I Should Die

was a foregone conclusion that he would one day become leader. But so quickly? And I hadn’t even considered that Charlotte might be next in line of bardia hierarchy.
    “Charlotte?” I asked, glancing at Ambrose, who stood blocking the door with his massive frame. He cracked his knuckles and unleashed a sly smile.
    “Well, it wasn’t going to be me. I like to pick fights, which unless you’re Attila the Hun isn’t considered the healthiest leadership characteristic.”
    Turning back to Vincent, I asked, “Are you okay with this?”
    His expression was troubled. “I have no choice,” he responded. “Someone must begin assembling our troops. If Violette hears about the sudden change in command, she’ll take the opportunity to strike before we can get ourselves organized. And we’ve just gotten word of where she is, so the time to act is now.”
    “What can I do?”
    “Keep the details to yourself. I have only told our Paris kindred that JB chose to leave. And Kate . . . please stay close. Not only do I feel better knowing you’re within the safety of these walls, but just having you nearby gives me more confidence.” These last words were in an almost-whisper.
    As I watched him, my heart felt like it was expanding—blowing up like a balloon. I brushed his rough, stubbly cheek with my fingertips. “You were made for this, Vincent,” I said. “Champion or not, you will have everyone’s support. I’ve seen how the others respect you, and they will follow you to the very end.”
    Vincent smiled ruefully. “Okay, Ambrose, you can tell everyone to come in,” he said.
    A dozen or so of Paris’s most important bardia filed in—a fraction of the people I had seen downstairs—and sat in rows of chairs before the library’s fireplace. Vincent and Charlotte took two chairs facing them, and I grabbed a comfy leather club chair in the back.
    Vincent briefed everyone, asked the revenants to call up every contact they had, and ordered them to arm themselves and wait at the ready. I almost choked when he explained that Violette had been spotted coming and going from the Crillon Hotel for the last few days. Trust her to choose the place where heads of state and movie stars stay as her headquarters. She wasn’t about to join her minions in hiding out in the catacombs or caves under Montmartre or, as we now knew, JB’s protected residences throughout Paris.
    Vincent called upon one of the revenants to speak. The woman reported that she had news from Bordeaux that the numa had emptied from the city and were said to have headed to Paris. Others spoke up with similar news from other French cities, confirming what we had heard while we were in New York.
    “Violette is obviously trying to force things to a head,” said Charlotte, speaking for the first time. Although she was dressed in her regular tomboyish jeans and T-shirt, she had tied her blond hair back into a chignon, making her look older than her fifteen years.
    “It isn’t surprising. This is the Third Age that the prophecy specified—in fact, over a century has passed since it began,” said Bran, who I hadn’t noticed sitting on the far side of the group. “It is high time for the Champion to manifest. He will come, whether Violette orchestrates a situation that necessitates him to appear, or whether he is already here.”
    “What does your prophecy say?” asked Charlotte.
    “I compared my text with Gaspard’s: the bardia’s version and that of the flame-fingers are basically the same.” He scrabbled through his book, lifted it a couple of inches from his eyes, and read:
     
In the Third Age, humankind’s atrocities will be such that brother will betray brother and numa will outnumber bardia and a preponderance of wars will darken the world of men. In this time a bardia will arise in Gaul who will be a leader amongst his kind.
He will possess anterior powers of perception, persuasion, and communication and preternatural levels of endurance and strength. His aura will blaze like a star on fire. He will lead his kind to victory against the numa and they will be conquered. This will usher in the Fourth Age, which will be an era of peace before the clouds of hatred once again gather over the earth.
     
    The revenants began whispering between themselves. “It sure sounds like you, bro,” remarked Ambrose from his position by the door.
    “Our Monsieur Tândorn has assured me that that honor is not mine,” Vincent responded, and then