Until I Die
Page 24
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad Charles is safe.”
“I know, Charlotte. Me too. It’s good that he’s with other revenants,” I said. And not with numa, I thought, knowing that Charlotte had feared the same thing.
Once again, we were assembled around the massive hearth in the great hall. Jean-Baptiste explained what they had found at Geneviève’s and Jules’s, which was basically nothing. However, it was obvious from the items that had been disturbed that the object of the break-ins was some sort of document. But neither Geneviève nor Jules could imagine anything the numa would want to steal from them.
“I have racked my brain,” said Jean-Baptiste, placing two fingers on his brow for emphasis, “and can’t think of one thing among our paperwork that would be of any interest to our enemies.”
“How about banking information?” Violette asked. “Maybe they’re looking for account numbers or something.”
“Well, that’s an idea,” said Jules. “But we’re paperless now—all our banking is online. And even if the numa weren’t already rich off all of their underworld dealings, I doubt our bank accounts would be their first target if they needed some extra cash.”
Violette frowned.
“May I?” Gaspard asked. He was so overly polite that he never cut into a conversation without asking permission first. Jean-Baptiste nodded at him. “Although I agree that we must focus on discovering what they might be after, we should not rule out the fact that this might merely be a diversion. They may be attempting to draw our attention away from some larger plan they are carrying out.”
I spoke up. “Charlotte mentioned something on the phone when we were on our way here.” Everyone turned toward me. “Charles called her. He’s in Berlin, staying with a group of revenants. He phoned to warn her that they had heard rumors that something big was happening with the Paris numa.”
“Yes, she called me too—” Gaspard began, but was cut off by Violette.
“Why didn’t I hear anything about this?” she exclaimed, her face pink with emotion, signaling that she was officially pissed off.
“I—I was going to consult with you later, Violette,” Gaspard stuttered. “But Charlotte just phoned me last night, and with the break-ins this morning, there was so much going on.”
Violette pressed her temples in exasperation. “How am I supposed to be helping out if people withhold such important information from me?”
Everyone stared at her. Ambrose rolled his eyes toward me and mouthed the words, Drama. Queen.
She glanced around at us, as if she had just noticed we were all there, and then looked back at Gaspard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been trying so hard. Digging wherever I could, and hitting a brick wall everywhere I turn . . . when there’s information sitting right in front of us.” She stood and walked to Gaspard, placing a dainty hand on his arm and leading him away from the group.
“Now what did Charlotte say, exactly?” she quizzed him as they left the room.
On the other side of the hearth, at the edge of the group, Arthur sat in an armchair, shaking his head tiredly like the long-suffering husband of a temperamental spouse. He pulled a pen and notebook out of his jacket’s inner pocket and began to write.
I squeezed Vincent’s fingers. He was sitting in front of me on the floor, his elbow propped on the couch so that he could hold my hand. He glanced up, and I inclined my head toward Arthur. “Is he taking notes?” I whispered. Vincent’s eyes traveled across the room. “No, he’s writing,” he responded.
“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.
“He’s an author. Of novels.” Vincent laughed at the astounded look on my face. “What, you didn’t think we could have careers that didn’t involve saving lives? Arthur and Violette have to do something with their time. They don’t even own a TV.”
“What does he write?”
“Well, have you heard of Pierre Delacourt?”
“Yeah, the historical thriller guy? I actually think I read one of his books in an airport once. That’s Arthur’s pen name?”
Vincent nodded. “That and Aurélie Saint-Onge, Henri Cotillon, and Hilaire Benois.”
My mouth dropped open as I realized that the writer behind some of the most famous pseudonyms in French literature from the last couple of centuries was sitting across the room from me, scribbling in a notebook.
“This train wreck of a meeting is adjourned,” snapped Jean-Baptiste, drawing attention to the fact that no one was paying attention to him anymore. “I will speak to each of you individually about what I need you to do. Vincent,” he said, walking over to us, “I need you to fly to Berlin tomorrow. Talk to Charles’s source. Find out everything they know and where they’re getting their information.” Vincent nodded, and Jean-Baptiste moved on to Jules.
“Wow, just like that and you’re off,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I would guess a couple of days. It’ll depend on what I find when I get there. How much information there actually is. Although I have a feeling that part of the reason JB is sending me instead of just phoning is to have someone check up on Charles.”
I nodded, and although I felt a twinge of sadness that he was going away—so much had been going on that we had barely had time to catch up since he’d been dormant—I also felt a sense of relief. Because the only thing on my mind right now was when I could get to Le Corbeau.
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN GEORGIA AND I LEFT OUR BUILDING THE next morning to see Jules waiting for us in his car, my heart did a little leap. Vincent must have already left. I checked my phone to see his good-bye text, and the heart-leap became a staccato patter. Today was my day.
“So what’s up with the chauffeur service?” I asked as I jumped into the front with him while Georgia settled in the back.
“Vincent would have been here this morning, but he had a flight at six a.m. Which means he was at the airport at five.”
“Good thing you guys don’t sleep,” I said.
From habit, Jules’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to see if Georgia had heard. And then I saw him remember—She already knows—and he relaxed again.
He does think of me as one of them now, I mused, and I smiled as I touched the pendant hidden under my shirt.
“That’s actually not my question. What have we done to deserve a ride to school? Were there more numa attacks during the night?”
I meant it as a joke, but Jules’s unchanged expression informed me that I had hit the nail on the head. “No!” I gasped.
“Yes, two other revenant homes in the Paris area were ransacked—one last night and the other early this morning, both times when the occupants were out.”
“So what’s that have to do with us?” piped up Georgia from the backseat. “Not that I don’t appreciate door-to-door service to high school, of course.”
Jules peered at Georgia in the mirror. “That attack after your boyfriend’s concert, followed a week later by four break-ins by our enemies, all adds up to the fact that the numa are back in action. And Vincent is worried that you, Kate, could be a target.”
“Why me?”
“The numa know he’s JB’s second, and they know you’re with him. Kidnapping you—or worse—would be the perfect way to provoke him. Vincent just wants someone to keep an eye on you until he’s back and can do it himself.”
That was a lot to process. “I feel like saying that I can fend for myself. But after facing off with those guys in the alley, I think I’ll just thank you for the offer and shut up about it.”
“So, Jules,” Georgia said, leaning forward, “not that I’m not appreciative that you are protecting my sister from evil murderous zombies. But since that conversation’s run its course”—she paused for effect—“Kate tells me that Arthur is a writer.”
To my dismay, my sister had not given up on her crush on Arthur. And ever since she and Sebastien had broken up the previous week, she had mentioned the revenant at least once a day.
“He asked about you, actually,” Jules said matter-of-factly.
“He did?” Georgia purred. “Do tell!”
“He was just wondering if you had recovered from the trauma of your numa attack. He saw you on the street the other day and said you looked well.”
“Looked well? I wonder if that means ‘looked hot’ in fifteenth-century speak?”
“And she’s off,” I murmured, drawing a laugh from Jules.
“No offense,” he continued, “but I think what interests him is that Violette seems to hate you so much. It provides entertainment for that otherwise dull practically-married-without-benefits life of his.”
“Mmm . . . benefits,” Georgia said, rolling the word around in her mouth like it was candy. “Be sure to mention to Arthur that I’m single again, you know, when the topic of me comes up.”
I shook my head, and Jules burst out laughing. As we pulled up to the school, and Georgia got out of the car, I leaned over to him. “Can you wait for a minute?” He nodded, looking confused, as I stepped out of the car.
“Georgia, I’m skipping today. Can you cover for me?”
My sister eyed me curiously. “This is so unlike you that I’m assuming it must be of vital importance. Like Nancy Drew–style sleuthing for questionably existent healers kind of importance. Hmm. What’ll you swap for my silence?” She smiled craftily.
“Okay, okay. I’ll make sure Jules puts in a good word with Arthur.”
“Make it a date with Arthur, and I’ll write you a sick note signed by Mamie.”
I laughed—“I’ll see what I can do”—and turned to get back into the car.
“Hey, Kate,” Georgia called, her voice serious now. I hesitated. “Be careful, whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Promise,” I said, throwing her an air-kiss and lowering myself into the passenger seat.
“What’s up, Kates?” Jules said unsurely, fiddling with the radio dial.
“A day trip,” I said.
That got his full attention. “Where to?”
“To Saint-Ouen.”
“You’re skipping school to go to the flea market? Does Vincent know you’re doing this? Wait . . . don’t tell me. Of course he doesn’t or you’d wait till he got back to go.”
“Did Vincent ask you to guard me today?” I asked. Jules nodded. “Well, I’m going to Saint-Ouen. So you can either drop me off at the Métro station or take me there yourself. Whatever your guard-sense feels is right.”
Jules’s lips formed an amused smile. “Kates, has anyone ever told you that you are one persuasive girl? Are you on the debate team at school?”
I shook my head.
“Pity,” he said as he put the car in gear. Swinging it around to face Paris, he gunned the motor and we were off.
“Jules?”
“Um . . . hmm?”
“How did you die?”
We had been stuck in traffic on the Périphérique for a half hour. Up to now our conversation had consisted of small talk—which meant in the revenants’ case things like how Ambrose and Jules had recently saved people in a tourist bus that drove into the Seine. But I had been wondering this for a while, and sitting in gridlock felt like the perfect time to ask.
“I mean, you told me you died in World War One,” I continued, “but did you die saving one particular person, or was it more the abstract fact that you were defending your countrymen as a soldier?”
“There aren’t any abstracts in becoming a revenant,” Jules replied. “Just fighting in a war doesn’t count. If it did, there’d probably be a lot more of us.”
“So who did you save?”
“A friend of mine. I mean, not exactly a friend, but another artist whose group I hung out with in Paris before the war. Name was Fernand Léger.”
“The Fernand Léger?” I gasped.
“Oh, you’ve heard of him?” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Come on, Jules. You know I love art.”
“Well, he wasn’t as famous as the others in his group: Picasso, Braque, Gris.”
“He’s famous enough for me to know him. And wasn’t it his gallery at the Museum of Modern Art that I saw you hanging out in last summer? You know . . . when you pretended you were someone else because I recognized you from the subway crash?”
Jules grinned at the memory. It was his postmortem appearance that had sent me running back to Jean-Baptiste’s house to apologize to Vincent, only to find him dead on his bed. Which led me to my discovery of what he was. A historic day in the life of Kate Mercier, to be sure.
“Yeah, he’s got an unrecognizable portrait of me hanging in there. Not very flattering. I look like a robot. Actually more like a robot-skeleton. Which is understandable, I guess, since I was dead by the time he painted it.”
“Are you talking about The Card Players?” I asked in awe.
“Yeah. There was a lot of downtime in between fighting. We played a lot of cards. After the war, when I was volant this one time, I overheard him telling someone that the soldier on the right was the one who saved him. But I still can’t see a resemblance for the life of me.” Jules cracked a smile at his own joke.
“How did it happen? I mean the saving bit?”
“I’m so glad Charles is safe.”
“I know, Charlotte. Me too. It’s good that he’s with other revenants,” I said. And not with numa, I thought, knowing that Charlotte had feared the same thing.
Once again, we were assembled around the massive hearth in the great hall. Jean-Baptiste explained what they had found at Geneviève’s and Jules’s, which was basically nothing. However, it was obvious from the items that had been disturbed that the object of the break-ins was some sort of document. But neither Geneviève nor Jules could imagine anything the numa would want to steal from them.
“I have racked my brain,” said Jean-Baptiste, placing two fingers on his brow for emphasis, “and can’t think of one thing among our paperwork that would be of any interest to our enemies.”
“How about banking information?” Violette asked. “Maybe they’re looking for account numbers or something.”
“Well, that’s an idea,” said Jules. “But we’re paperless now—all our banking is online. And even if the numa weren’t already rich off all of their underworld dealings, I doubt our bank accounts would be their first target if they needed some extra cash.”
Violette frowned.
“May I?” Gaspard asked. He was so overly polite that he never cut into a conversation without asking permission first. Jean-Baptiste nodded at him. “Although I agree that we must focus on discovering what they might be after, we should not rule out the fact that this might merely be a diversion. They may be attempting to draw our attention away from some larger plan they are carrying out.”
I spoke up. “Charlotte mentioned something on the phone when we were on our way here.” Everyone turned toward me. “Charles called her. He’s in Berlin, staying with a group of revenants. He phoned to warn her that they had heard rumors that something big was happening with the Paris numa.”
“Yes, she called me too—” Gaspard began, but was cut off by Violette.
“Why didn’t I hear anything about this?” she exclaimed, her face pink with emotion, signaling that she was officially pissed off.
“I—I was going to consult with you later, Violette,” Gaspard stuttered. “But Charlotte just phoned me last night, and with the break-ins this morning, there was so much going on.”
Violette pressed her temples in exasperation. “How am I supposed to be helping out if people withhold such important information from me?”
Everyone stared at her. Ambrose rolled his eyes toward me and mouthed the words, Drama. Queen.
She glanced around at us, as if she had just noticed we were all there, and then looked back at Gaspard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been trying so hard. Digging wherever I could, and hitting a brick wall everywhere I turn . . . when there’s information sitting right in front of us.” She stood and walked to Gaspard, placing a dainty hand on his arm and leading him away from the group.
“Now what did Charlotte say, exactly?” she quizzed him as they left the room.
On the other side of the hearth, at the edge of the group, Arthur sat in an armchair, shaking his head tiredly like the long-suffering husband of a temperamental spouse. He pulled a pen and notebook out of his jacket’s inner pocket and began to write.
I squeezed Vincent’s fingers. He was sitting in front of me on the floor, his elbow propped on the couch so that he could hold my hand. He glanced up, and I inclined my head toward Arthur. “Is he taking notes?” I whispered. Vincent’s eyes traveled across the room. “No, he’s writing,” he responded.
“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.
“He’s an author. Of novels.” Vincent laughed at the astounded look on my face. “What, you didn’t think we could have careers that didn’t involve saving lives? Arthur and Violette have to do something with their time. They don’t even own a TV.”
“What does he write?”
“Well, have you heard of Pierre Delacourt?”
“Yeah, the historical thriller guy? I actually think I read one of his books in an airport once. That’s Arthur’s pen name?”
Vincent nodded. “That and Aurélie Saint-Onge, Henri Cotillon, and Hilaire Benois.”
My mouth dropped open as I realized that the writer behind some of the most famous pseudonyms in French literature from the last couple of centuries was sitting across the room from me, scribbling in a notebook.
“This train wreck of a meeting is adjourned,” snapped Jean-Baptiste, drawing attention to the fact that no one was paying attention to him anymore. “I will speak to each of you individually about what I need you to do. Vincent,” he said, walking over to us, “I need you to fly to Berlin tomorrow. Talk to Charles’s source. Find out everything they know and where they’re getting their information.” Vincent nodded, and Jean-Baptiste moved on to Jules.
“Wow, just like that and you’re off,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I would guess a couple of days. It’ll depend on what I find when I get there. How much information there actually is. Although I have a feeling that part of the reason JB is sending me instead of just phoning is to have someone check up on Charles.”
I nodded, and although I felt a twinge of sadness that he was going away—so much had been going on that we had barely had time to catch up since he’d been dormant—I also felt a sense of relief. Because the only thing on my mind right now was when I could get to Le Corbeau.
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN GEORGIA AND I LEFT OUR BUILDING THE next morning to see Jules waiting for us in his car, my heart did a little leap. Vincent must have already left. I checked my phone to see his good-bye text, and the heart-leap became a staccato patter. Today was my day.
“So what’s up with the chauffeur service?” I asked as I jumped into the front with him while Georgia settled in the back.
“Vincent would have been here this morning, but he had a flight at six a.m. Which means he was at the airport at five.”
“Good thing you guys don’t sleep,” I said.
From habit, Jules’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror to see if Georgia had heard. And then I saw him remember—She already knows—and he relaxed again.
He does think of me as one of them now, I mused, and I smiled as I touched the pendant hidden under my shirt.
“That’s actually not my question. What have we done to deserve a ride to school? Were there more numa attacks during the night?”
I meant it as a joke, but Jules’s unchanged expression informed me that I had hit the nail on the head. “No!” I gasped.
“Yes, two other revenant homes in the Paris area were ransacked—one last night and the other early this morning, both times when the occupants were out.”
“So what’s that have to do with us?” piped up Georgia from the backseat. “Not that I don’t appreciate door-to-door service to high school, of course.”
Jules peered at Georgia in the mirror. “That attack after your boyfriend’s concert, followed a week later by four break-ins by our enemies, all adds up to the fact that the numa are back in action. And Vincent is worried that you, Kate, could be a target.”
“Why me?”
“The numa know he’s JB’s second, and they know you’re with him. Kidnapping you—or worse—would be the perfect way to provoke him. Vincent just wants someone to keep an eye on you until he’s back and can do it himself.”
That was a lot to process. “I feel like saying that I can fend for myself. But after facing off with those guys in the alley, I think I’ll just thank you for the offer and shut up about it.”
“So, Jules,” Georgia said, leaning forward, “not that I’m not appreciative that you are protecting my sister from evil murderous zombies. But since that conversation’s run its course”—she paused for effect—“Kate tells me that Arthur is a writer.”
To my dismay, my sister had not given up on her crush on Arthur. And ever since she and Sebastien had broken up the previous week, she had mentioned the revenant at least once a day.
“He asked about you, actually,” Jules said matter-of-factly.
“He did?” Georgia purred. “Do tell!”
“He was just wondering if you had recovered from the trauma of your numa attack. He saw you on the street the other day and said you looked well.”
“Looked well? I wonder if that means ‘looked hot’ in fifteenth-century speak?”
“And she’s off,” I murmured, drawing a laugh from Jules.
“No offense,” he continued, “but I think what interests him is that Violette seems to hate you so much. It provides entertainment for that otherwise dull practically-married-without-benefits life of his.”
“Mmm . . . benefits,” Georgia said, rolling the word around in her mouth like it was candy. “Be sure to mention to Arthur that I’m single again, you know, when the topic of me comes up.”
I shook my head, and Jules burst out laughing. As we pulled up to the school, and Georgia got out of the car, I leaned over to him. “Can you wait for a minute?” He nodded, looking confused, as I stepped out of the car.
“Georgia, I’m skipping today. Can you cover for me?”
My sister eyed me curiously. “This is so unlike you that I’m assuming it must be of vital importance. Like Nancy Drew–style sleuthing for questionably existent healers kind of importance. Hmm. What’ll you swap for my silence?” She smiled craftily.
“Okay, okay. I’ll make sure Jules puts in a good word with Arthur.”
“Make it a date with Arthur, and I’ll write you a sick note signed by Mamie.”
I laughed—“I’ll see what I can do”—and turned to get back into the car.
“Hey, Kate,” Georgia called, her voice serious now. I hesitated. “Be careful, whatever it is that you’re doing.”
“Promise,” I said, throwing her an air-kiss and lowering myself into the passenger seat.
“What’s up, Kates?” Jules said unsurely, fiddling with the radio dial.
“A day trip,” I said.
That got his full attention. “Where to?”
“To Saint-Ouen.”
“You’re skipping school to go to the flea market? Does Vincent know you’re doing this? Wait . . . don’t tell me. Of course he doesn’t or you’d wait till he got back to go.”
“Did Vincent ask you to guard me today?” I asked. Jules nodded. “Well, I’m going to Saint-Ouen. So you can either drop me off at the Métro station or take me there yourself. Whatever your guard-sense feels is right.”
Jules’s lips formed an amused smile. “Kates, has anyone ever told you that you are one persuasive girl? Are you on the debate team at school?”
I shook my head.
“Pity,” he said as he put the car in gear. Swinging it around to face Paris, he gunned the motor and we were off.
“Jules?”
“Um . . . hmm?”
“How did you die?”
We had been stuck in traffic on the Périphérique for a half hour. Up to now our conversation had consisted of small talk—which meant in the revenants’ case things like how Ambrose and Jules had recently saved people in a tourist bus that drove into the Seine. But I had been wondering this for a while, and sitting in gridlock felt like the perfect time to ask.
“I mean, you told me you died in World War One,” I continued, “but did you die saving one particular person, or was it more the abstract fact that you were defending your countrymen as a soldier?”
“There aren’t any abstracts in becoming a revenant,” Jules replied. “Just fighting in a war doesn’t count. If it did, there’d probably be a lot more of us.”
“So who did you save?”
“A friend of mine. I mean, not exactly a friend, but another artist whose group I hung out with in Paris before the war. Name was Fernand Léger.”
“The Fernand Léger?” I gasped.
“Oh, you’ve heard of him?” There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Come on, Jules. You know I love art.”
“Well, he wasn’t as famous as the others in his group: Picasso, Braque, Gris.”
“He’s famous enough for me to know him. And wasn’t it his gallery at the Museum of Modern Art that I saw you hanging out in last summer? You know . . . when you pretended you were someone else because I recognized you from the subway crash?”
Jules grinned at the memory. It was his postmortem appearance that had sent me running back to Jean-Baptiste’s house to apologize to Vincent, only to find him dead on his bed. Which led me to my discovery of what he was. A historic day in the life of Kate Mercier, to be sure.
“Yeah, he’s got an unrecognizable portrait of me hanging in there. Not very flattering. I look like a robot. Actually more like a robot-skeleton. Which is understandable, I guess, since I was dead by the time he painted it.”
“Are you talking about The Card Players?” I asked in awe.
“Yeah. There was a lot of downtime in between fighting. We played a lot of cards. After the war, when I was volant this one time, I overheard him telling someone that the soldier on the right was the one who saved him. But I still can’t see a resemblance for the life of me.” Jules cracked a smile at his own joke.
“How did it happen? I mean the saving bit?”
