I Should Die

barely any furniture. Stone pedestals held ancient pottery and metal objects: A Greek mask in gold. A bronze Roman helmet. A finely sculpted marble hand the size of a refrigerator. I had seen things like this in museums, protected under heavy glass. But here they were within arm’s reach, tastefully arranged under gallery lighting that made them glow like jewels.
    Papy’s sharp intake of breath indicated that he was just as impressed as I was. Even Jules straightened a bit as he took his hands out of his pockets and went up to touch the exquisitely carved marble shoulder of a nymph. Bran just stood gawking with his regular astounded look, his magnified eyes taking in every inch of the room.
    The door opened again, and in stepped a young blond-haired, blue-eyed man in a white suit. He bowed slightly. “Theodore Gold,” he said.
    “But you’re the doorman!” I exclaimed. He was barely recognizable without the uniform and hat. The perfect disguise , I thought. No one looks a doorman in the face.
    “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” the man said with upper-class, posh-sounding diction that sounded nothing like the strong Jersey accent he had assumed as the doorman. “I value my privacy, and prefer not to depend on others for security. I would rather screen my own guests than risk the outcome of someone else’s error. Although you had a revenant with you”—he nodded toward Jules—“he could have been brought here under duress, used as a hostage if you wanted to get to me.”
    “I take it you are Jules,” he said, greeting him with European cheek-kisses. “Welcome, kindred.”
    “I’m Kate,” I said, and held out my hand for an American-to-American shake. Mr. Gold gave me a warm smile, and to my relief didn’t ask for a clarification of why I was there. I didn’t really feel like launching into an I’m-the-wandering-soul’s-girlfriend conversation.
    Bran was next. “Your tattoo tells me that you are the healer Jean-Baptiste spoke of. I have read of your kind. It is truly an honor to meet you.”
    He turned to my grandfather. “You must be Monsieur Mercier. Gaspard phoned to inform me of your—and your granddaughter’s—connection to the Paris kindred.” So, he knew.
    That’s one less thing to explain , Vincent said to me.
    “You read my mind,” I whispered back.
    “I am Antoine Mercier,” my grandfather confirmed in his beautifully accented English. He peered at the revenant with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “But are you Theodore Gold IV? The Theodore Gold? Author of The Fall of Byzantium ?”
    The man smiled. “Yes, that was my work.”
    Judging from Papy’s expression, he might as well have just met the pope. “But you are so young! I am in awe that I am actually meeting you. Your grandfather’s book on Roman-era pottery is like my own personal bible.”
    Amusement flashed across Theodore Gold’s face. “Actually, Theodore Gold Junior was also me. As was Theodore Senior. I do try to change my writing style each time to make the whole necessary charade a little more convincing.”
    Papy just stood there gaping.
    Mr. Gold laughed and patted Papy on the shoulder. “Well, I am honored to have fooled someone as well versed in the field as yourself, Monsieur Mercier.”
    My completely unflappable grandfather was still rooted to his spot. “A revenant,” he said. “There is only one Theodore Gold. The whole dynasty of eminent antiquity experts is . . . one person. And you are the G. J. Caesar I have been selling pieces to for the last few decades?”
    “I think I may have actually bought a piece from you before that under Theo Gold Junior’s alias, Mark Aurelius, before I passed the collection down to myself,” Theodore pointed out helpfully.
    “May I sit down?” Papy asked, the color having drained from his face.
    “Please,” said Mr. Gold, gesturing toward a couch. Set before it was a low table with bottles of sparkling water and a platter of mini-cheesecakes.
    “I wasn’t sure if you ate on the plane,” he commented as we all sat. “Now, we have much to talk about. May I guess that the volant revenant I sense is the bardia Vincent that Jean-Baptiste mentioned?” He waited and then nodded his head. “Good. So from what I am told, you are looking for a giant thymiaterion with instructional symbols engraved into the stem.”
    Bran explained about his family’s records, and retrieving the book from his bag, he read the passage aloud.
    Mr. Gold looked