I Should Die

me like that for a full minute, studying my face like I am a book written in a foreign language. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to mine.
    When he steps back the sparkle has returned to his sapphire eyes. “Okay,” he says.
    “So, you agree with me?” I ask.
    “No. But . . . well, Kate, you’re the boss.” He takes my hand and we resume walking, bringing up the tail end of the procession.
    “Yeah, right,” I sputter. “You’re the head of France’s kindred.”
    “Yes, but you’re the Champion,” he says with a wry smile. “And I’ve never seen an actual leadership flowchart, but I presume that means you’re the boss of me.”
    My mouth drops open in amused dismay. “I don’t want to be the boss of anyone.”
    “Too late,” he says with false flippancy. “You’re already talking directly to people’s brains, persuading the enemy to untie you while in captivity, and attracting help all the way from Germany with your billion-watt aura. It’s not like you can take it back now and just be a regular revenant.” He’s doing his best to joke, but I know he is just as overwhelmed by what I have become as I am.
    “Too bad I didn’t get everything that was promised. I did okay back there, but some superstrength would have come in handy,” I say.
    “Prophecies are always spotty at best,” he says. “Maybe the strength bit will kick in later.” He pulls me closer, as if his proximity alone can shield me from what is to come.

FORTY-SEVEN
    JEANNE IS WAITING WHEN WE GET BACK TO LA Maison. “Is everyone okay?” she asks as we walk through the door.
    “What are you doing here? It’s three a.m.” Vincent places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks at him, abashed.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” she admits. “Something is happening. I can feel it. And I’ve been with you lot long enough to know I can trust my intuition. I’ve got some bread in the oven and have put on a stew. Now, did anyone get hurt?” she asks, hiding her emotion behind practicality.
    “Ambrose will need medical attention,” Vincent says. And then in a lower voice admits, “Geneviève was killed and taken.”
    Jeanne’s hands fly to her mouth. “No,” she gasps, tears springing to her eyes.
    Vincent nods grimly, suddenly looking tired. We are distracted by the ambulance pulling in through the gates. Jeanne dabs her eyes and moves purposefully toward the vehicle. Charlotte hops out of the passenger seat and opens the door to the back for Ambrose and Charles to get out.
    “I don’t care if they are in body bags,” Ambrose is saying. “That’s the last time I ride in the back of an ambulance with a half-dozen corpses.” He shudders and supports his wounded arm as he steps down to the ground. “I don’t mind killing them, but I don’t feel like cozying up with them once the deed is done.”
    Charles jumps down and Jeanne stares curiously at him for a moment before a light goes on in her eyes. She runs down the steps and flings herself on him. “ Mon petit Charles, you’re back!” she coos, standing on her tiptoes to energetically kiss his cheeks. “I am so happy to see you.”
    “Ditto,” Charles says with a broad smile.
    “Just look at you,” she says, leaning back and inspecting him in all of his tattooed and punk-haired glory. “You know, I’d never believe I would actually say this, but that look really suits you. Of course, if I hadn’t cared for you longer than I have my own son, you’d scare my pants off. But you’ll always be mon petit Charles à moi .” She hugs him once again and then turns to Ambrose.
    “How bad is it, dear?” she asks.
    “Bad enough to need a doctor,” Charlotte responds, unclipping the weapons from Ambrose’s belt and shoulder strap. She hands a battle-axe to Charles and they head down to stow everything in the armory.
    “I just need a few stitches,” Ambrose says.
    “Show,” Jeanne commands, and he holds his jacket open. Cringing, she orders, “You go straight to your room. I’ll phone Docteur Dassonville and then come clean you up. Everyone else,” she calls to the rapidly filling foyer, “weapons go downstairs in the armory. There’s a first aid station there if anyone else needs it. Otherwise, help yourself to the food in the kitchen.”
    Amid the mass confusion a cell phone rings. Louis pulls a phone out of his pocket and looks at the number on the screen. His face turns ashen.
    “Who is it?” Arthur asks.
    “Her,” he says, pressing a