I’m not a complete idiot,” I said and, opening the wardrobe, got out my hard-to-slice Kevlar workout suit. “If I’m getting anywhere near you with a sword, I want protection. I won’t be able to do much, though, with my battle wound,” I said, touching my collarbone.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” Georgia said, slicing wildly at the air while I suited up and chose a weapon. As I approached, she got into starting position, her lightweight sword held in her right hand as she leaned forward, left knee bent.
“You’ve got good starting form,” I encouraged her. Taking it very slowly, with exaggerated moves, I let her swipe at my weapon while shuffling forward and back, following her own clumsy movements.
“You see?” Georgia said after a few minutes, breathing hard with effort. “Arthur said I was a natural. I’m just as good as you are, and you’ve been training for months!”
I shook my head, and with a quick lunge I swung lightly—careful not to put weight on my injured shoulder—hitting her sword near the hilt and sending it flying through the air. As it clanged off a wall and onto the floor, Georgia righted herself and put her hands on her hips.
“What the hell was that?” she cried.
“Georgia, you’re not good—yet. Arthur only said that because he’s got a major crush on you.”
My sister looked hurt.
“That doesn’t mean you won’t get better if you keep training,” I quickly added as I registered her expression.
Her smile returned. “More,” she said, and walked over to pick up her sword.
“Georgia,” I said, moving my sword from one hand to the other and back, enjoying the feel of its weight in my palms. “What’s this all about? The fight training, I mean. Is it just a ploy to get nearer to Arthur? Because I can promise you that’s not necessary. He’s already totally into you.”
“Of course not. I don’t need to make a fool of myself to attract a man,” my sister said, looking defensive.
“Really?” I said, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. “How about that Southern accent you put on whenever cute guys are around?”
Georgia waved her free hand in the air as if to say, Oh, that—that’s nothing. And then her shoulders slumped. “Honestly, Kate. Getting whopped by a crazed zombie tween left me feeling extremely vulnerable. Not to mention weak. And those are two qualities I genuinely despise.”
My heart warmed. This was the side of my sister that made me feel I would follow her not only to P
aris but to the end of the world. Complete with all of her party-girl, don’t-take-life-seriously, sometimes-maddening qualities. Because I knew this side of her too. The side some people never saw—the one defined by her strength, goodness, and loyalty.
“That is an excellent reason for fight training!” I said, and her smile was back in a second.
“So you think you can take me on with your Kill Bill sword-fighting skills?” she teased.
“Just go easy on me,” I laughed, and raised my sword.
In the end, I didn’t have to sneak away from Georgia. Knowing Mamie wouldn’t approve of her going out, but unable to stand being separated from her friends, my sister had invited them to come to our house. By five o’clock Arthur was walking her back to the apartment, and forty-five minutes later, he, Ambrose, Vincent, and I arrived at the Cluny Museum of the Middle Ages.
“Perfect timing,” I said, walking up to the gates and reading the sign. “Closing time, five forty-five p.m.”
The museum was housed in a massive fifteenth-century abbey that took up most of a city block, and had been built next to first-century ruins of Gallo-Roman baths, an ancient ancestor of today’s spas. Crumbling walls extended three stories above grassy grounds, the ceilings and floors having disappeared centuries before. High up on the walls, monumental arches in red brick spanned the white stone, tracing the outlines of the palatial rooms the Roman soldiers once wandered through, moving from thermal pool to frigid bath to sauna.
In the hazy darkness of early evening, the abbey looked like a haunted castle and the ruins around it like its unearthed dungeons. I was suddenly glad for my armed escort. As if sensing my thoughts, Ambrose smiled and patted the hilt of the sword he wore under his coat. “See any numa in the area, Vin?” he asked and, apparently satisfied with Vincent’s answer, relaxed a little.
You look nervous, mon ange, Vincent told me.
“Nervous? Me?” I said. “Never.” Which was a total lie. I was about to go into a cave, deep down in the earth. I had never told Vincent about my claustrophobia. I hadn’t needed to.