I Should Die

Vincent, but before I can reach him someone else has pushed his way through the ring of numa and in front of the blade that is already thrusting its way toward Vincent’s chest.
    Jean-Baptiste stands with the numa’s sword run through his chest and out his back, the blade tip just inches from Vincent’s own heart. I hear a cry from Gaspard and see him rush toward Jean-Baptiste’s body, only to be fought back by a wall of numa.
    With a feral roar, Vincent takes on Edouard, making quick work of the numa captain, while I engage the two enemies to his right. Bardia and numa rush in from all sides, and the battle escalates into a fevered blur of metal and wood and arrows and spurting blood and screams and cries; and I have forgotten my injury and am fighting like a machine, without thinking, until the frenzy of battle clears and the only ones left standing are bardia.
    Those numa who are not slain have run off. I can see red vertical beams moving quickly away from the arena grounds. Let them run , I think. It will be easy enough for me to find them later , and I realize that that is exactly what I will do. Lead my kindred to destroy any numa who remain. Except for those like Louis , I think. Although I saw no red auras tonight containing that golden glimmer of hope, I suspect others exist.
    I rush to Vincent, and help Arthur lower him to the ground. “I’m fine,” he says.
    “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,” I retort, as Arthur gingerly pulls his T-shirt over his head and wraps it around his torso to staunch the blood loss from a deep cut to his ribs. I use my good hand to help straighten the improvised bandage, and he smiles at me. “Who was bandaging whom about a half hour ago?” he comments, glancing at my sling.
    “I’ll be fine in, what, three weeks?” I ask, and marvel again that this is my destiny. A never-ending cycle of life, death, healing, and awakening.
    As scattered cheering begins to rise from the survivors, Uta moves to the center of the arena, the blood and grime on her face making her look like a barbarian warrior. Putting her fingers to her teeth, she gives another ear-splitting whistle. “For Vincent Delacroix, the leader of Paris’s kindred, we claim victory!” she yells and thrusts a wicked-looking battle mace above her head. “Victory,” shouts the crowd, and a forest of weapons are waved in the early-morning air.
    Vincent raises a hand, accepting the honor with grace.
    “And more importantly—sorry, Vincent—” Uta says with a joking grin, “victory and glory to the Champion, who has more than proven her strength tonight.” She presses her fist to her heart again as if to remind me, your strength is in here . I smile and mimic her gesture.
    “Champions are rare,” she continues, “and it has been an honor to fight with one. To the Champion!” she yells, and the place goes berserk, with people cheering and dancing around. Charles’s clan do some kind of battle chant in German and throw themselves on one another in wild victory hugs.
    I am overwhelmed—my heart is in my throat as I realize that these immortal beings are all ready to follow my lead. To help me fight whatever battles the future holds. As I look around, I notice a lone figure kneeling beside the bonfire. Leaving Vincent, I make my way over to him. His hair has escaped its ponytail and sticks out around his head like a black halo.
    “What’s wrong, Gaspard?”
    “Before . . . before I could get to him . . . ,” he stammers, looking up at me with vacant eyes. “The numa. They threw his body onto the flames before I could get to him. Jean-Baptiste. He’s gone,” Gaspard says.
    And lowering his head to his hands, he begins to weep.

FIFTY-ONE
    THE BATTLEFIELD IS A SCENE OF DESOLATION. A low wind blows acrid smoke in a sickly yellow haze across the arena. Body parts and weapons are strewn everywhere, and the ground is sticky with dark red mud. Everyone works quickly to clean the mess before the sun rises so that no evidence remains that a massacre has occurred in the middle of Paris.
    Everything that can burn is thrown onto the fire. As ambulances begin to arrive, Vincent and Arthur direct volunteers to carry stretchers with bardia corpses to the vehicles waiting at the park gates. Medics—all bardia, I notice—begin to attend to those whose injuries are light.
    A medic approaches me, but I nod toward Vincent. “Do him first,” I say.
    “Gallantry?” Vincent asks, raising an