Die Once More (10 page)

One morning, after studying maps of the Paris sewer systems side by side with diagrams of Manhattan subway, flood, and sewage tunnels, I notice Ava rubbing her eyes. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, my eyes are just burning from focusing for so long,” she says, raising her arms in a stretch and rolling her head from side to side.

“Have you seen the armory yet?” I ask.

“Only quickly when Kate gave me the house tour,” she says. “But a workout is exactly what I could use right now.”

“You should take advantage of having a European arms master at your disposal,” I say, bumping Gaspard with my elbow.

Gaspard rolls up an ancient map that he had been showing us and shakes his head. “Any time I get away from helping America's new Champion strategize for a potential underground offensive against the numa, or, as Ambrose so charmingly dubbed it, ‘Attack of the Mole People' . . .”

Ambrose fake-salutes and says, “Glad to contribute where I
can.”

“. . . I need to help Charlotte with the wedding,” Gaspard finishes.

Ambrose rubs his hands together. “I'm always up for a fight. I'll join you.” He stands and stretches his arms, cracking his neck and bouncing up and down on his toes.

As the three of us make our way down to the armory, Ambrose quizzes Ava on the type of weapons used by American revenants, and she explains the gun/sword combo. “Besides swords, the only weapon we really use is modified bow and arrow.”

“No crossbows? No battle-axes?” Ambrose asks. “How about scythes, maces, quarterstaffs?”

Ava shakes her head. “We have all sorts of specialized weapons in the Warehouse's armory, but I've never seen anyone use them. I wouldn't even know how to hold a few of them.”

Ambrose rubs his hands. “Then you, my American sister, are in for a treat.” I follow them down the stairs into the basement armory and show Ava where Kate and Charlotte keep their fighting gear. Ambrose rips off his shirt and pulls on a tight tank top over a pair of loose shorts. I would normally fight in just some drawstring karate pants, but I toss a soft gray T-shirt on top, knowing that Americans are a bit more sensitive to bared skin. And then I remember that Ava was a part of Warhol's Factory, and strip it back off.

Ambrose notices my wardrobe hesitation and winks. “You look better like that,” he fake-whispers.

And then Ava walks out, and we're both rooted to the spot.
Her hair is bundled up on the top of her head, and she wears the one-piece catsuit that Charlotte uses when there's a risk of getting sliced up.

Ambrose lets out a low whistle. “You are looking good, girl. And I'm saying that in a completely non-sleazy, I-love-my-fiancée kind of way.” Ava looks pleased. Her gaze swings to me.

I hold up my hands. “I could say the same thing, but since I don't have a fiancée to hide potential sleaziness behind, I won't risk anything beyond, ‘Why, Mademoiselle Whitefoot, you are looking extremely well today.'”

She bursts out laughing, and then, surveying my bare chest with a twinkle in her eye, says, “You are looking quite well yourself, Monsieur Marchenoir.”

I give her a low bow. Ambrose moans. “Come on, guys. Let's get this fight on the road.” And grabbing a quarterstaff from its pegs on the wall, he throws it to Ava, who catches it without batting an eye.

And for the next hour we spar, switching weapons from time to time to change things up. Though Ava hasn't used most of them, she follows Ambrose's and my examples and quickly catches on. The three of us are fighting, sweating, quipping, teasing, laughing, and I can't remember the last time that I have felt so good.

That night at dinner, Ambrose takes a chair next to Charlotte and, putting his arm around her, nods toward me. “Check out Jules,” he says.

“I know,” she says, and lays her head on his shoulder.

“What?” I ask.

She grins at me. “You look almost happy.”

Ava's eyes dart over to meet my own, and I feel my face redden. “Yeah, must be the fact that I'm back in Paris.”

“Told you he missed us,” Ambrose says, and pulls Charlotte to him in a powerful side-hug.

It is a beautiful wedding, held in the stained-glass jewel box that is La Sainte-Chapelle. Charlotte wears a vintage wedding gown from the 1940s, the era she was human. And Ambrose wears a custom-made tux, since not a shop in Paris had one big enough to fit him.

Charles has brushed his burgundy Mohawk down and even forgoes eyeliner in order to give his sister away. He is as radiant as the bride—his new life suits him well.

After blessing the wedding, the revenant priest steps aside and lets Gaspard officiate—which he does with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. And when he says to kiss the bride, Ambrose lets out a whoop and swings Charlotte around before planting the kiss of the century on her rosy lips.

There isn't a dry eye in the house.

On my way out, I spot Arthur and Georgia sharing a private moment behind a column in the lower chapel. Kate had told me they were on-again, off-again. This must be an on day.

Back at La Maison, the reception is in full swing, with Faust and Uta hitting the dance floor before anyone else has their jackets off. He picks her up and flips her around in some kind of
crazy swing number that I'd never imagined he could do. Faustino Molinaro is a never-ending surprise.

As the rest of the guests file into the ballroom, Ambrose lifts Charlotte up onto the dais and stands on the ground beneath her as she clinks her spoon on a champagne glass. She seems lit up from within, like there's a thousand-watt bulb beneath that creamy skin. This is everything she's ever wanted. For decades. The room falls silent, and everyone turns to face her.

“Ambrose and I said we weren't going to allow speeches. We've all known each other too long, and there are way too many incriminating stories that could surface.”

Laughter rolls over the crowd, and winks and nudges are exchanged.

“But I just want to take a moment to thank everyone for being here today. Welcome, kindred. I especially want to thank the members of La Maison . . . my house. Gaspard, Jules, Vincent . . . and Ambrose. You were already here when Jean-Baptiste recovered Charles's and my bodies and invited us to stay. You have been my fathers, my brothers, my world. I have never known better men than you. And now I am marrying one of you.”

“It's a done deal, baby,” Ambrose remarks, looking up at her with a wink.

“Finally!” Charlotte teases, nudging his broad shoulder with her hip. Everyone laughs.

She lifts her glass. “Thank you for joining us on this day where our joy is truly complete.
Santé!
”

“Santé!”
the crowd cheers, sipping their champagne in honor
of the happy couple, and as the music starts back up, people crowd onto the dance floor. I look around for Ava, who I had only briefly glimpsed at the wedding, since I had to be there early and was seated in the front row with Vincent, Kate, Charles, and Jeanne. She must have been one of the first to leave the chapel, because I didn't see her afterward.

But now, there she is across the room, wearing a full-length ruby-colored gown, her hair pulled back into an elegant updo. She is stunning. My heart and throat do this simultaneous squeeze-and-choke thing, and I can't breathe for a full second. Which is one second too long, because some dashing guy from Geneviève's house steps in, gives her this gallant and totally annoying bow, and sweeps her onto the dance floor.

“
HOW
'
S YOUR DANCE CARD LOOK?
”
SAYS THE
voice I know better than any other—it's been haunting my mind for months. And there is Kate, standing in front of me in her golden-auraed glory.

“Double-check your century, Kate,” I respond. “And stop stealing my lines.”

She gives me a sassy curtsy. I roll my eyes, and then, lunging, grab her around the waist and whisk her out onto the dance floor, making her laugh in delight.

“I've seen that dress before,” I say of her Asian-print silk gown.

“It's my birthday dress,” she replies.

“Ah, yes. The one Vincent had custom-made as a surprise for your sweet seventeenth.”

“The very one,” she says.

“That was a truly brilliant boyfriend move,” I comment.

“Yeah,” she says. “He's pretty good at those things.”

We dance in silence for a moment, and then I say softly, “I hope you know how lucky you are. How lucky you both are.”

She leans back to look at me, her face open with compassion. She doesn't need to say anything—we both know what the other is thinking. I measure the pain in my heart, and it is still there, but it is less. “I'm going to be okay,” I say.

“I know,” she replies, and lays her head on my shoulder. Other couples move around us, but for a few moments time stops and it's just the two of us, and my heart is calm and things are good.

And then Kate speaks and the magic is broken. “I've been spending a lot of time with Ava. She's pretty amazing, you know.”

I stop and stare at her. “You're not going to try that old pass-the-guy-whose-heart-you-broke-onto-someone-else-so-you-won't-feel-guilty routine, are you? Because that is so beneath you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Kate quips. She places her hands back on my shoulders and forces me to dance. “You're too smart for that.”

“I accept that compliment and beg you to stop talking before you say anything else that could come across as pitying or demeaning.”

“Deal,” says Kate, and throws her arms around my neck. The song is ending, and she gives me a hug. “We're going to miss you,” she says, and leaves me standing face-to-face with Ava, having craftily deposited me inches away.

I have no time to think. “Um, dance?” I ask.

“Lose your suave somewhere on the dance floor?” Ava asks, cracking a smile.

“Uh, yeah. I think Faust trampled it under those size twenties of his.”

She laughs. “Let's go.” She gives me her hand, and I lead her to a far corner of the room, away from the direction Kate wandered.

“You okay after that dance?” she asks, as I place one hand on her waist and grasp her hand in the other.

“Fighting form,” I respond. She doesn't push the point, and I'm grateful that she doesn't want to Talk, with a capital
T
.

We dance for a moment, and I'm just beginning to realize that I've actually got Ava
in my arms
for the very first time. I'm starting to enjoy it . . . immensely, when she says something. I try to focus. “What?” I ask, and point at the speakers. “I can't hear you. The music . . .”

She moves her lips closer to my ear—I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. “I've seen the way you are with your kindred. They all love you. Respect you. You seem so at home here—you
are
at home here. Are you sure you want to come back to New York?”

Oh God. She does want to Talk. Please, not here. Not now. I hold her to me for one more moment and then pull back and tap my ear. “It really is too loud. Do you want to go somewhere else?” I say, hoping she'll just drop the whole subject.

“Yes.”

I sigh. “Okay, follow me.” I take her hand and weave through the crowd. We head toward the front door and step outside to see the garden crowded with guests. Georgia and Arthur are sitting on the edge of the fountain, bodies entwined and lips locked.
God, do they ever give it a break?

“Back in,” I say, and lead her up the winding front staircase, down the hallway past the library, and up the second set of stairs.

“Are we going to your room?” she asks.

“No. Better,” I say, and passing my door, climb a few more steps and push open the trapdoor to the roof. It's pitch dark. I breathe a sigh of relief—no one else has had this idea—and I help her step out onto the dark roof before switching on the fairy lights.

“Oh, Jules!” she breathes, and raises her hands to her mouth, gazing around in wonder. Paris lies before us, lit up in all its nighttime magical glory. I smile. She's happy. I'm happy. If only it could last.

I open a cupboard near the door, pull out a few cushions and a blanket, and carry them over to a couch positioned at the edge of the roof that has the best view. “Milady?” I say, holding a hand out to her.

Speechless, she settles onto the couch, and I drape the blanket around her shoulders and sit down next to her.

“So . . . you were saying?”

She laughs, and takes a moment to reorganize her thoughts. “Right. Okay. I was saying . . . you seem so good here. Your kindred want you here. Are you sure you want to go back to New York tomorrow?”

“Yes, and I'm going to tell you why.”

Ava watches me, head cocked to one side, waiting to hear what I have to say. My heartbeat accelerates under the scrutiny of her gaze. Should I? Shouldn't I? Should I . . . oh hell . . .

“I have a reason. You see, there's this girl.”

“Girl?”

“Woman, rather, who I'm just getting to know. Who I would like to know better.”

“What's she like?” Ava asks, a broad smile spreading across her lips.

“You're fishing!” I say, pointing at her and narrowing my eyes.

“Innocent curiosity, I swear.” She makes the smile disappear and tries to look serious.

“Well, for one thing, she's drop-dead gorgeous and has the most interesting, unique look. A look that makes you want to keep on looking. Like your eyes are glued to her, and you can't rip them away.”

“Ripping glued eyes, got it,” she says.

“But I'm not the kind of guy who thinks that beauty's skin-deep. There's a lot more to her than meets the eye. You see, this girl's damaged”—Ava recoils slightly, and I put my hand up—“like most people who have lived through traumatic events. But she's taken that pain and done something beautiful with it. She let it make her stronger. And people love her for that.”