Die Once More (6 page)

Ambrose grabs an overstuffed suitcase—Gold has sent gifts for the couple and books for Gaspard. I pick up my own bag and reach for Ava's.

“I've got it,” she says crisply, and, taking the bag from me, follows Ambrose and Faust out the door.

Charlotte raises her eyebrows at me and whispers, “Are all New York girls tough like her?”

I put my arm around her, bury my nose in her hair, and breathe in that spring-fresh Charlotte smell. My sister. My kindred. “I don't know about tough,” I say, “but they're scary as hell.”

We pull up to La Maison. The high walls and solid metal entry gates block the view of what lies inside. Then Ambrose buzzes them open, and it's like we're driving into a fairyland. The garden's trees are decorated with tiny glimmering lights, and white and green garlands have been hung atop the massive double front doors.

“Welcome to Wedding Disney,” Ambrose jokes, but his expression is one of pure enjoyment. He parks the car next to the fountain, where someone has crowned the angel statue with a flowered head-wreath.

“There's still almost two weeks till the wedding,” I say, gesturing at a newly built pagoda with a mountain of chairs stacked inside.

“They got started a month ago. It's mainly Kate and Gaspard going crazy with the decorations, although he pretends he's not as excited as he is,” says Ambrose, throwing a love-struck glance toward Charlotte, who is beaming.

I clap him on the back. “Man, I'm really happy for you,” I say, and mean it with all my heart. Ambrose and Charlotte found love. Like Vincent and Kate. I never thought I'd say it but they . . . they are the lucky ones.

The doors fly open, and Jeanne bursts through, arms wide, heading straight for me.
“Mon petit Jules,”
she cries. “You have come back.”

“Just for the wedding,” I say, but can't help melting in her maternal arms. Jeanne is the one human presence in La Maison. Her grandmother was the housekeeper when I arrived, and then her mother cared for us as if we were her own. But it is Jeanne who stole my heart. Who acts like a mother hen although I'm a half century older than her.

“You left without saying good-bye,” she scolds, and then, when I can't find an easy reply, gives me a look of pity that suggests that she knows exactly why I've stayed away. She's probably known this whole time.

She lowers her voice, although no one is listening. “I had
her
go run some errands. That will give you some time to get settled before you have to see her,” she confides.

Yep. She's known this whole time.

“Thank you,” I respond, not even pretending that I don't know what she's talking about.

Jeanne nods with satisfaction. She knows that I know that she knows. Which means she can take care of me. Which is exactly what she wants.

Charlotte is leading Ava and Faust into the house, and I follow. Jeanne bustles in behind us, organizing everyone. “Jules, dear, you have your old room, and Mademoiselle Whitefoot and Monsieur Molinaro can stay in the east wing,” she instructs.

Gaspard appears at the top of the double stairway, wearing an ancient silk waistcoat and a cotton shirt with enormous open cuffs over a pair of high-waisted dress pants. “Jeanne, I really don't think period dress is necessary except for the bride and groom,” he calls, as he fiddles with a cufflink. And then he looks up and sees us.

His crazy gray-threaded black hair sticks up as if electrified—as per norm—and an uncharacteristic broad smile spreads across his face. “You're here,” he says to me, and makes his way down the stairs. “We didn't expect you for another half hour. Traffic must have been light.”

“No, but Ambrose was driving,” quips Charlotte, provoking a stranglehold bear hug from her fiancé.

“You must be Mademoiselle Whitefoot,” says Gaspard, holding a hand out to Ava. But I miss the rest of that introduction, because in from the next room walks Vincent. And his eyes are fixed on me. There's an expression on his face that I can't read, and am not sure I want to. Anger? Disappointment? Betrayal?

Although we spoke briefly on the battlefield, there were other things vying for our attention. Like swinging swords. And flying
arrows. I said good-bye when I left. Told him I couldn't stay. But there was blood on our skin and ash on our faces, and I didn't even look him in the eye.

No, the last time we talked—truly communicated—was at the airport in New York. When I told him I was in love with his girlfriend and that it was tearing me apart to see them together. I admitted to my disloyalty. And then abandoned him.

Ignoring the others, he walks straight up to me, eyes burning, and I think for a moment that he's going to hit me. Punch me right in the face. But instead he grabs me and wraps me in his arms, squeezing the breath out of me. And speaking quietly enough that the others can't hear he says, “All's forgotten. There's nothing left to say. I'm just glad you're back. We missed you. All of us.”

WALKING INTO MY ROOM IS LIKE TRAVELING
back in time. It's like nothing ever happened to drive me away. I breathe in the paper-and-ink smell of my workspace and realize how much I've missed my home. I brush my fingertips over my drafting table and know how much I love my kindred. I belong here, not in New York City.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I think, as I stretch out on my time-worn couch in the middle of my attic room. Surely this thing with Kate isn't traumatic enough to keep me from all of this. My mind wanders and I begin to relax, cocooned in the safety of the familiar surroundings.

And then there is a knock on the door and she walks in. And all those thoughts disappear like smoke in a gust of wind, and the full-on pain hits me square in the chest.

She is ravishing. There is a wild look to her now that she is undead. The look all bardia have, the one that attracts humans, that makes them lay their lives in our hands. It's a complete lack
of fear of death. A recklessness coming from knowing we are almost impossible to destroy. And it has turned Kate's natural loveliness into a savage beauty. The golden bardia aura surrounding her amplifies the effect, and my heart has no chance. I am once again lost.

“I'm sorry to barge in on you,” she says, and her voice hasn't changed and she is once again the Kate I knew.

I prop up on my elbows and say, “That's okay. Come in,” but immediately regret it. I want to see her, but I need her to leave. She sees the struggle in my eyes, and then looks down at the couch—the historic couch, where for a couple of wild, passionate moments she was mine—and her face turns red.

“I didn't try to contact you because I thought you didn't want it,” she says.

There's no correct response to that, so I watch her, silent.

“But now that you're here, I was hoping we could talk,” she says, still standing in the doorway. She waits, and I have to say something.

“Okay, let's talk.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart is beating a million miles an hour, and I'm having a hard time breathing. “Let me just open a window.” I get up off the damned couch, throw open a couple of windows, and, returning to the rug in the middle of the floor, sit down on it, cross-legged. I motion for her to sit across from me, and she does.

I wait for her to speak, trying to look her in the eyes without flinching. Those eyes. My chest hurts.

“I want to apologize,” she begins.

“You don't have to—” I say, but she holds a hand up to stop me.

“I never knew,” she says. “I saw how you were with other girls, and I thought I was the same. A harmless flirtation. A bit of fun. I thought you did the things you did and said the things you said just to make me feel good—to get a reaction—not because you meant them.”

“That's how it started,” I say honestly. She's watching me with sad eyes, and I have to look away. I swing my gaze to the ceiling, run my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. “Then things changed.”

“I wouldn't have been as friendly if I had known,” she says.

“Then I'm glad you didn't know.”

“I wouldn't have allowed Vincent to possess you . . . to use you to kiss me. I wouldn't have let it go that far.” There are tears in her eyes.

I don't know what to say. I wish to God that hadn't happened either, because seeing her expression when she realized it wasn't Vincent she was kissing was like a knife to the chest. On the other hand, it was my one and only chance to have her, so I wouldn't have traded it for the world, even with all that pain.

“Come here,” I say, and she scoots across the rug toward me until she can lean into my open arms. I hold her while she cries and feel something inside me snap into place. A piece of me that began shifting when I walked through the front door and realized this is where I belong. I am finally accepting it. This is the only way it will ever be between me and Kate. And it hurts like hell, but there's nothing to do about it except to pick myself up
and move on.

“I'm the one who should apologize,” I tell her. “I wasn't honest. But really, how could I be?” We lean back, and she wipes her eyes and nods.

“I know,” she says. “I've thought about it. You couldn't tell me without betraying Vincent. You couldn't tell Vincent because . . . what would be the point? I understand why you left. It was really the only sane, healthy thing you could do. But you need to know how much I miss you. That you are one of my favorite people, my closest friends. I wish you could come back, but also realize it's totally selfish of me. So I just want to know that you are fine. That you are happy where you are.”

“I'm fine and I'm happy,” I lie.

Kate searches my eyes. “No, you're not.”

“I will be,” I say. “Promise. More time, and I'll be fine.”

She takes a deep breath and hugs her legs to her chest. Like old Kate. A moment passes before she speaks again. “It was good of you to come to the wedding.”

“I didn't want to,” I admit.

“I know,” she says, and smiles sadly. “So who are these New York kindred Theodore sent with you?”

“Well, Faust is a newbie, and one of the nicest guys I ever met,” I respond. “And Ava scares the crap out of me and, for some reason that completely eludes me, hates my guts. But Gold wanted me to accompany her here so she could quiz Gaspard and Bran, and I'm sure you and Vincent as well, about what to do about the numa in New York.”

“Is she Gold's second?” Kate asks curiously.

“They don't have firsts and seconds there. Or at least, not on paper, although it's pretty clear to me that Gold's in charge. She's his special envoy, in any case.”

Kate looks thoughtful. “Why does she hate you? Did you hit on her?”

“Absolute negative on that. It was apparently loathing at first sight,” I say.

Kate grabs my hands, and we lean back, using each other's weight to stand up, both cracking a smile at the effort it takes to get off the ground.

“Dinner?” she asks.

“A meal in the presence of France's brave Champion?” I say. “How can I resist?”

Kate smiles and puts her arm around me, resting her head on my shoulder as we walk together toward the door.

DINNER IN THE KITCHEN—IT
'
S JUST LIKE OLD
times. Jeanne bustles between the stove and table, bringing course after delicious course, and Ambrose inhales everything like an industrial-size vacuum cleaner. Charlotte sits next to him, so close that her body is practically fused to his, chatting away in English to Ava, who has proven once again to be the star of the show. In less than an hour, she's got everyone at La Maison wrapped around her finger.

Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste always took their meals upstairs, but now that his partner is gone, Gaspard seems to have decided to join the rest of the group. He looks distinctly awkward, struggling to understand Faust's strong New York accent as he quizzes the young bardia about New York's kindred. There is a sadness about Gaspard that is hard to watch. He's lost weight, and his hyper quirkiness has mellowed with his grief. But since he is here, eating with the rest of the house, it means he is trying.
He's making an effort to carry on. I can't imagine losing someone you've loved for over a century and a half. Up until recently, I couldn't even imagine loving someone at all.

At Gaspard's side, Kate is radiant inside this warm circle of conversation and companionship. She belongs here—it is evident. My eyes sweep the table and meet Ava's. She glances back and forth between me and Kate, and I can see her catching on, and suddenly I'm choking on the chicken I was trying to swallow. Ava gets this amused look and turns back to her conversation with Charlotte.

Ambrose pats me on the back. “You got to chew, dude.”

“You're one to talk—human shovel,” I reply, taking a quick sip of water.

“Need the calories. Wedding prep is taking more out of me than fighting numa ever did,” he says. Charlotte nudges him, and then gives him a kiss on the cheek. Kate sees it and takes Vincent's hand under the table. Love is freaking everywhere. I clear my throat.

“So, Gaspard, when is Bran coming?” I ask in English, so that our guests can follow along. “Gold specifically wanted Ava to meet with him.”

“Ah, you see, there's a bit of a problem with that,” Gaspard replies. “The mother of Bran's sons is indisposed. I believe she is in the hospital—nothing too serious, fortunately. But Bran must care for his children and won't be coming to the wedding.”

“Then we have to go to him!” Ava blurts out.

Gaspard places his hand on hers. “That is the plan, my dear.
Bran has invited you to visit him in Brittany this weekend.”

“How do I get there?” she asks. This change in plans seems to set her on edge: She's squeezing her fork so tightly that her knuckles are white.