I Should Die

and, reaching for an additional pillow, stuffed it behind him so that he was almost sitting. His swollen eye was the color of a ripe plum and the other was magnified by his thick glasses so that it looked like a 3-D chestnut. He glanced at me, squinted curiously, and then looked quickly away again. I fiddled with my hair, wondering if there were cobwebs or debris from the underground passages still stuck in it.
    “Yes. Yes, she did,” he responded. “I have inherited her healing gifts and am now a guérisseur myself.”
    I smiled sadly, knowing that his newly acquired powers couldn’t make up for the loss of his mother. He touched my arm with long bony fingers, and his thin lips curved up at the corners. “It’s too bad you don’t have a migraine so that I could show you how it works. Although, like my mother, my gifts aren’t confined to the mortal realm.”
    He pulled back his sleeve and showed me a fresh tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the flesh still pink around it. A triangle with flames flaring out from its three edges was enclosed within a circle.
    “The signum bardia ,” I breathed. And pulling the gold and sapphire version that Vincent had given me from beneath my shirt, I held it up for him to see.
    “We have something in common, child. Both trusted by the kindred. And just look where it has brought us!” He smiled feebly. Letting go of my arm, he laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. It seemed the conversation was over.
    “Bran, I’ve been wanting to ask you about something.” He opened an eye and blinked at me, looking exhausted. Now was not the time to quiz him, but I didn’t know when I’d have the chance again. “If your mother gave you her gifts, does that mean you have all her knowledge as well?”
    “She has told me our stories since I was a child,” he responded tiredly.
    Feeling a twinge of guilt for pushing him too far, I continued. “Well, she told me a few weeks ago that your family knew secrets about the revenants. And I was just wondering if you knew anything about what the bardia call wandering souls. That’s the state that Vincent is in now, since Violette destroyed his body. I wanted to know if there was any way—”
    I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Gaspard stuck his head in. “Excuse me, Kate, but you have a visitor.”
    “A visitor?” I asked, confused.
    The door swung forcefully open. Gaspard stepped aside and an elderly woman wearing a pink Chanel suit, four-inch heels, and a look of pure fury walked into the room. Lord help us all, Mamie was in La Maison.

SEVEN
    AS MY GRANDMOTHER STRODE INTO THE ROOM, I felt my two worlds collide. The fact that Georgia had been in on the secret for months—had visited La Maison several times—didn’t lessen the trauma of someone else I loved entering the dangerous universe of the revenants. Because of me. Now that Mamie was here, I felt responsible for her safety—which from now on was an impossibility; safety and revenants did not go together.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice panicky from both fear for my grandmother and fear of her.
    My grandmother’s gaze caught Bran’s battered form on the bed, and her eyes grew wider before she fixed me with a burning stare. “When I called your school to give you girls the day off to recover, I did not mean for you to run right back into the danger you so narrowly escaped yesterday. You left me a note that you were popping out and would ‘be back soon.’ Whatever happened during the hours you were away”—she nodded gravely toward Bran—“I take as a direct betrayal of my trust.”
    Over Mamie’s shoulder I saw Jean-Baptiste hurry into the room. Gaspard closed the door behind him. JB met my eyes and made a zipping motion over his mouth, shaking his head in warning. It was clear he wanted to do the talking.
    “ Ma chère madame ,” he began. Mamie whipped around to face him. He gave her a polite little bow straight from the eighteenth century, and she reciprocated with a tight nod. Underneath her expensive hairdo and prim suit, Mamie was a force to be reckoned with.
    But as I watched my grandmother, I realized that beneath her anger she was actually terrified. And then I remembered how frightened I was when I learned what Vincent was, and my heart went out to her. My grandmother had entered the monster’s lair . . . for me.
    “ Bonjour , Monsieur Grimod,” she said in a tight voice. “Excuse me for barging into