I Should Die

powers.
    And what if I am the Champion? What was it that Vincent told me . . . besides the “anterior powers” that Violette had described. Strength. Endurance. I wonder if I have superpowers. I strain against the bonds again and nothing happens. They don’t snap like threads. Okay . . . I’m not the Hulk. I can only hope the endurance part is right. Because if not, being tied to this bed is going to drive me insane.
    As the sun outside the window reaches the zenith— midday , I think—my desperation grows. Violette said that my strength would be back in a day. I have to get out of here before then. More than my fear of being killed again is my determination not to be her key to becoming a Champion-fueled supervillain and wiping out the bardia.
    I remember the story about that numa who absorbed the Indian Champion’s power and the destruction he managed to wreak before he was stopped. Violette doesn’t need any more persuasion to tempt people to follow her. And add, I’m just guessing, more than double a revenant’s strength, endurance, and all that, she could have Paris under her control in no time at all. Not to be comic-book-hero dramatic, but if I have the fate of Paris . . . and eventually France or even beyond . . . resting on my shoulders, I better the hell find a way to get out of here.
    Louis is back, doing the whole silent nursemaid routine once again. But this time, I’m determined to get him to talk.
    “I know you’re not supposed to speak to me. But I’m guessing you’re not much younger than I am. And I’m also guessing you might not want to be here.”
    I watch the practiced blankness of his expression drop for a second, as his eyes meet mine, and then he puts the mask back on and continues to feed me. But I have seen what I was looking for: sadness. Despair.
    I swallow the bite of apple he’s feeding me and think of what to say. Where are those supernatural powers of persuasion when I need them? I decide to tell the truth. “I never asked for this, Louis. I don’t want to be the Champion. I don’t even want to be a revenant. I just want to go back to being a normal human girl and never see that scary medieval freak again.”
    Louis freezes, not knowing what to do. My anger seems to make sense to him, but my honesty leaves him confused. I can see that what I said touched something in him.
    Standing, he walks to the door and shuts it carefully, and then comes back to sit next to me. “She doesn’t want me to talk to you,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to tell her the second I think you’re trying to persuade me to help you.”
    “Well, I guess that’s normal if she believes I have enhanced powers of persuasion,” I say. “She must trust you a lot to leave you alone with me.”
    “Trust?” he guffaws. “Why do you think she’s here on this boat, never more than a few yards away from you?”
    My nose is running, and the one thing I want more than anything else in the world is a Kleenex. I sniff a few times, trying to wipe my nose on my shoulder, and Louis jumps up to get a towel and dabs at my face.
    “Thanks,” I say. And then something occurs to me. “Back in the hotel room . . . why did you apologize when you grabbed me from behind?” I ask as he folds the towel and places it on a side table.
    He watches me from across the room. Deciding. Then squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he rubs his forehead worriedly. “I was almost fourteen when I died—just a few months ago,” he says in a voice so tight it sounds like his throat will burst.
    Exhaling, he walks over to me. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. Okay, yes, I did. But I was just temporarily . . . insane I guess. I hated the guy so much for what he had done to us and my mother.” He shudders and shakes his head. That’s all he’s going to say about his past.
    “I’m just . . . I’m sorry about all of this. I don’t want to be this way. She found me and made me her favorite, and all I want to do is die. But that’s not even possible for me anymore.”
    I don’t know what to say.
    “I have to go,” he says, and begins to leave the room.
    “Wait!”
    “What?” he asks, turning to me.
    “Thanks.”
    “For what?” He looks suspicious.
    “For talking to me. For wiping my nose. Just . . . thanks.”
    “I didn’t do anything,” he says, narrowing his eyes. And turning, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
    I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Louis is like Violette. A