I Should Die

grandmother, and satisfied, she turned to leave. A second later we heard her bedroom door open and shut with a slam. Her voice was audible even through the closed door. “Yes, I can see that you’re asleep, Antoine. But you had better wake yourself up, because we have some talking to do.”
    Georgia and I looked at each other, and even through my tears, I couldn’t help but smile.

FOUR
    MY SLEEP WAS SO LIGHT I HEARD EACH CREAK OF our ancient building and every car that drove by on the rue du Bac. And even when my mind slipped off into a nostalgia-steeped dream about Brooklyn and my parents, I was halfway listening for Vincent’s voice. When I awoke, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all, but the clock read eleven a.m. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, unable—no, unwilling—to move.
    It seemed like the events of the previous day had happened in another lifetime to another girl. But barely twenty-four hours ago my sister and I had faced off with Violette on top of Montmartre. This time yesterday we had discovered her plan to wield her position as leader of the numa to overthrow France’s revenants, using Vincent to accomplish her goal.
    She had misled him into following the Dark Way. He had spent a couple of months absorbing the malevolent energy of the numa he killed so that he could withstand the urge to die. For me. It had weakened him to the point that Violette could have easily captured and killed him, if he hadn’t preempted her move by charging headfirst into our skirmish and plunging to his death off a precipice. Death for Vincent wasn’t permanent. But having his body incinerated was.
    A compartment inside my heart that had gradually, over the last nine months, become a huge Vincent-shaped space was suddenly and violently empty. And the rest of my heart’s contents—my love for my parents, my sister, my grandparents, my passions for art and books and film—stood cautiously aside, refusing to crowd their way into the hollow space left by my love’s disappearance. How could anything—or anyone—replace him?
    I was done crying. I could feel it. And as I lay there, I felt a fiery determination begin to fill the void. A resolve to make sure that what was left of Vincent—his “wandering soul,” as Gaspard had called it—would be safe.
    I sat up cautiously, wincing as I felt a dual pain in the middle and upper part of my chest: grief and my cracked collarbone, both compliments of Violette. Reaching for my cell phone, I saw I had received a text from Ambrose not even a half hour ago. I eagerly clicked to see it, but my heart fell when I saw the content.
     
Just checking in. No news. Jules still at castle trying to see Vin. Hang in there, K-L.
     
    I was about to put the phone back down when I noticed that there had been a call during the night with no message left. I recognized the number. It was Bran’s.
    I was up and out of bed in an instant. I stood bouncing nervously on my toes as I phoned him back and was fed directly into his voice mail. “Bran, it’s Kate. I saw that you called last night. Call me back.”
    I tightened the Ace bandage the doctor had given me and, after checking the kitchen and finding a note from Mamie, went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Leaning forward into the mirror, I gently touched the swollen flesh beneath my eyes. Pulling out a concealer stick, I went to work to make myself look normal. A couple of minutes later, I was tiptoeing into Georgia’s bedroom where I stood watching her sprawled, snoring form before poking her gently.
    “Georgia. Get up.”
    “Wha . . . Goway,” she mumbled, opening one eye before pulling the pillow securely over her head.
    “Georgia, it’s almost noon. Papy’s at his gallery and Mamie went out. I need you to come somewhere with me. But we have to leave before she gets back, or she’ll want to know where we’re going.”
    She just lay there, hiding as I poked again. Finally she sat up and tossed the pillow to the floor. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you see I’m grievously injured?” Eyes still closed, she lifted her chin to show her face. Her multicolored bruises had now consolidated into half-moons of deep purple and black under her eyes and one cheek was swollen like an apple. My sister looked like a boxer post-knockout. Or a hit-and-run raccoon.
    My heart tugged seeing her so banged up, but I knew her injuries were just surface deep. And there were more important issues at stake.