Standard disclaimer about not owning these characters, referencing and including dialogue from the book, and giving full credit for the creation of the characters and that referenced dialogue to the author, Amy Plum.

Chapter 1

I sent a text message—one I felt was very thoughtful. I knew Kate would be ravenous for any news at all, even if the news was that there was no news, yet I received no reply. This had me ruminating much more than I would like to admit; ruminating enough that a less kind observer might call it "brooding." Hadn't I said that I was off to find Vincent? Vincent, who was bound to the malevolent Violette somewhere in the bowels of a numa stronghold? Didn't that imply some degree of danger to my person? Weren't friends supposed to be concerned for the safety and welfare of one another? Where was my "Be careful, Jules!" text or my "Good luck, Jules!" text? Some sort of acknowledgement would have been only polite (though in the few seconds of honesty I allowed myself before brushing it off, I had to admit that what I wanted was not a text but a call, with Kate's voice at the other end).

I leaned back in my chair and imagined her frantic tone as she begged me not to go, not to endanger myself by getting too close to Violette. I allowed myself to hear a slight undertone of jealousy at the idea of my leaving her side for Violette's, even though I was going to face an army of murderous numa and not to ask for a date. I wanted to hear that though Vince was important that I, too, was important to Kate—too important to risk. In this fantasy, I bravely reassured her that I would be careful, but was determined to continue the mission as planned because no risk was too great if it might bring Vince back to us (and in the process, save the Revenants and indeed the world from the tyranny of an embittered, 500-year-old undead adolescent bigot). I was heroic, yet humble. I was courageous in the face of almost certain destruction. I was resolved to do my duty despite her heart-wrenching pleas.

I could practically hear Kate's voice, so obviously struggling to contain the sobs fighting to burst forth in a machine gun staccato of anguish. In a bare whisper, she said, "There are risks too great, Jules. Any risk that could tear you from me is too great."

My eyes half-closed, one corner of my mouth began to curl up, so lost was I in this vignette I had created in my mind. Jeanne's voice startled me with a chiding cluck as I absently picked at my breakfast.

"Jules, do not play with your food—eat, my lamb! You will need your strength to find our Vince. And why do you have that silly look on your face?"

Her admonition drew me instantly into the present and I pulled the corners of my mouth down as I remembered that Kate had not called me to beg me to stay and had not texted with me with concern. In fact, she hadn't responded in any way at all.

I wanted to bang my fist on the table and shout, "Damn her!" but as soon as the thought struck me, I felt guilty. She was caught up in grief so intense, how could she be expected to respond to a text? I had never given her any reason to view me as anything more than a flirt or, in the vernacular of her sister, a "player." It was unfair of me to judge Kate based on my own unrequited feelings since I had taken pains to be certain she did not know I had even had them. My mental outburst made me feel petty and unkind, an unflattering contrast to the noble and stalwart Jules I had only just been imagining myself to be.

I frowned again, this time at myself for allowing a girl to preoccupy my thoughts so much that I was distracted from the mission at hand. What was wrong with me? Girls did not upset me! They delighted me, yes. They brought brief moments of joy into my life. They kept me from boredom, they inspired my art, and they filled moments that might otherwise have been lonely. They provided distraction when I needed to forget how dark the world could be sometimes. They decorated my arm when I needed a plus-one at a gallery party or nightclub and they frequently warmed my bed afterwards. They filled my arms when I needed closeness and gave me something to gaze at when I sat in my regular seat at the Café Sainte-Lucie. They sometimes accused me of callousness and spurned me, but even this I found amusing. All of this they did but never did they upset me. Yet here I was, upset. It troubled me that I felt an ache in the center of my chest when I thought of Kate—me, a soldier who had died in battle, quite literally, as well as a revenant who had endured a hundred deaths since. I was a warrior (some might even say a hero), not some moony romance novel antagonist!

"Vous êtes absurde!" I muttered to myself.

"Did you say something, mon cher?" Jeanne asked from across the kitchen, her back turned to me as she searched for something in a cabinet, stretching up onto her toes to reach for a canister.

"No, nothing," I assured her, getting up from my uneaten eggs and croissant to assist her.

"Merci," she sighed gratefully as I pulled down the heavy pottery for her, a light coating of dust on its top alerting me that it had sat unused for some time on that high shelf. "You are such a good boy, Jules."

I met her eyes briefly before turning away.

"No," I thought ruefully, visions of my best friend's girl entering unbidden into my head. "No, I am not."