And above the mantel is the pièce de résistance: a giant silkscreen of Ava’s head by Warhol himself. In it, a patterned turban hides her hair, and her chin is raised as if in defiance. With her dark-copper skin, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes, she looks like some sort of native warrior: but native to where, it’s not clear.

“Who were you?” The words leave my lips before I can stop them.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, and Gold looks up abruptly from the dog-fest. He looks as confounded by her brusqueness as I am.

“Ava was a part of Andy Warhol’s Factory—she was his favorite for a couple of years,” Gold says, before she shoots him a look that forbids him to spill more. “Now, of course, she is a well-respected art historian, specializing in American art of the sixties and seventies. Not much of an overlap with my own specialty of antiquities, of course, but we historians stick together.”

He smiles up at her, breaking her stoniness enough to let a fond smile shine through. It’s obvious: They aren’t just kindred. They are friends.

Gold stands and straightens his suit. “Well, this isn’t a social call, my dear, so let’s get down to business. Jules was invited to the wedding of two of his Paris kindred. It’s taking place in just under two weeks.

“On the way here, I explained the history behind the heightened numa presence in New York. I explained that we fear things coming to a head like they did in Paris, and that it might end in a deciding battle.” It’s obvious from the looks on both of their faces that this is a topic they have discussed at length. Gold is just letting Ava know how much he’s told me. He crosses his arms, all business.

“I have spoken to some others, and we want you to accompany Jules to Paris, to gather as much information as you can from our French kindred about recent advances they’ve made, especially interviewing the guérisseur, Bran, as to anything that may give us an advantage in an upcoming struggle. If it is deemed necessary, you could make an official request in the name of the council that the Champion return to help us.” A look passes between them. There’s something they’re not telling me. Probably a lot of things they’re not telling me. But that’s not what’s bothering me at the moment.

“Listen, Gold. Why do you need me to go?” I say. “Why can’t you accompany Ava to France? I’m not”—ready—“prepared to travel. I’m still assimilating to life in New York and would rather delay my return until I’m totally comfortable here.” That’s a load of crap, and both Ava and Gold know it, but it’s all I can think of at the moment.

“I am needed here,” Gold says. “Plus, it’s your kindred and their guérisseur that we need to consult with. You are the natural choice for a liaison.”

“We will need to be accompanied, of course,” Ava says, a soupçon of alarm showing through her mask of self-control. She doesn’t want to be alone with me. Once again, I wonder what I possibly could have done to offend this woman.

“Of course, three is always better even if no one is volant,” Gold agrees. “It has been suggested that Faustino go with you. But let’s limit the number. I don’t want to make a big deal of it and possibly alert our enemies to our movements. This wedding is the perfect cover for our fact-finding mission.”

Gold nods, like his job is now over. He looks back and forth between us. “Well?” he asks. “You better get your stuff together. I reserved your plane for six a.m. That gives you exactly”—he pulls his shirtsleeve back and inspects a large gold wristwatch—“two hours until you need to leave for JFK. I’d get packing if I were you.”

“Two hours?” I exclaim. “Why the rush if you’re chartering a plane?”

“Why wait?” Gold challenges. “Ava’s got her work cut out for her. The more research she can do before our Paris kindred are completely distracted by wedding festivities, the better.”

“Don’t you think we ought to talk to Gaspard first?” I ask, my final plea to get out of this mess.

“Yes, of course,” Gold says, and pulls a phone out of his pocket. He taps a button and holds it up to his ear.

I hear Gaspard yell, “Oui, allo?” at his phone, and picture him holding it out at arm’s distance like he always does.

“Gaspard, my dear, it’s Theo. Everything’s going according to plan: Ava and Jules, plus one of our kindred accompanying,” Gold says, looking smug.

“They’re coming!” I hear Gaspard yell in French on the other end, resulting in a scream that could only be Charlotte in freak-out mode. Now there’s no way of backing out, I think, my heart dropping.

Gold turns away from us to continue the conversation with Gaspard, and I look toward Ava, who wears an expression of feigned boredom. “Is he always this pushy?” I ask.

Ava crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “You have no idea.”

SIX

THE PLANE TRIP IS INTERMINABLE. THERE ARE times when I wish revenants could sleep, and this is definitely one of them. Gold chartered a four-person jet, which would normally be sufficient, but the way things are going, I wish we were on a jumbo, with rows and rows of empty seats between us.

Once he got over the shock that he’d been tapped to go to Paris, Faust had just enough time to get his hands on a French guidebook, and began practicing phrases on me as soon as the plane took off.

We’re two hours into the flight and he’s still on, “Où est la gare?”

“Faust, you’re not going to need a train station,” I moan.

He nods and flips through to another page. “Voulez-vous dîner avec moi ce soir?”

“What is this?” I ask, and pluck the book out of his grasp. The chapter is entitled, “Relationships and Dating.” I toss it back to him, and, leaning my head back against the headrest, wearily respond, “You’re not going to pick up a French girl by asking her out to dinner. You’ve got to begin with compliments. Start with something safe: her eyes. Her smile.”

I feel little darts of hatred piercing my skin, and turn to where Ava sits ensconced behind a laptop. She has been pointedly ignoring us the whole time, but now she’s giving me a look of unadulterated disgust.

“What?” I ask, throwing my hands up in frustration. I don’t understand what this woman’s problem is with me.