I Should Die

different activity. One had cut his arm and was bleeding into the tub, another was bending over the curled-up figure’s head, a third seemed to be casting a spell over it, and a fourth stood to the side holding a torch and a vase. They were obviously performing some sort of magical ritual, but I couldn’t imagine its purpose.
    Underneath the image was an inscription in Latin, and I was thrilled to discover that I could decipher a couple of the words. Argilla must mean “clay,” since the word was argile in French. And I knew that pulpa meant “flesh,” close to the French word for “octopus”—an animal made of flesh with no bones. Unable to translate the rest, I looked around for another scene to study. Just one more , I thought, starting to feel anxious about getting back to Vincent and the others before they went apoplectic with worry.
    My gaze fell upon a picture near the middle, probably because it was the most beautifully painted. Some guérisseur artists were obviously more talented than others. With most, the objective seemed to be getting the message across instead of demonstrating the artist’s skill. But this one could have been painted by Raphael or Michelangelo, the sumptuous beauty of the characters being this painter’s goal.
    In it, a group of numa with red auras stood across a small stream from another group of golden-aura bardia. One of the numa was wading through the clear flowing water as he crossed over to the bardia’s side. A female bardia stretched her hand out to him. The numa in the water had a bloodred halo, but unlike those of his kindred, his aura was laced with veins of gold. Is he some kind of crossbreed revenant? I wondered. Or maybe like the bayata, was he another supernatural being altogether? I had so much to learn—an idea that simultaneously thrilled and scared me. I couldn’t wait to find out more about Vincent’s kind, but was leery of what type of creepy things were waiting to be discovered along the way.
    As I hurried to scoop up the stack of books Bran had indicated and stow them carefully in my bag, I wondered about the things I had witnessed. How many other humans knew of this cave? Besides the actual guérisseurs , not many, I was sure. I felt awed—overwhelmed—by my inclusion in this group. Just a normal girl from Brooklyn standing in a magical cave underneath the bustling activity of one of the world’s major cities. A girl who is anxiously awaited by three undead guys outside the door of the cave , I remembered and, staring longingly back at the paintings I hadn’t had time to look at, I made a split-second decision. Grabbing my phone again, I lifted it to take a photo of the wall.
    I can study them back in the safety of my own room , I thought. But it wasn’t until I pressed the camera icon that I remembered, in a flash of panic, the magic protecting the cave. Would it incinerate my phone? Would it incinerate me ? When nothing happened, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed quickly toward the door.
    Picking up a tool that looked like a giant candle snuffer hanging by the door, I used it to extinguish one of the torches. As I moved toward the other, I noticed that this wall was painted in comic-strip style like the wall facing it. But, judging from the characters’ clothes, these paintings were the most recent; all from the last couple of centuries.
    I flicked on my flashlight before snuffing out the second torch. And as the flame began to die, I noticed the painting located just above the door. It was of a group of men in uniforms decorated with swastikas, standing in front of a giant map. In the middle of the group was a mustached man with slicked-down hair, who I recognized immediately. And just as the torch extinguished, I saw that the men around him—Hitler’s advisors—all had red haloes.

SEVENTEEN
    JEAN-BAPTISTE WAS WAITING FOR US AT THE door when we returned. “From your triumphant expression, I trust your mission was a success, Kate?” he asked anxiously.
    I patted my bag and smiled widely. “I’ve got the goods.”
    He breathed a sigh of relief. “Wonderful. Come this way. Bran and Gaspard are waiting in the library.”
    “We’re good too, JB,” Ambrose muttered, “thanks for asking.” He turned to Arthur. “How ’bout a workout?”
    Arthur shook his head. “Thought I’d do some research. Don’t you ever get tired of fighting?”
    “Don’t you ever get tired of being an egghead?” Ambrose riposted, but when Arthur