I Should Die

asleep. Ambrose saw it, and his features flooded with compassion. “It’s been a long day,” he said. Carefully avoiding my hurt shoulder, he pulled me into a big American bear hug. And thank God for it. Sometimes those French cheek-kisses just weren’t enough.
    Releasing me, Ambrose cleared his throat loudly and rubbed his hands together as if he could squish our grief between his palms. “Okay, little sis,” he said. “Call you in the morning.” And he was off.
    Exhausted, I stumbled up the stairs, my thoughts racing with a million different scenarios of what could be going on in the Loire Valley castle. My stomach clenched painfully as I thought—and then tried not to think—of Vincent’s ghost bound to a freshly mutilated Violette. The image made me sick.
    I had to do something. My thoughts returned to Bran. As a guérisseur to the revenants, he was the only one who might know more than the bardia about their arcane rites. He might actually hold the key to what was happening. I’ll call him again in the morning , I thought as I opened the door.
    I didn’t realize I was walking straight into an ambush. My sister and grandmother waited in the sitting room: Georgia snorting as she awoke from where she was draped across one of the couches, and Mamie leaping up from her armchair. She took one look at my face and said, “Okay, girls. Do you want to tell me what this is about? Georgia, you claim that a stranger beat you up, and, Katya, you come home with red, swollen eyes at two a.m. on a school night.”
    Ignoring Mamie, Georgia crossed the room in a flash and took me by the wrists. Her bruised face was a rainbow of sickening yellows, reds, and purples, one cheek swollen out of proportion. “Did they find him in time?” she whispered.
    I shook my head. “No.” And the feelings I had been pushing away since Vincent’s voice disappeared over the river—the despair I kept trying to shove down over the last two hours in order to function, to string my words together and put one foot in front of the other—careened back up to the surface. “Oh my God, Georgia.” I choked and coughed on my tears as she wrapped me in her arms. “He’s gone. He’s really gone.” I leaned my head on her shoulder and began to weep.
    “Let’s go,” Mamie said softly, and shooing us both out of the foyer, directed us down the hallway into my bedroom. Still crying, I peeled off my clothes and pulled on some pajamas. And as Mamie and Georgia settled on either side of me on my bed, it felt like we had time-traveled straight back to the previous summer when I had resolved not to see Vincent again: me sobbing; my grandmother and sister comforting. Only this was a million times worse. Last time it was a breakup, heart wrenching but reversible. This time it was a good-bye. It was forever.
    I bent over double and sobbed into my folded arms as they rubbed my back and smoothed my hair. When my tears finally slowed, Mamie asked, “Are you going to tell me or not?”
    “What have you already told her?” I asked Georgia, who was gently massaging her bruised jaw.
    “All I said was that something bad had happened and we needed to be ready to support you when you got home,” she responded, glancing cautiously at my grandmother.
    “What is it, Katya?” Mamie insisted. “You act like someone just died.” Another sob bubbled up from my chest, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from full-out weeping all over again. My grandmother’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
    “We have to tell her, Katie-Bean,” Georgia said. “Papy knows already. And you’re going to need me and Mamie for support.”
    “Speak,” Mamie commanded softly, and I began. At the beginning.
    The next half hour was spent revealing the story to my grandmother, slowly and undramatically, for the least possible shock value. Mamie’s expression was wary. She knew I was building up to something bad. But when I got to the point where I discovered what Vincent and his kindred were, she raised her hand to stop me. “That’s impossible,” she said, as if it were the end of the discussion. “You girls have both gone insane if you actually believe something like that.”
    “Papy believes it, Mamie,” I said. “It was the reason he told me I couldn’t see Vincent again.”
    “He did what?” my grandmother exclaimed. “When did this happen?”
    “Yesterday.”
    She thought for a moment. “That must be why he came to bed so late and was up so