I Should Die

threads. “It was actually really nice. They had set out a whole welcome-to-America party for me, which kicked off as soon as the doctor sewed up my arm and lasted until I left this morning.”
    “I was out like a light,” I admitted. “That’s got to be one of the huge perks of zombiehood: no jet lag.”
    Jules smiled. A real Jules smile. It was nice to see.
    “All right, we need to move now, people, before the first employees arrive,” prompted Mr. Gold.
    “Joy,” remarked Jules drily. He stood and extended his good arm to help me up.
    I took my place on the stepladder and peered over the rim of the thymiaterion at Clay Vincent. Jules stood on my right, and Bran directly across from us while Papy readied himself with the torch. A nervous hush settled over our small group. Bran had spread his hands out, and Jules was just lifting the knife when I heard Vincent say, No!
    “What’s happening, Vincent?” I asked. Everyone froze.
    Violette’s pulling me back. I feel myself being tugged away from here.
    “Fight it, Vincent!” I urged.
    “What is it?” Mr. Gold asked.
    “Violette is trying to get him back!”
    “Is he still here?” yelled Papy.
    “Yes, but I can see him being pulled upward—though it seems he is resisting. We must proceed quickly,” said Bran, and spread his hands above the clay form.
    Opening the locket, I pulled the lock of hair from inside and stood there, wondering what I should do with it. Then, making a split-second decision, I pressed it securely into the side of the clay man’s shoulder with my thumb.
    I didn’t see Jules slit his arm a second time. I couldn’t watch. But there he was, bleeding profusely again on top of the golem, as I bent forward to blow lightly upon the face. I saw Bran reach up toward Vincent’s invisible-to-me aura. He made a motion like he was grasping it and pulling it down toward the clay man.
    Kate , Vincent’s voice came. I don’t know if I can fight  . . .
    His voice disappeared. “Is he still here?” I cried, looking wildly across the cup at Bran.
    Bran peered upward and shook his head. “No. He’s gone.”
    Papy lowered his torch. Mr. Gold stood next to the bucket of water, looking helpless. Jules lowered his bleeding arm to rest on the rim of the thymiaterion and raised his other hand to his forehead.
    I couldn’t believe it. We were so close to bringing Vincent back, and Violette chose this crucial moment to reclaim him. A hatred like I had never felt before set my entire body aflame. She would not do this. Violette would not take Vincent away from me. This would not be the end. Fury and shock from what had just happened forged together like iron in my chest. Fueled by something bigger and older than I—something primal—I commanded, “Come back, Vincent. Now! ” My voice echoed through the cavernous room.
    And then, so loudly it was like a megaphone positioned next to my ear, I heard, I’m back. But not for long. Do it quickly!
    “He’s returned! Go!” I shouted. Papy stepped forward and held the torch to the clay figure. As the air around it exploded into blue flames, Jules jumped back and I fell from the stepladder to the ground.
    “Vincent! Don’t let go!” I yelled, scrambling back to my feet. My heart pounding violently, I grabbed the side of the metal cup and heaved myself up to watch. The flames blazed higher, forming a giant fireball, which then erupted with a loud whooshing noise like a great wind, leaving tiny blue flames licking over and around the body like a paraffin burner.
    Bran stretched his hands tentatively toward the fire. “Cold. The flames are cold, like the ‘cooling flames’ in the inscription you found, Kate,” he said, looking up at me. “It must be working.”
    As he spoke, the edges of the clay man began shimmering, like air does in intense heat, and the lumpen form gradually became more manlike. “Something’s happening!” I cried. I was paralyzed by shock and hope. “Please let it work. Come back, Vincent. You have to come back,” I whispered, pleading.
    Red clay became olive-toned skin, and the bald head became waves of raven black hair. The face that Jules had carefully sculpted became a real nose and mouth and eyes, closed as if in sleep. But it lay there, still and unmoving, until, focusing on the air just above, Bran yelled, “Come, bardia spirit, inhabit this body!” He made one final sweeping gesture, as if pulling the aura downward, and touched his fingers to the