“Funnily enough, I did just come from dinner with the mayor, and yes, I am fighting in this. I happen to find wool blend surprisingly comfortable in battle.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking until he undoes a couple of pearl buttons to show the Kevlar vest he’s wearing underneath.

I shrug. “Suit yourself, you’ve been in this game longer than I have.” I strap the weapon belt around the waist of my leather jeans and, reaching for my own Kevlar vest, ease it over my black T-shirt.

Gold thrusts his hands in his pockets and does his strolling thing around my room. “I haven’t been in here since your trip to Paris. What would that be . . . six months ago? I must say . . . I approve of the change in decor.” He points up to a life-size portrait of Ava hanging on my wall. In it, she sits on a couch on a rooftop in a crimson evening gown, looking out over a moonlit Paris.

I snap the vest up the side. “It seems I’ve got myself a new muse.”

“Yes, well,” he says, trying to suppress a grin, “I’m actually not here to browse your newest works. I come as a messenger. You’ve got visitors. In the armory.”

I pull on a lightweight chain-mail shirt and top it with a long-sleeved black jersey. “Visitors?” I ask, slipping my Glock and sword into their holsters. I pat myself down, verifying I’ve got everything, then grab my leather jacket. Gold holds the door open for me, and we head out into the hallway toward the stairs.

“I actually put a call out to a few other areas, since this skirmish has the potential of escalating into all-out war,” he says. We follow other black-garbed kindred down the stairway and emerge through industrial metal doors into the Warehouse’s lower level.

We take a quick right into the gym-size armory, and there he is, standing in the middle of the room, swinging around a massive battle-ax like it’s a child’s aluminum baton. My heart skips a beat. It’s Ambrose. Here. In New York. “Lightweight American play toys,” I hear him grumble, and then he sees me. Dropping the ax, he charges over and tackles me, nearly picking me up off my feet with his bear hug.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to squeak.

“Thanks to Gold, we heard about the big skirmish going down in Queens tonight. Since you yourself seem to be so . . . communication challenged.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been a bit busy.” I turn, hearing a familiar squeal coming from the changing room.

Charlotte, dressed in battle gear, hurls herself across the room toward me and leaps into my arms. Dropping back to the ground, she kisses my cheeks and says, “Shame on you for not telling us about the battle. Ambrose has been going stir-crazy in Paris. He says there’s no more action in France.”

“Kate, Vincent, and Arthur wanted to come, but Gaspard insisted that it would be the perfect opportunity for a surprise attack from any numa ‘stragglers,’” Ambrose says, using air quotes.

“So we brought a dozen of Paris’s bardia with us,” Charlotte says. “Everyone’s suited up and ready to fight.”

“I’m glad you came,” I say, not quite believing that they’re standing there with me, an ocean away from where they’re supposed to be—safe behind the walls of La Maison.

The room has been emptying as we talk, and Gold slips out without saying good-bye. I hear the door open, and from behind me comes a voice. Her voice.

“Are you guys going to stand around all night chatting, or are you ready to fight?” Ava strides into the room, looking like a Hollywood costume designer’s vampire-hunting dream girl: tight black leather, faux-fur vest, knee-high Doc Martens, and some serious metal strapped to chest, back, and waist.

I try to swallow, but it seems there’s a baseball lodged inside my throat.

Ambrose whistles and Charlotte grins. Ava walks up to us. I clear my throat and say, “Although you’ve already met, I’d like to present to you Ava Whitefoot”—I get down on one knee and hold my hand up to her—“Champion of my heart, as well as of the American Eastern Seaboard.”

Ava laughs and takes the hand I’m offering. “That started out romantic and then kind of fizzled out at the end.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to work on downplaying the literalism,” I say, and allow her to lift me from my courtly position before grabbing her and pulling her to me for a five-second heart-thumping kiss.

“Watch the blades,” Ambrose suggests, “or this could go down as most dangerous make-out session ever.”

“Worth it,” I say, letting go of her with a twinge of regret.

“If we win,” Ava murmurs, with a twinkle in her eye, “there will be more later.”

“Then let’s go slay some numa!” I grab her hand and lead the group out of the armory, down a hallway, and into a parking garage that holds a veritable army of vehicles. Next to each car, a small group of kindred stands at the ready, dressed for battle and armed to the teeth. There must be close to two hundred bardia assembled in this one room.

“No. Way,” breathes Ambrose, taking in the scene before us. He turns to Charlotte. “We’re moving here.” She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Jules?” Ava asks, and I put my fingers to my lips and let out a sharp whistle. The room falls silent, and all eyes turn to where we stand at the top of the stairs leading down into the garage.

“Our strategy is solid,” Ava says, her voice echoing through the vast hall. “And from what I can see, we will easily outnumber the numa group assembled. We are ready for this battle. A victory tonight will mean a lethal blow to their infrastructure. Come fight with me, kindred.”

She unsheathes her sword and swings it in a slow arc across the room, meeting every person’s eye before lifting her sword toward the ceiling and saying in a slow and steady voice, “Let’s. Do. This.”

The place goes berserk, two hundred bardia cheering and hugging and high-fiving like they’ve already won. Ambrose stares at Ava, gobsmacked, while a proud smile stretches across Charlotte’s lips. She leans over to Ava and yells over the noise. “You are amazing!”

Ava smiles broadly and nods to me. I give another whistle, and people jump into their cars, SUVs, and motorcycles, and begin pulling out of the garage and onto the Brooklyn streets.

She takes my hand as we make our way down the stairs into the room and toward a waiting car. Merci, mon chevalier, she says in my head, and leans in toward me for one last prebattle kiss.