Until I Die

extremely hairy forearm. A tall man in a “Heck Yeah Cowboys” baseball cap looked down at me with an amused smile. “Well, hello there!” he said in a Texas accent.
“Sorry,” I blurted, and cast around for Georgia. I caught sight of her about thirty feet in front of me, being swept along by a crowd led by a tour guide waving an Italian flag. She had just begun to realize I was gone, and turned to look for me when the tour group surged and I lost her again.
Pushing my way out of the group of Americans, I followed Arthur’s path, turning the same corner that he had disappeared behind.
I was thrust into darkness as I came around the edge of the basilica onto a deserted stone patio to the side of the edifice. It took my eyes a second to adjust from the brilliant daylight to this sun-hidden courtyard that was empty of tourists and as quiet as a crypt.
The patio was large—the shape and size of a skating rink. Its outer edge bordered a precipice and was sided by iron guardrails to protect the monument’s visitors from the perilous drop. Hulking statues of saints and angels circled the patio, casting weird shadows in the half-light and creating a distinctly creepy atmosphere. Georgia was nowhere to be seen.
I blinked, looking for Arthur, and saw him nearby, hiding behind a statue. He was staring at some people who were half-concealed in the building’s dark shadows. Right in front of me was a larger-than-life figure of an avenging archangel, crouched with sword extended as it fought its invisible enemy. I took Arthur’s example and crept behind it, squinting out from under its sword-bearing arm at the figures across the terrace.
A jean-clad girl was speaking authoritatively to two large, menacing-looking men. With a chill, I recognized them as the numa from Papy’s gallery.
As the speaker gestured, her head turned slightly. My hand flew to my mouth to suppress a gasp. “No,” I whispered. What was Violette doing? She didn’t seem to be threatened by the numa. If anything, they seemed to be hanging on her every word.
I glanced over at Arthur. He was looking at the same scene I was, yet he was hiding. I didn’t understand.
And then—suddenly—I did.
As a wave of comprehension washed over me, I felt immediately and violently ill. I clutched my stomach and prayed that I wouldn’t vomit then and there.
Then a third man stepped forward from the shadows behind the church. It was the man I had seen Arthur talking to at La Palette. And now that I saw what he was wearing—a long fur coat that looked like it had been designed for a Renaissance lord in a costume drama—I knew where I had seen him before. He was the man between the tombs at Père Lachaise cemetery the day of Philippe’s funeral. I had been right to be afraid then. Because now, without a doubt, I could tell that the trick-of-light colorless thing going on in the air around him meant just one thing. He, too, was a numa.
He got down on one knee in front of the tiny revenant and, bowing his head, raised her hand to his lips. And just as Violette touched him lightly on the head, bidding him to rise, I saw someone sprint past me into the middle of the terrace. Blinded by the sudden change in light, she called, “Kate?”
I wanted to reach out and pull her to safety. I wanted to somehow warn her to run without giving her away. But it was too late. Because just then Violette turned and saw my sister.

THIRTY-SIX
     
    VIOLETTE CHARGED TOWARD GEORGIA, SEEM ingly propelled by fury alone.
I was momentarily frozen in place. My brain fought what my eyes said was true. It wasn’t supposed to be Violette meeting with the numa: Arthur was the traitor.
Puzzle pieces began fitting together in my mind. Violette’s fascination with Immortal Love and her frustration when she couldn’t get her hands on it. Soon after, revenant dwellings around Paris were ransacked by numa looking for … not documents but a book.
Another puzzle piece fell into place: The day after I replaced Gaspard’s book in his library, Papy’s copy—which must be read along with it to find the guérisseur —had been stolen. Someone had put the clues together and sent numa after Gwenhaël. And when they couldn’t find her, they had come after me with questions about the Champion. Now it was clear that Violette had been behind it all.
Why was she interested in the Champion? She had acted like the whole story was a stupid old fairy tale. Why did she even care?
Unless she believed it. It was