“Why are you keeping me here?” I growl. I wish I could get my hands free so I could gouge her eyes out with my fingernails. “You used me as bait to get to Vincent—he was standing right there in front of you. What could you possibly want with me?”

“Why?” she repeats, tapping her chin with her finger. “Because you, Kate, are the Champion. And I, Violette, want your power. It’s as simple as that.” She turns to Louis. “Get the Champion some more water, please. We can’t have her dying off before she comes into her true power.” Louis leaves the room.

I had thought through every possible response she might give me, but this is one I had not expected. I stare, incredulous, as Violette pulls up a chair to the bed and sits down next to me.

She’s lost it, I think. Though she was questionably stable before, all of this power has driven her completely insane. “You’re crazier than I thought,” I say.

“Well, now, that would be one point of view,” she responds. “Another would be that I am very shrewd. Observant. Discerning, even. You see, my gamble that you were a revenant has already proven correct. And if Vincent isn’t the Champion, which became all too clear when the power transfer failed so miserably”—she unconsciously rubs her amputated finger with her other hand, eyes narrowing when she remembers it’s not there—“then there was a very good chance that it was you.”

I gape at her, uncomprehending, and she huffs impatiently. “The prophecy says that the Champion has anterior powers of communication, persuasion, and perception. I didn’t understand that until I considered the word ‘anterior’ as meaning ‘before becoming a revenant.’ Having the gifts while you were still human.

“Thinking of it like that, the communication part was obvious. I thought Vincent was special for communicating with a human while he was volant, but it was the other way around. You were the one who was special.”

She scoots her chair around so she can watch my reaction as she speaks. “You had the kindred at La Maison eating out of your hand, including Jean-Baptiste, who doesn’t deal with any human he doesn’t have to. Vincent went against his better judgment to see you, and you wormed your way into the hearts of the rest of Paris’s revenants. I would call that anterior powers of persuasion.

“And then I remembered that the night before our little scuffle up on Montmartre, Vincent had asked me if you could possibly have begun to see numa’s auras just from spending time with revenants. I told him no. But if you had a heightened sense of perception, that would explain it.”

She smoothes her hair back, looking extremely pleased with herself. I want to tell her exactly what she can do with her ridiculous theory, but she isn’t done talking. And I need to hear it all.

Folding her arms across her chest and tapping an index finger against her fight-toned bicep, she says, “And then there’s the all-important fact that the guérisseur Gwenhaël told my men, under great duress I admit, that the Champion was he who killed the numa leader. I knew Vincent possessed you to kill Lucien, but it was you who threw the knife.

“Once I stopped focusing on Vincent and thought of you, it all clicked. And so you see, here we are. I’m not a guérisseur or a Seer so I can’t tell if you have the Champion’s fabled ‘star on fire’ halo. Therefore, I’ll just take my chances and destroy you once you’re fully animated. How do they say it now . . . no skin off my nose?” Realizing what she’s said, she rubs her amputated stub again and forces a smile. “And don’t forget, you offered yourself to me. You gave me the Champion’s full powers.”

No, I think again. She has to be wrong. But I remain silent, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much she has shaken me. When I don’t respond, Violette stands and walks over to a table sitting next to the hearth and, leaning over, begins scribbling something in a notebook.

I close my eyes and think about what she’s just told me. I don’t believe her. I can’t. How can I be the Champion? The Champion is some kind of undead superhero. Okay, so I fit one of those qualifications, I think, pain ripping through me as, once again, I acknowledge that I am . . . undead. A tear rolls down my cheek just identifying myself with that horrible word, but I fight to pull myself together. I have to think.

Every time Bran talked about the Champion, he used the pronoun “he.” The prophecy he read us used the word “he.” That has to mean something, doesn’t it? Everyone seemed to think the Champion was a man. Wouldn’t Bran have said it differently if he knew I was the Champion? Not necessarily, I think. He might not have known. I wasn’t even a revenant then.

And then I remember. It was immediately after the big event—when he touched Jean-Baptiste and became the VictorSeer—that he began regarding me strangely. I was always checking my hair around him, wondering what he was looking at. But what if it hadn’t been my hair he was focusing on? What if it had been my aura? It was a kind of weird squint, I think with dawning horror. If my aura is as bright as a “star on fire,” no wonder he squinted every time he looked my way.

My thoughts begin racing, each realization stinging me like a crazed hornet. There was his insistence that the Champion wasn’t here yet. He didn’t even want to look at the other bardia to verify. It was because he thought it was me. There were the sideways glances when the subject of the Champion arose. And his willingness to let me visit the flame-finger archives.

And then I recall his words when I returned from the cave with his books. “I’m glad you went,” he had said. “It could well be your only chance.” Why would he say that? Bearers of the signum bardia are allowed to enter. But revenants aren’t. He knew I was a latent revenant. And he knew I would soon be the Champion. Bran had known this whole time.

Shock hits me like a tidal wave, roaring in my ears and sending me spinning and crashing in its wake. I lie there powerless to do anything but watch the girl who is determined to destroy me.

“Any other questions?” she asks, snapping the notebook shut and slipping it into her jacket pocket.

“What did you do with Vincent?”

“He is of no value to me anymore,” she says testily. “I would have killed him along with you, but I didn’t want to risk your sacrifice. You offered your life for him. I wasn’t sure you would become a revenant if you failed to save his life. So I left him in the hotel.”

I close my eyes in relief. He’s safe.

“Yes, you rest,” says Violette, walking back to the bed and standing directly over me. “It’ll be at least another day before you regain your strength. Although, as you can see,” she says, glancing at the cords binding my body, “I’m not taking any chances.”

She begins walking toward the door. “Violette?” I call, craning my head so I can see her.

“Yes, Kate?” she asks, looking curious.

“I hope I’m not the Champion,” I say, my voice dead calm now, “because I would hate to give you any additional satisfaction. But if I am, I hope you have to chop off an entire hand this time and eat a raw cat in order to absorb me. And I hope you choke on it.”

Her creepily calm demeanor finally shatters. Making a noise between a growl and a scream, she stomps over to the bed and slaps my face as hard as she can. Then, spinning on her heels, she races out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I lay my head back down and taste blood in my mouth. And smile.

THIRTY-SEVEN

THE DOOR REOPENS ALMOST IMMEDIATELY, AND Louis enters with a tray. Although his raised eyebrows hint of curiosity as to what just happened between me and his mistress, he says nothing. Setting the tray down, he wordlessly pours a glass of water. He lifts my head and helps me get some of it down before replacing the glass and feeding me an orange segment.

My fury slowly cools as I study him for the first time. I see what must have been an awkward boy of thirteen or so, before he took on the deceptively charismatic facade that is part of the revenant transformation.

As Vincent explained to me last summer, when revenants animate, they become more physically alluring than when they were human. It is their superstrength: People are attracted to them, and thus more prone to trust them.

In the bardia’s case, this is a good thing—more lives saved. But in the numa’s case, it is to their victim’s peril. When the numa want to be scary, they sure as hell are. But when they are in con-man mode, they can be as poisonously charming as Lucien was when he tricked my sister into falling for him.

What could this boy have done at such a young age to animate as a serial betrayer? I wonder.

Louis avoids my eyes as he stands to go. And although I know he’s only following Violette’s orders, I thank him as he leaves the room. He pauses in the doorway, looking curiously back at me before shutting the door and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Time passes snail slow and my limbs ache so much that tears leak from my eyes. I’m not crying; it’s just my body’s response to the intense pain. Which makes sense: My dead human tissue is coming to life again. I shudder with horror. Vincent didn’t tell me this part of his story.

He didn’t tell me a lot of things. Because he never thought I would be in this situation. Neither of us suspected me of being like him. Although, now that Violette has enumerated the reasons, I realize we should have seen it. If there hadn’t been the belief in Vincent’s being the Champion clouding the issue, we probably would have.

And if we had, well, things would have been different. We wouldn’t have had to deal with the issue of my mortality and his living forever. Because I had the chance to become immortal. That’s the cruel irony: Now that I have the possibility of spending eternity with Vincent, someone is going to take it away from me. Is going to kill me—again—and burn my body.

Just let her try, I think, my rage making me feel all-powerful. I struggle violently with my bonds, convulsing like a madwoman in my despair, but the only result is bleeding arms.

I measure time with the beat of my slowed-down heart and the change of light outside the boat’s window. It must be mid-morning when Louis enters the room and begins the feeding routine again. Eating and drinking while flat on my back is difficult, to say the least. But I am so famished that I manage to chew and swallow everything he gives me—and keep it down.

“How old are you?” I ask finally.

His eyes widen, and then narrow. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head. Quickly folding up the tray, he leaves the room.

I close my eyes and try to relax, but every muscle in my body is jumping. I am desperate to move, but only my feet and hands are free to rotate. So I work them. And then I flex my fingers and toes and try to relax. There’s nothing else I can do, besides imagining what my family must be thinking right now. They believe I’m dead. They are mourning. Once again. My heart actually physically hurts as I picture them, so I cast the image out of my mind and begin thinking of escape.

I study the locks on the windows and memorize the layout of the room. I don’t know what I’m capable of, so it’s hard to strategize. I wish I had asked Vincent more questions about revenant powers.

And what if I am the Champion? What was it that Vincent told me . . . besides the “anterior powers” that Violette had described. Strength. Endurance. I wonder if I have superpowers. I strain against the bonds again and nothing happens. They don’t snap like threads. Okay . . . I’m not the Hulk. I can only hope the endurance part is right. Because if not, being tied to this bed is going to drive me insane.

As the sun outside the window reaches the zenith—midday, I think—my desperation grows. Violette said that my strength would be back in a day. I have to get out of here before then. More than my fear of being killed again is my determination not to be her key to becoming a Champion-fueled supervillain and wiping out the bardia.

I remember the story about that numa who absorbed the Indian Champion’s power and the destruction he managed to wreak before he was stopped. Violette doesn’t need any more persuasion to tempt people to follow her. And add, I’m just guessing, more than double a revenant’s strength, endurance, and all that, she could have Paris under her control in no time at all. Not to be comic-book-hero dramatic, but if I have the fate of Paris . . . and eventually France or even beyond . . . resting on my shoulders, I better the hell find a way to get out of here.

Louis is back, doing the whole silent nursemaid routine once again. But this time, I’m determined to get him to talk.

“I know you’re not supposed to speak to me. But I’m guessing you’re not much younger than I am. And I’m also guessing you might not want to be here.”

I watch the practiced blankness of his expression drop for a second, as his eyes meet mine, and then he puts the mask back on and continues to feed me. But I have seen what I was looking for: sadness. Despair.

I swallow the bite of apple he’s feeding me and think of what to say. Where are those supernatural powers of persuasion when I need them? I decide to tell the truth. “I never asked for this, Louis. I don’t want to be the Champion. I don’t even want to be a revenant. I just want to go back to being a normal human girl and never see that scary medieval freak again.”

Louis freezes, not knowing what to do. My anger seems to make sense to him, but my honesty leaves him confused. I can see that what I said touched something in him.

Standing, he walks to the door and shuts it carefully, and then comes back to sit next to me. “She doesn’t want me to talk to you,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to tell her the second I think you’re trying to persuade me to help you.”