I Should Die

eyebrow.
    “No, cowardice. I hate needles,” I confess, with a smile.
    I watch as Vincent’s small cuts are washed and bandaged and the larger wounds to his arm and side sewn up. He doesn’t even wince when the needle threads through his skin, but watches me calmly from where he sits a few feet away. The bardia are used to flesh wounds, as I too will soon be.
    “Geneviève is gone. The numa tossed her on early in the fight,” Vincent says, as the medic works on him. He pauses and looks thoughtful. “This probably sounds bad, but I’m glad I wasn’t forced to make that decision.”
    There is a pang in my heart as I watch the fire rage, knowing my friend is within the flames. But in my heart I am relieved for her. “She got her wish, then. She’s with Philippe.”
    Another medic approaches where I sit with my good arm around Gaspard, who has stopped crying and is very still. His normal twitchy nervousness has been replaced by a calmness that is more dead than numb, as if a part of him has traveled to the grave with his partner.
    My injured arm hangs uselessly in its Vincent-made sling and blood still trickles from the knife wound. Helping me shuffle out of my jacket, the medic rips the sleeve off my shirt and begins silently cleaning and then stitching up my shoulder. Gaspard repositions his head on my shoulder, seemingly unaware that mere inches from his forehead someone is piercing my skin with a needle and yanking a thick black thread through it.
    My eyes are already clouded with tears, and my heart so full of hurt for my friend’s loss that the pain to my body seems little more than an annoyance. The medic bandages my shoulder, puts my jacket back on over it, and sets my arm in a new, clean sling. “Are you injured, Monsieur Tabard?” the man asks.
    Gaspard shakes his head numbly, and the medic moves on to the next group of injured. Vincent meets my eyes. I know he’s asking me to take care of Gaspard. I will , I say without speaking. Go do what you need to do . Vincent stands and starts to round up the remaining troops and herd them to the fire.
    As we watch people assemble, I ask Gaspard, “How long were you and Jean-Baptiste together?”
    “One hundred forty-nine years,” he answers.
    “I’m sorry,” I murmur. There’s really nothing else I can say. I can’t say that I know how he feels. It wouldn’t be true. I know how it feels to lose parents, to become orphaned. But I can’t put myself into the place of this man who lost the partner he has loved for a century and a half. All those years of living the same experiences, knowing the same victories and defeats, sharing lives. It must be destroying him. I feel a shudder pass through his body as he leans on me. It is destroying him.
    “Kate, Gaspard,” I hear Vincent call, and we stand to join the assembled bardia before the bonfire. Eight of the twelve New York bardia remain, two having been taken away in the ambulances and two lost to the flames. Charles stands with Uta and four of their kindred. Three have been transported back to La Maison and will be fine once they reanimate. One is gone forever. And of three dozen other bardia who fought with us, six were fed to the bonfire.
    Near the flames the air is putrid and thick with the noxious smell of burning flesh. People hold their hands over their noses and mouths as Vincent stands with his back to the fire, facing us.
    “We don’t have long before sunrise, and I want all traces of battle gone and our kindred out of the park by the first rays of dawn. But first, we must honor those who sacrificed themselves today.”
    He meets my eyes. He is struggling not to cry. Trying his best to stay strong until he finishes his duty. “Among Paris’s kindred,” he continues, “we lost our beloved Geneviève Emmanuelle Lorieux. She died in 1943, executed by firing squad for having smuggled food and medicine to the detainees at the Drancy detention camp. Geneviève was a loving and dedicated wife to Philippe Lorieux, who died barely four months ago. We will miss you, Geneviève.”
    Vincent gestures toward Gaspard, who steps forward to face us. “We say good-bye to our longtime leader, Jean-Baptiste Alexandre Balthazar Grimod de la Reynière,” Gaspard says in a wavering voice. “He died sacrificing his life for another on the battlefield in Borodino, September 7, 1812. Jean-Baptiste was dedicated to the preservation of his kindred, willing to do anything to ensure their survival.”