“Eau de zombie?” I ask with a smile.

“You actually smell fine,” he says, grinning. “Eau de river water’s more like it.”

“Do I have time for a shower?” I ask, pulling him closer until his face is inches from mine.

“A little,” he responds.

“How much time?” I ask.

He swallows. “Enough for a shower. Not enough to do what you’re thinking about,” he responds hoarsely.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “Let’s just take ten minutes.”

He glances at my lips and presses his eyes shut. When he opens them, his expression is one of longing. “Kate, I don’t want ten minutes. Ten minutes isn’t enough. I want days. If we start something now, I’m not going to want to stop. They’ll have to drag me out of your bed to go to war.”

“A kiss, then?” Before I can finish asking, his lips are pressed to mine. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him like I’ve been longing to.

I lose sense of myself. I lose track of time. All that exists are me and Vincent and the experience of loving each other.

Eyes closed, forfeiting vision to increase sense of touch. Eyes open, staring into wells of blue flecked with gold. Eyes closed, the pressure of his mouth against mine consuming me. Eyes open, watching his lids narrow with desire. Eyes closed, feeling his body hard against mine. Knowing that time is not ours today, and wondering if it ever will be.

As my bathtub fills with hot water, I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I wander the circumference of the bedroom Vincent has appointed for me. I peer at the collection of precious objects and admire the paintings until I start seeing a pattern.

A painting of the Pont des Arts. A tiny red wooden rowboat set on a bookshelf next to a crystal Eiffel Tower. A pair of antique opera glasses. A vintage postcard from Villefranche-sur-Mer. A matchbook from the restaurant where we ate brunch in New York.

I near a small cubist painting hanging near the window, about the size of a hardcover book. I lean in to admire the tiny refracted scene of a glass sitting on a café table, and when I see the signature, I inhale so sharply that it sends me into a coughing fit: Vincent hung a Picasso in my bedroom.

And then I reach the antique footed bathtub and notice for the first time that there is an enormous vase stuffed with branches of white flowers standing on the floor beside it. And my brain suddenly registers the delicious perfume I’ve been smelling ever since I walked into the room: It is lilac.

FORTY-TWO

“I HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING, BUT I DON’T agree,” Charlotte says.

Vincent cuts in. “According to our sources, dozens of numa have arrived in Paris over the last twenty-four hours. We have no idea where they’re assembling. Our raids on Jean-Baptiste’s rental properties two days ago succeeded in taking out eight numa. But that small victory cost us, since they immediately evacuated his other apartments. Now we have no idea where to find them. So if anyone has a productive suggestion”—he eyes Charlotte, who holds her hands up in surrender—“please feel free to voice it.”

I can’t focus. I have been feeling progressively stronger as the hours pass, and the last thing my body wants to do right now is sit through a long meeting. I’m actually kind of craving a jog around the neighborhood. Which is pretty strange for me.

My eyes stray to the library’s window while Vincent and the others pore over a map of Paris spread across a table. I can’t help strategize anyway. I don’t know anything about Paris’s numa or where they’ve been spotted. After trying to be interested for a half hour, my brain gives up and I let my thoughts wander.

I notice Ambrose sitting to one side, obviously as distracted as me. But his gaze isn’t out the window. Geneviève sits just across the table from us, as alluring as the day I first saw her with Vincent in La Palette: long platinum blond hair, eyes so light they are almost gray.

I look back at Ambrose and follow his line of sight back to the object of his attention: not Geneviève but Charlotte, with her long wheat-blond hair and rosebud cheeks. She bites her lip as she draws a line on the map from one mark to another. And I see him flinch as she glances up at him and then, with equal attention, at each person around the table as she explains the strategy.

I walk over to sit next to him. “You look kind of distracted, Ambrose,” I whisper.

“Yeah, well, I’m not much into planning. I’m mainly here for the muscle,” he responds, managing to rip his gaze away from Charlotte. He flexes a bicep and winks. “They just use me for my body.”

I laugh and want to hug him, but control myself. “So, it’s nice having Geneviève and Charlotte back, isn’t it?”

Ambrose’s eyes shoot back to Charlotte and he nods. “She’s changed, hasn’t she? Charlotte, I mean.”

“Um, besides growing her hair long she doesn’t seem to have changed much to me,” I say, trying not to smile. “Why?”

“It’s just that she seems so . . . in charge. I mean, she’s always had her act together, but ever since she’s been back she’s seemed more confident or something. And now that she’s Vincent’s second . . . I guess I’ve always thought of her as a little sister. You know, the huggable kind you want to take care of. But now that I see her working with him and taking control . . . I mean . . . the girl is fierce.”

Ambrose’s face shines with respect and a sort of curious awe, and I have to restrain myself from jumping up and cheering for the fact that it has finally happened. He has finally noticed what was right under his nose. The question is—does she still feel the same for him?

I lean my head on his shoulder and gaze around the room, feeling a deep sense of joy in knowing my fate is irrevocably tied to these people I love. Once again my attention is caught by a light outside the window. “So is there some kind of neighborhood party or French festival going on?” I ask Ambrose.

His brow creases. “No,” he says. “Not that I can think of. Why?”

“It’s just those red lights that I keep seeing. Like that one right there.” I gesture toward the window.

“I don’t see any lights,” he says, squinting out the glass.

“See, there it is again. There are two.”

He looks skeptical. “Uh, nope.”

“Oh, come on, Ambrose. It’s like two red lasers pointing straight up into the sky, just at the end of the block. Don’t tell me you can’t see them.”

Ambrose takes my hand and leads me to the window. “Just where do you see them?”

“Right there,” I say, pointing to the two very obvious lights. “In fact they’re a lot bigger than lasers. They’re like flame-colored columns . . . ,” I say, my words faltering as I have a flashback to the riverside. The lights are the same color as those I saw projecting from the two numa who were chasing me. The light I saw when they were a little ways away that disappeared when they got closer.

Something clicks. Heightened powers of perception. Can I see something the others can’t? “You don’t see it?” I ask Ambrose once more.

He scans the darkened vista outside the window and then looks at me, worried.

“I think I’ve figured out how we can find the numa,” I call toward the table, and everyone turns my way.

Ten minutes later, the entire group is outside on the street facing two of Violette’s sentries. Charlotte steps in front of them, her hand on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her coat. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

One of the numa dares respond. “Keeping watch,” he says simply, his eyes narrowing as he spots Ambrose standing behind Charlotte scowling and looking twice his already-imposing size.

“Where is your leader now?” asks Vincent.

“Even if I knew, why would I tell you?” the numa responds.

“Because we might spare your pitiful afterlives and let you go,” growls Ambrose.

“No, you won’t,” the numa says defiantly, and he and his companion swiftly draw their swords.

Ambrose leaps in front of Charlotte. “You’re right. I won’t,” he says, and rams his sword forcefully through the numa’s chest. A second passes before he lets the limp form drop to the ground.

The other numa is down almost as quickly, and Vincent wipes his sword on the man’s coat before returning it to its scabbard. “Let’s get them off the street,” he says.

I shudder as Ambrose swings one of the bodies over his shoulder. Two bardia accompanying us pick up the other corpse between them and head toward La Maison.

The danger gone, I drop back and follow them. But something feels wrong to me. It’s not like my kindred killed the numa without provocation. They were armed and wanted to fight. But there is still an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. It isn’t pity—it’s something else. Unable to pinpoint my emotion, I focus on Charlotte, who walks up behind Ambrose.

“You know, there is such a thing as holding people for questioning,” she says crisply.

“Yeah, see, I kind of forget that in the heat of the moment,” he replies, flashing her an apologetic smile. She shakes her head impatiently and runs to catch up with Vincent, who is opening the gates.

Ambrose meets my eyes. “Like I said, she is fierce!” he says, shaking his head in awe.

FORTY-THREE

OUR GROUP LOOKS OVER THE CITY FROM THE vantage point of La Maison’s roof terrace. Paris once again reminds me of a great lady. Tonight she wears a black velvet dress and pearls flash from her buildings’ windows. But for me, the vista is slashed by flaming red lines. A few on our side of the river appear as thick as columns, whereas the ones far off in the direction of Montmartre are as thin as crimson threads.

“How many do you see?” Vincent stands by my side holding my cold hand in his warm one.

“A lot.”

“Like a few dozen?” he asks.

“Like more than a hundred,” I respond. Silence falls over our little group as everyone studies the horizon for something they cannot see.

“They’re not all in one place,” I continue. “There are a group down that way,” I say, pointing toward Chinatown. “Others over there, on the other side of Bastille.” I indicate a forest of red beams far to our east. “More up toward Montmartre.”

Vincent studies the ground at his feet for a moment, and then turns to our group. “We need more bardia,” he says. “If we count all of our kindred in and directly around Paris, we aren’t more than forty. We can take the numa little by little, as long as they don’t group together. But if they do, we’re lost. Who else can we ask to join us?”

“Jean-Baptiste said that he and Gaspard will join us as soon as Gaspard reanimates early this morning,” Arthur says.

“Won’t it take him a while to recover?” I ask.

“No,” Arthur responds. “He wasn’t injured when he went dormant. We old guys are up and on our feet practically as soon as we awake. It’s you newbies that have a harder time in the morning,” he says with a grin.

Arthur’s in a really good mood for us being on the brink of warfare, I think, and wonder if it is because we will soon fight Violette, or something else . . . like my sister, for example.

“I put in a call to our New York kindred a few hours ago,” Vincent admits, reaching back for my hand. I look up at him in surprise. “Jules?” I ask hopefully.

“No, I talked to Theo Gold. But he was supposed to pass the message on. I asked that Jules bring a contingent here as soon as possible.”

The others nod doubtfully. In the time it would take for Jules to bring a group over from New York, the war could already be over.

“It’s been over a week since I talked to Charles, and I’ve left him a million messages telling him we need him,” Charlotte says. “I tried to contact him again today. No response. He and his hippy-dippy in-touch-with-their-feelings kindred are probably still up in the mountains, meditating on leaves or something. I’ll keep trying, but they’ll never get here in time if we engage today.” She is trying to sound lighthearted, but I know she wants her brother by her side if she is going into battle.

Vincent nods. “Okay, I’m putting out a call to all of France’s revenants. Anyone else you know within driving distance, please contact. This is going to go down in the next twenty-four hours. If we wait any longer, their forces can only grow and their defenses become stronger. We have to strike first. And we’ll start tonight while they’re still scattered and in small groups.”

People pull out their cell phones as they head down the stairs. Vincent puts his arms around my waist, presses his lips to my forehead, and leans back to look me in the eye. “Are you going to be able to do this? You don’t even need to fight. If you can just lead us to the groups that will be enough.”

“Believe it or not, I am dying for some action. I feel like I could sprint a whole marathon.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Vincent says, his lips forming a smile. “But you’re not feeling weak? You haven’t even been fully animated for a day.”

“I feel totally wired,” I admit, bouncing up onto my toes. Taking his face in my hands, I pull him close and kiss him.

“Yeah. I’m kind of feeling the same myself,” he says with a sexy grin. “Let’s just try to hold that thought until we defeat the numa.”

We kiss again and his expression becomes serious. “I really don’t want you in the heart of the action, Kate. Even though you’re strong, you’re also new. And, yes, as a revenant you are hard to destroy. But don’t think for a second that Violette has given up on capturing you. You are her prize, and every numa out there will be trying to bring you back to their leader.”