I Should Die

and . . . yes . . . the sewage of Paris.
    “If I see floating poo, I’m gouging my eyes out with this box cutter,” Georgia called from behind me.
    I ignored her, and shifting my hold on Bran, I got a better grip on him so that we were almost running. Finally, I allowed myself to think about Vincent.
    The power transfer hadn’t worked. A very good thing , I reassured myself. She hasn’t figured out how to drain Vincent of the Champion’s power . But my bubble of hope burst when I remembered that she had still succeeded with the binding ceremony. Vincent’s spirit was trapped, unable to leave her side.
    And here I was running away from them. I felt like screaming from frustration and rage. Knowing that Vincent was powerless in the evil revenant’s hands made me more determined than ever to figure out how to free him.
    But first, we had to get Bran to safety. He could hold the key to helping Vincent. It would be hard for the numa to break down a metal door blocked by an iron bar. But almost every building in Paris held an access to the sewers. Once Violette figured out how Bran had escaped, she could be after us in the time it took her to break into the basement of a nearby building.
    Bran directed us through the corridors around multiple twists and turns. It obviously wasn’t his first time in the sewers—he knew exactly where he was going.
    After thirty minutes of half-running half-hobbling beside the fetid water, squeezing through tight openings, and shuffling through low connecting passages, we arrived in front of another locked door. Bran removed a brick to the right of the door frame and pulled out a massive skeleton key. I opened the door with it, and Georgia led him through.
    “Lock it from the inside,” Bran called. Georgia helped him settle him into a chair, where he sat panting.
    I found a lighter and a glass lantern holding a candle. Georgia turned off her phone light after I lit the lamp and the space around us flickered into view. We were in a small room furnished with two cots, a couple of old ratty armchairs and shelves stocked with first aid supplies and canned food. “What is this place?” I asked.
    “Old Resistance hideout, made by my grandfather,” Bran replied breathlessly. “Since the war, my family has kept it as a safe place. But we never needed to use it as such until last week when my mother hid from the ancient one and her numa. We can’t stay long, though. If they know we’re down here and come back with reinforcements, they could find us.”
    “We should take you to La Maison,” I said. “But that’s in the seventh arrondissement, all the way across town. It would take hours to walk there if we stay in the sewers. And with the shape you’re in, I’m not sure you could even make it.”
    Bran shook his head. “I can’t walk much farther. And even if I could, I only know my way around the tunnels under our neighborhood. I could never find my way to the other side of the river.”
    “So we’ll have to go aboveground,” I said.
    A buzzing sound came from Georgia’s coat. She fished her cell phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. “Arthur. Again.”
    I stared at her. “What do you mean, again?”
    “He’s been leaving me messages all morning, wondering how I’m doing,” she replied with a shrug.
    “Why don’t you answer?” I asked, incredulous.
    Georgia made a face. “I don’t want to look too interested. That’ll just scare him off.” She looked as offended as if I had suggested that she marry him on the spot.
    I grabbed the phone out of her hand and answered the call. “Arthur? Yeah, this is Kate. Violette and some numa are after us, and we need your help. We’re hiding in the sewers. . . .” I turned to Bran. “Where are we exactly?”
    “Under the northern tip of Montmartre Cemetery,” Bran responded. “You can tell them to meet us right inside the north gate.”
    I handed the phone back to Georgia. “He said they’ll be here in twenty minutes, and to stay in our hiding place until he texts us.” Bran nodded and, settling his head on the back of the armchair, closed his eyes in exhaustion.
    “Did he say anything else?” my sister asked, eyeing me.
    I rolled my eyes. Even in an underground hideout, at mortal risk of being discovered by evil undead, Georgia was thinking about boys.
    “Well, did he?” she insisted.
    I sighed. “He asked if you were okay,” I admitted.
    My sister threw herself onto one of the cots with