Die Once More
Page 3
I’m not sure what to say. They’re so . . . efficient.
A woman sitting next to Gold jumps in. “For those of you who don’t already know of him, Jules Marchenoir is an accomplished artist. Perhaps those involved in the visual arts could provide him with necessary supplies, get him set up with a studio, and tell him when the life drawing group meets.”
The woman is stunning—in an exotic kind of way: long black hair, copper-colored skin, almond eyes, and high cheekbones. I rack my brain but am sure I haven’t seen her before. I would have remembered. So how does she know me?
“Thank you,” I acknowledge gratefully.
She nods, but frowns, like the interaction is distasteful to her. Like I’ve offended her.
How bizarre. I must have met her before—it had to have been at a convocation. Did I try to pick her up or something? I doubt it—I restrict true flirting to human girls for just this reason. Why risk offending someone who could hold a grudge for eternity? Not to mention the danger of them falling in love. And who wants that?
Or at least that’s how I used to think. Pre-Kate. She changed my game. Now I’d give up all the flirtations in the world just to be with her. Something pings sorely in my chest, and without thinking, I raise my hand to press it, drawing concerned looks. My kindred think I’m mourning. Let them. I am.
Gold breaks the silence. “Anyone else have a question?” He peers around the table. “No? Well, then I’ll speak for all of us to say, ‘Welcome, kindred.’ We’re glad you’re here, Jules Marchenoir.”
“Welcome!” several say together, like a cheer. People rise to go, several crowding around me to introduce themselves. Several ask about the French Champion—Kate. They want to know more details about how she emerged, and it is quickly obvious that their own numa problem is beginning to approach what we experienced in France.
My gaze drifts across the table to the girl who spoke earlier. A group of people stand around her, and the face that was stony with me is now radiant as she speaks with them.
A beautiful girl. Normally that would draw me like a moth to flame. Even with my no-kindred-lovers rule, a bit of playful banter and a shower of compliments (and the enjoyment of her inevitable response) would do my spirits a world of good. But not now. I don’t even have it in me to say hello.
Her eyes lift and meet mine, and the coldness is like an ice ray.
What? I ask her silently, shrugging my confusion.
She rolls her eyes—actually rolls her eyes!—and turns her attention back to the person she’s talking to.
Disconcerted, I look back to a man standing with his hand out and remember that I’m supposed to shake. No bises—cheek kisses—of course.
Faust appears and stands by my side as the room empties. “Need anything?” he whispers to me.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “I would give my immortal soul to get out of here and walk.”
TWO
“THE WALK SCHEDULE IS ON THE FRIDGE,” FAUST says, once the last person has welcomed me. “This way.” He leads me toward the kitchen.
“A schedule?” I ask.
“Does that surprise you?” he asks, flashing a curious smile.
“I’m not sure what’s more surprising, that there’s a schedule or that it’s being displayed on something as banal as a refrigerator,” I admit.
Faust laughs. “There are about two hundred bardia in the five boroughs. Everybody has their own room here, but about half choose to live elsewhere, and they usually walk with their houses in their own neighborhoods. That leaves about a hundred of us here. A schedule’s pretty much necessary.”
“And the fridge?” I ask.
He grins. “Where did everyone hang out in your house in Paris?”
“In the kitchen,” I concede.
We arrive at a row of three enormous refrigerators. Stuck to one is a printed schedule with names, days of the week, and neighborhoods. I whistle, impressed.
“We had it online for a while,” Faust explains. “A couple of our tech-minded kindred even developed an app. But after our enemies hacked in a couple of times and showed up to meet us at our scheduled places, we went back to the old-fashioned paper-and-ink method.”
“Is the numa presence strong here?” I ask.
“Getting worse all the time,” Faust murmurs, running his finger down the chart. “Even starting to organize, as much as murderous immortals who are only out for themselves can do. Crime boss in our area is called Janus. But there are others . . . bigger fish that we’re not even near catching.
“I’ll tell you—all eyes were on Paris a couple days ago. Folks can’t stop talking about your Champion. As in, we need her here. Stat.”
I cringe inside. That’s all I need: to play musical countries with Kate. If she comes here, there’s no way I can stay.
Faust traces across a row of names and stops. “Let’s see. Green team’s got the sunrise shift. They’re taking off in a few minutes and are covering Williamsburg and the surrounding area. It would be good for you to get to know our hood.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really need this walk.”
“Got the craving?” Faust asks with concern. “How long’s it been?”
“Since I died? Only a few months.”
“And you probably loaded up on dark energy from the numa-slaying extravaganza in Paris,” he says, with the same wish-I’d-been-there look. Faust loves a fight, that much is obvious. He should team up with Ambrose—they’d be unstoppable.
I nod. “I killed six.”
He whistles. “You should be good for a while, then. Just need the fresh air?” he jokes.
“Close,” I say. “I could use the distraction.”
I stand outside the loading dock, the meet-up point listed on the schedule, waiting for the Green team to appear. My hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, I bounce up and down, trying to generate a bit of heat, and try not to think about what my kindred are doing in Paris. Celebrating their victory with their new Champion. I get a flashback of Kate’s face, not even two days ago in the midst of battle—streaked with blood and dirt and ash, glowing with the golden bardia aura. And though animating didn’t seem to have changed her features, in my eyes she was more beautiful than ever.
My chest aches. How long will it take me to get over her? I am relieved when I hear footsteps crunch on the frost-frozen pavement behind me.
A woman sitting next to Gold jumps in. “For those of you who don’t already know of him, Jules Marchenoir is an accomplished artist. Perhaps those involved in the visual arts could provide him with necessary supplies, get him set up with a studio, and tell him when the life drawing group meets.”
The woman is stunning—in an exotic kind of way: long black hair, copper-colored skin, almond eyes, and high cheekbones. I rack my brain but am sure I haven’t seen her before. I would have remembered. So how does she know me?
“Thank you,” I acknowledge gratefully.
She nods, but frowns, like the interaction is distasteful to her. Like I’ve offended her.
How bizarre. I must have met her before—it had to have been at a convocation. Did I try to pick her up or something? I doubt it—I restrict true flirting to human girls for just this reason. Why risk offending someone who could hold a grudge for eternity? Not to mention the danger of them falling in love. And who wants that?
Or at least that’s how I used to think. Pre-Kate. She changed my game. Now I’d give up all the flirtations in the world just to be with her. Something pings sorely in my chest, and without thinking, I raise my hand to press it, drawing concerned looks. My kindred think I’m mourning. Let them. I am.
Gold breaks the silence. “Anyone else have a question?” He peers around the table. “No? Well, then I’ll speak for all of us to say, ‘Welcome, kindred.’ We’re glad you’re here, Jules Marchenoir.”
“Welcome!” several say together, like a cheer. People rise to go, several crowding around me to introduce themselves. Several ask about the French Champion—Kate. They want to know more details about how she emerged, and it is quickly obvious that their own numa problem is beginning to approach what we experienced in France.
My gaze drifts across the table to the girl who spoke earlier. A group of people stand around her, and the face that was stony with me is now radiant as she speaks with them.
A beautiful girl. Normally that would draw me like a moth to flame. Even with my no-kindred-lovers rule, a bit of playful banter and a shower of compliments (and the enjoyment of her inevitable response) would do my spirits a world of good. But not now. I don’t even have it in me to say hello.
Her eyes lift and meet mine, and the coldness is like an ice ray.
What? I ask her silently, shrugging my confusion.
She rolls her eyes—actually rolls her eyes!—and turns her attention back to the person she’s talking to.
Disconcerted, I look back to a man standing with his hand out and remember that I’m supposed to shake. No bises—cheek kisses—of course.
Faust appears and stands by my side as the room empties. “Need anything?” he whispers to me.
“Yes,” I whisper back. “I would give my immortal soul to get out of here and walk.”
TWO
“THE WALK SCHEDULE IS ON THE FRIDGE,” FAUST says, once the last person has welcomed me. “This way.” He leads me toward the kitchen.
“A schedule?” I ask.
“Does that surprise you?” he asks, flashing a curious smile.
“I’m not sure what’s more surprising, that there’s a schedule or that it’s being displayed on something as banal as a refrigerator,” I admit.
Faust laughs. “There are about two hundred bardia in the five boroughs. Everybody has their own room here, but about half choose to live elsewhere, and they usually walk with their houses in their own neighborhoods. That leaves about a hundred of us here. A schedule’s pretty much necessary.”
“And the fridge?” I ask.
He grins. “Where did everyone hang out in your house in Paris?”
“In the kitchen,” I concede.
We arrive at a row of three enormous refrigerators. Stuck to one is a printed schedule with names, days of the week, and neighborhoods. I whistle, impressed.
“We had it online for a while,” Faust explains. “A couple of our tech-minded kindred even developed an app. But after our enemies hacked in a couple of times and showed up to meet us at our scheduled places, we went back to the old-fashioned paper-and-ink method.”
“Is the numa presence strong here?” I ask.
“Getting worse all the time,” Faust murmurs, running his finger down the chart. “Even starting to organize, as much as murderous immortals who are only out for themselves can do. Crime boss in our area is called Janus. But there are others . . . bigger fish that we’re not even near catching.
“I’ll tell you—all eyes were on Paris a couple days ago. Folks can’t stop talking about your Champion. As in, we need her here. Stat.”
I cringe inside. That’s all I need: to play musical countries with Kate. If she comes here, there’s no way I can stay.
Faust traces across a row of names and stops. “Let’s see. Green team’s got the sunrise shift. They’re taking off in a few minutes and are covering Williamsburg and the surrounding area. It would be good for you to get to know our hood.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really need this walk.”
“Got the craving?” Faust asks with concern. “How long’s it been?”
“Since I died? Only a few months.”
“And you probably loaded up on dark energy from the numa-slaying extravaganza in Paris,” he says, with the same wish-I’d-been-there look. Faust loves a fight, that much is obvious. He should team up with Ambrose—they’d be unstoppable.
I nod. “I killed six.”
He whistles. “You should be good for a while, then. Just need the fresh air?” he jokes.
“Close,” I say. “I could use the distraction.”
I stand outside the loading dock, the meet-up point listed on the schedule, waiting for the Green team to appear. My hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, I bounce up and down, trying to generate a bit of heat, and try not to think about what my kindred are doing in Paris. Celebrating their victory with their new Champion. I get a flashback of Kate’s face, not even two days ago in the midst of battle—streaked with blood and dirt and ash, glowing with the golden bardia aura. And though animating didn’t seem to have changed her features, in my eyes she was more beautiful than ever.
My chest aches. How long will it take me to get over her? I am relieved when I hear footsteps crunch on the frost-frozen pavement behind me.
