I Should Die

had a heightened sense of perception, that would explain it.”
    She smoothes her hair back, looking extremely pleased with herself. I want to tell her exactly what she can do with her ridiculous theory, but she isn’t done talking. And I need to hear it all.
    Folding her arms across her chest and tapping an index finger against her fight-toned bicep, she says, “And then there’s the all-important fact that the guérisseur Gwenhaël told my men, under great duress I admit, that the Champion was he who killed the numa leader. I knew Vincent possessed you to kill Lucien, but it was you who threw the knife.
    “Once I stopped focusing on Vincent and thought of you, it all clicked. And so you see, here we are. I’m not a guérisseur or a Seer so I can’t tell if you have the Champion’s fabled ‘star on fire’ halo. Therefore, I’ll just take my chances and destroy you once you’re fully animated. How do they say it now . . . no skin off my nose?” Realizing what she’s said, she rubs her amputated stub again and forces a smile. “And don’t forget, you offered yourself to me. You gave me the Champion’s full powers.”
    No , I think again. She has to be wrong . But I remain silent, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much she has shaken me. When I don’t respond, Violette stands and walks over to a table sitting next to the hearth and, leaning over, begins scribbling something in a notebook.
    I close my eyes and think about what she’s just told me. I don’t believe her. I can’t. How can I be the Champion? The Champion is some kind of undead superhero. Okay, so I fit one of those qualifications , I think, pain ripping through me as, once again, I acknowledge that I am . . . undead . A tear rolls down my cheek just identifying myself with that horrible word, but I fight to pull myself together. I have to think.
    Every time Bran talked about the Champion, he used the pronoun “he.” The prophecy he read us used the word “he.” That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Everyone seemed to think the Champion was a man. Wouldn’t Bran have said it differently if he knew I was the Champion? Not necessarily , I think. He might not have known. I wasn’t even a revenant then.
    And then I remember. It was immediately after the big event—when he touched Jean-Baptiste and became the VictorSeer—that he began regarding me strangely. I was always checking my hair around him, wondering what he was looking at. But what if it hadn’t been my hair he was focusing on? What if it had been my aura? It was a kind of weird squint , I think with dawning horror. If my aura is as bright as a “star on fire,” no wonder he squinted every time he looked my way.
    My thoughts begin racing, each realization stinging me like a crazed hornet. There was his insistence that the Champion wasn’t here yet. He didn’t even want to look at the other bardia to verify. It was because he thought it was me . There were the sideways glances when the subject of the Champion arose. And his willingness to let me visit the flame-finger archives.
    And then I recall his words when I returned from the cave with his books. “I’m glad you went,” he had said. “It could well be your only chance.” Why would he say that? Bearers of the signum bardia are allowed to enter. But revenants aren’t. He knew I was a latent revenant. And he knew I would soon be the Champion. Bran had known this whole time.
    Shock hits me like a tidal wave, roaring in my ears and sending me spinning and crashing in its wake. I lie there powerless to do anything but watch the girl who is determined to destroy me.
    “Any other questions?” she asks, snapping the notebook shut and slipping it into her jacket pocket.
    “What did you do with Vincent?”
    “He is of no value to me anymore,” she says testily. “I would have killed him along with you, but I didn’t want to risk your sacrifice. You offered your life for him. I wasn’t sure you would become a revenant if you failed to save his life. So I left him in the hotel.”
    I close my eyes in relief. He’s safe .
    “Yes, you rest,” says Violette, walking back to the bed and standing directly over me. “It’ll be at least another day before you regain your strength. Although, as you can see,” she says, glancing at the cords binding my body, “I’m not taking any chances.”
    She begins walking toward the door. “Violette?” I call, craning my head so I can see