Die for Her A Die for Me Novella

half the fun of doing it.”
    “That is correct,” interjects Gaspard, “but the Dark Way is a systemized killing of our enemies. It will potentially give Vincent the strength necessary to resist death so that he may fulfill a promise he made to Kate. It wasn’t even a possibility before, what with the cease-fire.”
    I have a bad feeling about this. I understand that Vincent will go to any length to allay Kate’s fears. I would too if I were him , I think, and feeling a pinprick of jealousy, push that thought aside. Vincent’s asking for my help, but this seems dangerous on so many levels. “If you only have a few old examples, how do you know it’s going to work?” I ask. “I mean, if it doesn’t, it means we’ve infuriated the numa and risked precipitating a retaliatory attack.”
    “Violette has verified the authenticity of the Dark Way stories,” Gaspard says. “She’s convinced it can work. In addition, her sources warned her last night about possible increased numa activity in Paris starting today. Even though Vincent will be staging an offensive strike on our enemies, we will need to consider a defensive strategy to protect those coming to and going from La Maison—not only us, but Jeanne, Kate, and any delivery people.”
    “I’m ready to start,” Vincent says, and his decisive tone leaves no question about his determination to make this Dark Way work. “Can I depend on the three of you to help me?”
    “You know you can count me in if it has anything to do with zombie slaying,” Ambrose says, rubbing his hands together expectantly.
    “Your wish is my command,” I say.
    “Great. Thanks. But please don’t breathe a word of it to Kate. I want to make sure it works before I tell her what I’m doing.”
    “You mean she would freak out if she knew what you were doing,” I state. Vincent runs his hand over his head worriedly, and nods.
    “My lips are sealed,” promises Ambrose.
    Vincent thanks us and proceeds directly to strategy. “Okay, Violette’s source is aware of a group of numa operating out of the Quartier de l’Horloge. Ambrose can come with me. We’re going to scope it out and find out if we can provoke a confrontation without alerting humans.
    “Gaspard, Kate is scheduled for fight training with you this morning. Can you proceed with that as if nothing has changed?” Gaspard nods. “And Jules, JB asked one of us to accompany Jeanne to and from her apartment today. Could you do the same for Kate?”
    I nod. Vincent leans forward and clasps my arm. “I’m trusting you with her life, Jules,” he says in a low voice. “You know how much she means to me.”
    Ditto , I think, but all I do is nod.

THIRTEEN
    THE NEXT WEEK IS A STUDY IN MASSACRE.
    The first day out with Ambrose, Vincent kills two numa. The next night Vincent gets home around midnight from taking Kate to the opera, and changes from tuxedo into fighting gear within minutes. We’re bending the rules a bit, the three of us walking without a volant spirit. But Vincent wants to keep the “experiment” as secretive as possible until he knows it’s going to work, and will only involve members of La Maison.
    We head straight for Pigalle, where a number of bars and strip clubs are owned by numa or their underlings. Usually—unless we’re saving a human—we avoid numa hangouts. As Ambrose says, it’s too tempting to put some steel through them, and up until now, ridding Paris of numa has not been our goal. Just as we don’t expect to see numa ringing our doorbell at La Maison, they won’t anticipate a tag team of bardia invading their territory. Which makes them easy targets.
    Apparently the word hasn’t gotten around numa circles about the two guys Vincent finished off yesterday, because we walk into Le Boudoir Nightclub around closing time and there’s a numa standing right in the entranceway. He’s huge enough to be a bouncer at one of Paris’s trendiest clubs, but the bespoke suit gives him away as the club’s owner. Our hands all touch the sword hilts under our coats—as if we need the introduction. He knows what we are. Gaping at the three of us like we’re the risen ghosts of humans he’s killed, he turns and runs to the back of the bar, locking himself in the office.
    “Excuse us, ladies,” Ambrose says to the two scantily clad dancers who sit on barstools, smoking. It smells like cigarettes and spiced rum, and the lights are so dim that it takes a few seconds for me to realize that