I Should Die

He grabs his cane out of an umbrella stand and taps Vincent’s leg gently with it. Vincent pauses and then steps aside. JB walks past us into the foyer and stops under the elephantine chandelier.
    “But I should not be here”—the bardia’s former leader continues—“in the middle of a black and white war, diluting the good side with my grayness. The fact that my intentions were good doesn’t excuse the sin I committed to win my kindred’s protection. And in the end, it did no good. Gaspard and I must go. Au revoir ,” he says, and steps out the door.
    This feels wrong. Vincent doesn’t want them to leave, and neither do I. “Wait,” I call. Jean-Baptiste hesitates. “I want you to stay,” I say. He turns and peers at me. “I don’t agree that it would be better for your kindred that you go,” I continue. “You’ve been their leader for centuries, and now they”—I hesitate and then, taking Vincent’s hand, continue—“ we are facing a great danger. Stay and help us.”
    “My dear, haven’t you been listening to me?” Jean-Baptiste says sadly. With one finger, he adjusts the ascot at his neck, as if it’s suddenly tightened. “With what I have done, it is better that I not lead my kindred into battle.”
    “You don’t have to lead them,” Vincent interjects, letting go of my hand and stepping toward JB. “You named me leader and I accepted the role. But just because you aren’t leading doesn’t mean you can’t stay and stand with us against Violette. I want you to stay. We want you to stay.”
    The stiffness in Jean-Baptiste’s pose loosens a little, and sighing, he walks over and places his hand on Vincent’s arm. “My boy, I will consider. Give me an hour or two to think about things.”
    Vincent nods solemnly, and Jean-Baptiste turns and walks out the door.
    À bientôt , Gaspard says to me.
    “I hope to see you soon,” I respond. Vincent closes the door, and I turn to face my family. My sister wrinkles her nose. “What, Georgia?” I ask.
    “I don’t want to ruin the gravity of the moment, or anything, but . . .” She pauses and glances at my grandparents, bracing herself for their disapproval. “If you don’t take a shower stat I just may puke. Eau de zombie is not a good scent for you.” I try not to laugh and kind of hiccup instead, and finally Georgia starts to smile.
    Papy shakes his head. And suddenly in the place of my strong, capable grandfather stands a tired old man. He gives me a hug, patting me on the back, and then withdraws. “I love you, Kate, and I am indescribably relieved that you are not gone forever. But I can’t talk about what has happened to you—or what will be happening. You’ll just have to excuse me. Give me time.”
    “Let’s go to the library, Papy,” Georgia says, and putting an arm around his shoulders, she leads him up the stairs.
    Mamie waits until they’ve disappeared before she speaks. Tenderly touching my face as if reassuring herself that I’m actually here, she says, “All I want to do right now is take you home and lock the doors and stay inside for the next few weeks protecting you from the world. But I realize that that isn’t our reality anymore. We can’t even go home. In fact, from what Bran tells us, you will be the one protecting us.”
    “Mamie, I promise I won’t do anything unnecessarily . . .”
    “Shh, Katya. Stop right there.” She gives me a sad look. “Like your Papy, I don’t want to think about it either. The idea of your being in danger is one I can’t face. But you need to know that we support you and love you just the same as we did before. We’ll figure out the details later.”
    She gives my cheek a firm kiss before releasing me. “Jeanne has promised me tea,” she says simply, and heads through the door into the back hallway.
    “Are you okay?” Vincent asks, now that we’re alone. He is being overly careful, waiting for me to make a move. Watching to see what I want.
    I hold out my hand and pull him out of the wide-open foyer into the privacy of the sitting room and close the door behind us.
    He strokes my matted hair with his fingers and looks me up and down. “Charlotte’s assembling everyone for a meeting, and you and I both need to be there. Not that I don’t think you look beautiful caked in mud,” he says, smiling, “but . . . before you see everyone you might want to take that shower your sister suggested.”
    “Eau de zombie?” I ask with a smile.
    “You