I Should Die

looked hurt, he laughed and mock-punched him in the arm. “Just kidding,” he said. “I love your books. Especially that one with the guy. And the girl. Yeah, that book was great,” and he walked off toward the armory.
    “Do you need me, or can I check in with you once Bran’s had time to look through the books?” Arthur asked Jean-Baptiste.
    “I’m sure we’ll be calling on your expertise very soon,” JB said, excusing him.
    “See you later,” Arthur said, tucking his hair behind his ear and giving me a wink before wandering off toward his room.
    “How was your visit to the archives?” JB asked eagerly as we walked up the stairs. “Did you see them too, Vincent?” he asked, and then stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. Guarded by guérisseur magic. How fascinating. Kate, what did you think of them?”
    “The place was amazing,” I responded. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. I feel truly lucky to have been there.”
    “You are truly lucky to have been there,” he said wistfully. The fact that a mystical treasure trove of supernatural history existed a half hour’s walk from where he lived—one that he would never be able to see—seemed to be eating JB up. And I was sure Gaspard felt the same. Once again, I was awed that Bran trusted me enough to send me on such an important errand.
    Bran and Gaspard were ensconced in a corner of the library, deep in conversation. They turned as they heard us enter. “Kate,” both said at once, and Bran said, “And Vincent,” looking at a space so close to me I might as well have two heads.
    I pulled the stack of books from my bag and set them on the table before the men. Bran’s face lit up, as he ran his fingers lovingly over the cover of the top one. “I’ve never seen them all in the same place, outside the archives. My mother used to bring them home one by one to read them to me. And the only time I visited—just a couple of days ago—I was otherwise occupied.” He suddenly looked sad.
    “I saw your mother’s tomb,” I said softly, pulling a chair to the table and sitting beside him. “It was beautiful.”
    “Thank you, child,” Bran replied, looking consoled. “I’m glad you went. It could well be your only chance.”
    “You never visited your family’s archives before this week?” Jean-Baptiste asked, astounded.
    “No. Only the active guérisseur in the family is allowed within. That is why my mother brought the books to me, one at a time, as is the custom.” He glanced at the volumes. “I figured that today was a day for breaking rules.”
    “Who actually wrote these volumes?” asked Gaspard. He appeared to be using superhuman restraint to resist leaping upon the books and devouring their contents.
    “My ancestors,” Bran replied. “The guérisseurs in my family have been wielding their art for many generations. Although the active Tândorn guérisseur has maintained a continual presence in Saint-Ouen since medieval times, the nonpracticing rest of our clan lived in Brittany and were farmers.
    “Like most peasants at the time, my ancestors were illiterate. They passed their stories from generation to generation, memorizing volumes full of accounts of their dealings. In the nineteenth century, the first Tândorn who could write took it upon herself to copy out the family’s oral history. Three of these books”—he nodded toward the volumes—“were written by her. There have only been seven or eight guérisseurs since her, and they added their knowledge to the last two books.”
    He shuffled through the stack and pulled out one of the oldest-looking volumes.
    “This is the one I remember containing the information the ancient one seeks: they mention a Vic . . . Champion-to-conqueror power transfer. This is an account from a foreign source, of course. As you know, there has never been a Champion in France.”
    Gaspard leaned toward me and added, “Champions have appeared throughout history in other spots of the globe. Whenever the threat of numa has grown too great in an area, a Champion seems to arise.”
    Turning the pages slowly and scanning each one, Bran stopped at a passage filled with tiny scrawl in brown ink that looked practically illegible from my vantage point. “Yes, here we are. An account from a guérisseur who had traveled with a caravan from India and met one of my ancestors.”
    “Stop looking into the future, Vincent,” Jean-Baptiste said. “Why on earth would it scare