Die Once More (2 page)

Another man speaks up. “Thank you for the clarification. Jean-Baptiste named Vincent the head of France's revenants the same day you defected. We were worried about becoming involved in a power struggle.”

I shake my head. “Vincent is the best man for that job. I support him fully.” They are awaiting further explanation, but I'm not going to give them any. I'm not about to announce that I'm here because I'm heartbroken. That the woman I love is in love with my best friend. That it will kill me if I have to see them
together any longer.

Around the table significant looks are being thrown among council members, and there is a general nodding of heads. A man with a mustache and a strong Southern accent speaks up. I have to listen closely to understand him. “Frederick Mackenzie, American Civil War. I'm acting administrator of the Warehouse. So far, you've been staying in the Greenpoint house. Gold says he put you there temporarily, since you knew Frank and Myra from a convocation. But we ask all newcomers to the New York clan—whether you're freshly animated or an old-timer from out of town—to live here in headquarters for the first six months. That way you can learn our ways without being an unwitting security risk just because you did things differently back home. After the six months, you are welcome to join a house in the borough of your choice, or, like many of our more sociable kindred, decide to stay here.”

He pauses, and I nod to show I understand.

“Pre-council kindred often serve as welcome reps. Faustino, who you have already met, has been assigned to you. He'll be happy to show you around, explain the rules, and fix you up with your basic needs. Is there anything else we can do to make your transition to America easier?”

I'm not sure what to say. They're so . . . efficient.

A woman sitting next to Gold jumps in. “For those of you who don't already know of him, Jules Marchenoir is an accomplished artist. Perhaps those involved in the visual arts could provide him with necessary supplies, get him set up with a studio, and tell him
when the life drawing group meets.”

The woman is stunning—in an exotic kind of way: long black hair, copper-colored skin, almond eyes, and high cheekbones. I rack my brain but am sure I haven't seen her before. I would have remembered. So how does she know me?

“Thank you,” I acknowledge gratefully.

She nods, but frowns, like the interaction is distasteful to her. Like I've offended her.

How bizarre. I must have met her before—it had to have been at a convocation. Did I try to pick her up or something? I doubt it—I restrict true flirting to human girls for just this reason. Why risk offending someone who could hold a grudge for eternity? Not to mention the danger of them falling in love. And who wants that?

Or at least that's how I used to think. Pre-Kate. She changed my game. Now I'd give up all the flirtations in the world just to be with her. Something pings sorely in my chest, and without thinking, I raise my hand to press it, drawing concerned looks. My kindred think I'm mourning. Let them. I am.

Gold breaks the silence. “Anyone else have a question?” He peers around the table. “No? Well, then I'll speak for all of us to say, ‘Welcome, kindred.' We're glad you're here, Jules Marchenoir.”

“Welcome!” several say together, like a cheer. People rise to go, several crowding around me to introduce themselves. Several ask about the French Champion—Kate. They want to know more details about how she emerged, and it is quickly obvious that
their own numa problem is beginning to approach what we experienced in France.

My gaze drifts across the table to the girl who spoke earlier. A group of people stand around her, and the face that was stony with me is now radiant as she speaks with them.

A beautiful girl. Normally that would draw me like a moth to flame. Even with my no-kindred-lovers rule, a bit of playful banter and a shower of compliments (and the enjoyment of her inevitable response) would do my spirits a world of good. But not now. I don't even have it in me to say hello.

Her eyes lift and meet mine, and the coldness is like an ice ray.

What?
I ask her silently, shrugging my confusion.

She rolls her eyes—actually
rolls her eyes
!—and turns her attention back to the person she's talking to.

Disconcerted, I look back to a man standing with his hand out and remember that I'm supposed to shake. No
bises
—cheek kisses—of course.

Faust appears and stands by my side as the room empties. “Need anything?” he whispers to me.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “I would give my immortal soul to get out of here and walk.”

“
THE WALK SCHEDULE IS ON THE FRIDGE
,”
FAUST
says, once the last person has welcomed me. “This way.” He leads me toward the kitchen.

“A schedule?” I ask.

“Does that surprise you?” he asks, flashing a curious smile.

“I'm not sure what's more surprising, that there's a schedule or that it's being displayed on something as banal as a refrigerator,” I admit.

Faust laughs. “There are about two hundred bardia in the five boroughs. Everybody has their own room here, but about half choose to live elsewhere, and they usually walk with their houses in their own neighborhoods. That leaves about a hundred of us here. A schedule's pretty much necessary.”

“And the fridge?” I ask.

He grins. “Where did everyone hang out in your house in Paris?”

“In the kitchen,” I concede.

We arrive at a row of three enormous refrigerators. Stuck to one is a printed schedule with names, days of the week, and neighborhoods. I whistle, impressed.

“We had it online for a while,” Faust explains. “A couple of our tech-minded kindred even developed an app. But after our enemies hacked in a couple of times and showed up to meet us at our scheduled places, we went back to the old-fashioned paper-and-ink method.”

“Is the numa presence strong here?” I ask.

“Getting worse all the time,” Faust murmurs, running his finger down the chart. “Even starting to organize, as much as murderous immortals who are only out for themselves can do. Crime boss in our area is called Janus. But there are others . . . bigger fish that we're not even near catching.

“I'll tell you—all eyes were on Paris a couple days ago. Folks can't stop talking about your Champion. As in, we need her here. Stat.”

I cringe inside. That's all I need: to play musical countries with Kate. If she comes here, there's no way I can stay.

Faust traces across a row of names and stops. “Let's see. Green team's got the sunrise shift. They're taking off in a few minutes and are covering Williamsburg and the surrounding area. It would be good for you to get to know our hood.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I really need this walk.”

“Got the craving?” Faust asks with concern. “How long's it been?”

“Since I died? Only a few months.”

“And you probably loaded up on dark energy from the numa-slaying extravaganza in Paris,” he says, with the same wish-I'd-been-there look. Faust loves a fight, that much is obvious. He should team up with Ambrose—they'd be unstoppable.

I nod. “I killed six.”

He whistles. “You should be good for a while, then. Just need the fresh air?” he jokes.

“Close,” I say. “I could use the distraction.”

I stand outside the loading dock, the meet-up point listed on the schedule, waiting for the Green team to appear. My hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, I bounce up and down, trying to generate a bit of heat, and try not to think about what my kindred are doing in Paris. Celebrating their victory with their new Champion. I get a flashback of Kate's face, not even two days ago in the midst of battle—streaked with blood and dirt and ash, glowing with the golden bardia aura. And though animating didn't seem to have changed her features, in my eyes she was more beautiful than ever.

My chest aches. How long will it take me to get over her? I am relieved when I hear footsteps crunch on the frost-frozen pavement behind me.

I turn. It's the girl from the council. The Frost Queen.
At least she's in her element,
I think, as my breath puffs out in a thick cloud.

“Marchenoir,” she says in greeting, her face blank. Ice cold.
She's bundled up in a calf-length padded coat, and her long black hair cascades out from under an eggplant-colored slouchy knit cap.

I respond by giving her a full bend-at-the-waist, arm-thrown-to-the-side bow. “At your service.” I can't help myself, unsure of whether I am trying to crack her facade or just annoy her in return for her iciness. Maybe both.

She ignores me and watches as Faust comes jogging up from behind us, rubbing his gloved hands up and down his arms for warmth. “I traded with Palmer,” he says, and gives me a grin. “Don't want to shirk my ‘welcome rep' responsibilities. Not that Whitefoot here couldn't show you the ropes.” He gives her a playful punch on the arm, and she gives him a smile so warm I'm surprised it doesn't melt half the ice in New York.

How does she do it . . . arctic to tropical in a second flat? I would be impressed if I wasn't on the end of the stick reserved for polar bears.

With effort, Faust manages to pry his eyes away from her and hands me a leather belt with a holster on each side. “Two weapons?” I ask. He nods as I strap it around my waist.

“Short-sword,” he says, handing me the blade. I inspect it before slipping it into my belt: It's brand-new, unlike the antique models we use in France, but well made. “And a Glock,” he says, handing me a pistol.

I look up at him in surprise.

“It's enough, really. You don't really need an automatic,” he explains, misunderstanding my expression. “We never come up
against more than a few numa at a time. And even that's pretty rare, unless we're zombie hunting. Today's just a regular walk around the block.”

I glance at “Whitefoot.” She's amused by my confusion. “Like it or not, guns are the American way. Shoot to the head to stun, then use your blade,” she clarifies.

That's the way Lucien cut down Gaspard to get into La Maison, I remember. Gunshot to the head, then—while the projectile worked its way back out of Gaspard's bullet-rejecting flesh—decapitation by sword. American way, huh? I wonder if Lucien made any trips to the States before meeting his end at the tip of Kate's blade.

I holster the gun and pull the sides of my long wool coat over the weapons to hide them. The Frost Queen, “Frosty,” I decide to christen her since I still don't know her first name, has already turned and is walking away. She points up and says, “We've got your old colleagues with us, Faust.” And then, speaking to the air, she says, “Ryan, you go with Marchenoir, Tirado's with Faust, and I've got Oreo. Let's move it out.”

“Three
volant
spirits?” I ask.

Faust shrugs. “More of the American way, I guess.”

Okay. Guns. One volant per walking revenant. I can accept that. It's the minor cultural differences that throw me more. Like the last name/nickname thing: It's more like army-speak than talk among kindred. Though there's no way two hundred bardia in one city could be as closely knit as our much smaller Paris crowd. Which, at the moment, is exactly how I like it. Arm's
length sounds pretty good to me.

We begin walking away from the river, into the central part of the Brooklyn neighborhood called Williamsburg. The voice of the volant spirit assigned to me appears in my mind.
Hey Frenchie. Anthony Ryan here, Ground Zero. I've got your back
.

“Hi,” I respond, and I hear Frosty and Faust check in with their invisible partners. Ghostly communication only works one way. They can get inside our heads—but we can't get into theirs. “You can call me Jules.”

Okay, Frenchie,
the voice responds.

Frosty starts giving orders. “Ryan, head north toward Greenpoint. Tirado, straight ahead toward Bushwick Avenue. And Oreo, sweep over toward Bed-Stuy and the Navy Yard. Start within a twenty-minute walk of our location, and then sweep back toward us.” I feel the volant spirits leave us, and it's once again three dead guys—make that two dead guys and a girl—walking the streets in the frigid morning air.

Faust points things out as we go: the main street, called Bedford. The fact that this neighborhood has boomed in the last few decades, luxury apartments and wealthy tenants replacing the Polish and Italian immigrants in one part, European Jewish and Hispanic populations in another. We walk by brand-new bars and restaurants and pass hipster guys with tight jeans and beards and girls with tattoos and thick, winged eyeliner.

The changes have made things easier for the bardia. When the neighborhood was made up of families who stayed for generations, caution was an everyday concern. But with people
constantly moving in and out, they don't have to worry about hiding faces that never change.

I remember my volant spirit's introduction. “What's Ground Zero mean?” I ask.

“What about Ground Zero?” Faust asks.

“That's how Ryan introduced himself,” I clarify.

Faust answers, “Ground Zero. Twin Towers. September eleventh . . .” And before he even finishes, I get it.

“Onze septembre,”
I translate, “of course. Ryan was there?”

“We all were,” he responds, “most of us pre-council newbies you'll meet at the Warehouse were. More bardia made that day than in the entire history of New York City.” His face darkens. “And a few numa too.”

We turn, heading toward the Williamsburg Bridge, and follow it away from the river. Frosty walks a few paces in front of us, but I can tell she's listening to every word.

“We heard all about it in France,” I say, and think about the ramifications of what Faust just told me. “But the dead were so high profile! There were leaflets with your faces all over the place. How were you even able to stay in the New York area after animating?”