Die Once More
Page 2
“It’s the best spy network ever,” Faust explains, jerking me back into the here and now. “The locals offer us up valuable information on our enemies without even knowing what they’re giving us. The council always meets immediately after to discuss what we learned. So—perfect timing for your official welcome.” Faust and I turn a corner and are in an airy, sunlit space occupying the entire front section of the building, overlooking the waterfront. A kitchen that could easily provide for several restaurants is fitted along the wall at the back. And between it and the floor-to-ceiling windows is a café area with around fifty tables. These are artfully grouped around potted trees strung with Christmas lights.
“This is where I leave you,” Faust says, gesturing toward a gathering of ten tables arranged in a large circle. Several dozen of my New York kindred are seated there, waiting for me in a solemn silence. I move to stand behind the one empty chair left at the “head” of the circle—the one with the prime view of the river.
A familiar figure, dressed all in white, stands at the far end of the table to greet me. “Bardia of the five boroughs of New York, I present to you Jules Marchenoir, longtime Paris kindred,” says Theodore Gold. “Witness for yourselves: His aura confirms him as one of us. Having met him before, I personally vouch for his goodwill, and I know that he is highly esteemed by the kindred of his birthplace.”
“And I personally vouch for this man’s ability to seduce half the human population of London without even breaking a sweat,” interrupts a muscle-bound guy who could be Ambrose’s older brother, drawing laughs from around the table. He holds up a fist, which I bump with my own as I take my seat next to him. “Met you at the ’97 London convocation. Coleman Bailey, Harlem Riots of ’43,” he says, repeating a tradition I’d noticed with American revenants: introducing themselves with a detail of their death.
Gold chuckles, taking his seat, and says, “Sorry for the formal tone, Jules. There’s a formula for introducing out-of-town revenants to kindred. Besides having a high number of immigrants, Americans also tend to move around a lot.”
I nod and accept a glass and pitcher of water from the man sitting on my left. “We’re used to formalities in the Old World,” I say, trying my best to sound light. This is the last place I want to be: in the hot seat, having to explain myself to a lot of strangers while my brain is melting and my heart is in tiny jagged pieces—in a language that is not my own. But it’s a necessary evil. If I want to stay, they need to know why.
My face has given something away: I see compassion on my kindred’s faces. One girl speaks up. “We were so sorry to hear about Jean-Baptiste,” she says, and everyone else nods and adds their own words of condolence.
Gold speaks up. “We’re going to make this brief, Jules. No formal inquisition necessary. In America we don’t have leaders, or ‘heads,’ like you do in Europe. Everything is done democratically. I usually speak for the crowd, since I am the official American historian—somewhat like Gaspard is for you. But any New York revenant animated over twenty years can be on the council, and it holds all the power.”
Gold pauses and looks around the group, waiting to see if anyone wants to jump in. When no one does, he says, “You have expressed a desire to join us here in New York. Could you give us an indication of how long you plan on staying?”
Here we go. “An indeterminate amount of time, if you are willing to host me,” I respond.
I see curiosity burn behind the eyes of the bardia. A member of the council speaks up. “Can you tell us the purpose of your stay?”
“I need time away from Paris,” I say.
“Wouldn’t your kindred prefer you to stay closer . . . say, elsewhere in France?” she presses.
“At the moment, I was hoping for a bit more . . . distance.” This is harder than I thought. If I could say it in French, I could add the innuendos needed to imply that it was a personal issue and they could mind their own damn business. But their expressions show openness and willingness to help me, so I swallow my bitterness. Note to self: They’re not the ones I’m upset with.
“Your kindred called you back to France to fight with them barely two days ago,” someone says, “and you complied. But you returned to New York last night—immediately after the battle. Can we conclude that this break from France is your decision, and not something wished for by your leaders?”
I take a moment to formulate my response. “My kindred would prefer that I stay. It is my decision to leave. But I am here with their blessing.”
“We will not be perceived as taking your side in any type of personal dispute, then, if we welcome you among us?”
“Definitely not,” I respond.
Everyone seems to relax. So this is what they were digging for.
Another man speaks up. “Thank you for the clarification. Jean-Baptiste named Vincent the head of France’s revenants the same day you defected. We were worried about becoming involved in a power struggle.”
I shake my head. “Vincent is the best man for that job. I support him fully.” They are awaiting further explanation, but I’m not going to give them any. I’m not about to announce that I’m here because I’m heartbroken. That the woman I love is in love with my best friend. That it will kill me if I have to see them together any longer.
Around the table significant looks are being thrown among council members, and there is a general nodding of heads. A man with a mustache and a strong Southern accent speaks up. I have to listen closely to understand him. “Frederick Mackenzie, American Civil War. I’m acting administrator of the Warehouse. So far, you’ve been staying in the Greenpoint house. Gold says he put you there temporarily, since you knew Frank and Myra from a convocation. But we ask all newcomers to the New York clan—whether you’re freshly animated or an old-timer from out of town—to live here in headquarters for the first six months. That way you can learn our ways without being an unwitting security risk just because you did things differently back home. After the six months, you are welcome to join a house in the borough of your choice, or, like many of our more sociable kindred, decide to stay here.”
He pauses, and I nod to show I understand.
“Pre-council kindred often serve as welcome reps. Faustino, who you have already met, has been assigned to you. He’ll be happy to show you around, explain the rules, and fix you up with your basic needs. Is there anything else we can do to make your transition to America easier?”
“This is where I leave you,” Faust says, gesturing toward a gathering of ten tables arranged in a large circle. Several dozen of my New York kindred are seated there, waiting for me in a solemn silence. I move to stand behind the one empty chair left at the “head” of the circle—the one with the prime view of the river.
A familiar figure, dressed all in white, stands at the far end of the table to greet me. “Bardia of the five boroughs of New York, I present to you Jules Marchenoir, longtime Paris kindred,” says Theodore Gold. “Witness for yourselves: His aura confirms him as one of us. Having met him before, I personally vouch for his goodwill, and I know that he is highly esteemed by the kindred of his birthplace.”
“And I personally vouch for this man’s ability to seduce half the human population of London without even breaking a sweat,” interrupts a muscle-bound guy who could be Ambrose’s older brother, drawing laughs from around the table. He holds up a fist, which I bump with my own as I take my seat next to him. “Met you at the ’97 London convocation. Coleman Bailey, Harlem Riots of ’43,” he says, repeating a tradition I’d noticed with American revenants: introducing themselves with a detail of their death.
Gold chuckles, taking his seat, and says, “Sorry for the formal tone, Jules. There’s a formula for introducing out-of-town revenants to kindred. Besides having a high number of immigrants, Americans also tend to move around a lot.”
I nod and accept a glass and pitcher of water from the man sitting on my left. “We’re used to formalities in the Old World,” I say, trying my best to sound light. This is the last place I want to be: in the hot seat, having to explain myself to a lot of strangers while my brain is melting and my heart is in tiny jagged pieces—in a language that is not my own. But it’s a necessary evil. If I want to stay, they need to know why.
My face has given something away: I see compassion on my kindred’s faces. One girl speaks up. “We were so sorry to hear about Jean-Baptiste,” she says, and everyone else nods and adds their own words of condolence.
Gold speaks up. “We’re going to make this brief, Jules. No formal inquisition necessary. In America we don’t have leaders, or ‘heads,’ like you do in Europe. Everything is done democratically. I usually speak for the crowd, since I am the official American historian—somewhat like Gaspard is for you. But any New York revenant animated over twenty years can be on the council, and it holds all the power.”
Gold pauses and looks around the group, waiting to see if anyone wants to jump in. When no one does, he says, “You have expressed a desire to join us here in New York. Could you give us an indication of how long you plan on staying?”
Here we go. “An indeterminate amount of time, if you are willing to host me,” I respond.
I see curiosity burn behind the eyes of the bardia. A member of the council speaks up. “Can you tell us the purpose of your stay?”
“I need time away from Paris,” I say.
“Wouldn’t your kindred prefer you to stay closer . . . say, elsewhere in France?” she presses.
“At the moment, I was hoping for a bit more . . . distance.” This is harder than I thought. If I could say it in French, I could add the innuendos needed to imply that it was a personal issue and they could mind their own damn business. But their expressions show openness and willingness to help me, so I swallow my bitterness. Note to self: They’re not the ones I’m upset with.
“Your kindred called you back to France to fight with them barely two days ago,” someone says, “and you complied. But you returned to New York last night—immediately after the battle. Can we conclude that this break from France is your decision, and not something wished for by your leaders?”
I take a moment to formulate my response. “My kindred would prefer that I stay. It is my decision to leave. But I am here with their blessing.”
“We will not be perceived as taking your side in any type of personal dispute, then, if we welcome you among us?”
“Definitely not,” I respond.
Everyone seems to relax. So this is what they were digging for.
Another man speaks up. “Thank you for the clarification. Jean-Baptiste named Vincent the head of France’s revenants the same day you defected. We were worried about becoming involved in a power struggle.”
I shake my head. “Vincent is the best man for that job. I support him fully.” They are awaiting further explanation, but I’m not going to give them any. I’m not about to announce that I’m here because I’m heartbroken. That the woman I love is in love with my best friend. That it will kill me if I have to see them together any longer.
Around the table significant looks are being thrown among council members, and there is a general nodding of heads. A man with a mustache and a strong Southern accent speaks up. I have to listen closely to understand him. “Frederick Mackenzie, American Civil War. I’m acting administrator of the Warehouse. So far, you’ve been staying in the Greenpoint house. Gold says he put you there temporarily, since you knew Frank and Myra from a convocation. But we ask all newcomers to the New York clan—whether you’re freshly animated or an old-timer from out of town—to live here in headquarters for the first six months. That way you can learn our ways without being an unwitting security risk just because you did things differently back home. After the six months, you are welcome to join a house in the borough of your choice, or, like many of our more sociable kindred, decide to stay here.”
He pauses, and I nod to show I understand.
“Pre-council kindred often serve as welcome reps. Faustino, who you have already met, has been assigned to you. He’ll be happy to show you around, explain the rules, and fix you up with your basic needs. Is there anything else we can do to make your transition to America easier?”
