Jules patted the imaginary hilt at his waist, then took me in his arms and swept me to the middle of the floor near Ambrose and Charlotte. “Kate, my dear, the candlelight does suit you so,” he murmured.

I blushed in spite of myself, both from the bold way he touched his cheek to mine as he whispered, and from his flattery, which—though I was unquestionably into Vincent—still managed to warm me with delight. Jules was the ultimate safe flirtation, because I knew not to take it personally. Every time I saw him out at night, he had a different gorgeous woman with him.

He pulled me close until we were practically plastered to each other. Laughing, I pushed him away. “Jules, you incorrigible rake,” I scolded in my best Jane Austen lingo.

“At your service,” he said, and bowed low before grabbing me again and whirling me around. “You know, Vincent’s not the jealous type.” Jules smiled slyly as he held me tight. “He has no reason to be. Not only is he the most handsome of our kindred, or so I’m told by every woman around, but he’s Jean-Baptiste’s second”—he paused to dip me before scooping me back into his arms—“and he’s won the heart of the most lovely Kate. There’s no fighting the Champion.”

Although I couldn’t help smiling at the “lovely Kate” bit, I latched onto the new information he had given me. “Vincent is Jean-Baptiste’s second? What’s that mean?”

“It means that if anything ever happens to Jean-Baptiste”—Jules paused, looking uncomfortable, and I filled in the blank for him: if he is ever destroyed—“or if he decides to step down as the head of France’s revenants, Vincent will take his place.”

I was shocked. “Why hasn’t he told me this before?”

“Probably because of one of his other fine points: modesty.”

I took a couple of seconds to absorb the whole “second” situation before looking back into Jules’s eyes. “And what did you mean by ‘Champion’?”

“He hasn’t told you about that, either?” This time Jules looked surprised.

“No.”

“Well, I’m not going to spill all his secrets in one night, then. You’ll have to ask him.”

I mentally tucked that in my to-ask-Vincent file.

“So if Jean-Baptiste steps down, Vincent will be your boss?” I said it to teasingly bait him, but paused as his expression changed from his usual lighthearted nothing-affects-me flippancy to one of fierce loyalty.

“Vincent was born for this, Kate. Or reborn, rather. I wouldn’t want the responsibility he’s going to have one day. But when the time comes, I will do anything he asks. In fact, I already feel like that, and he’s not even my ‘boss.’”

“I know that,” I said truthfully. “I can tell. Vincent’s lucky to have you.”

“No, Kate. He’s lucky to have you.” He gave me one final spin, and I realized that he had danced me across the room to where Vincent was standing. As he released my hands, he winked ruefully at me and deposited me gallantly into the arms of my waiting boyfriend.

“Still in one piece?” Vincent teased, pulling me close and planting a soft kiss on my lips.

“After dirty-dancing with Jules? I’m not sure,” I said.

“He’s harmless,” offered Geneviève.

“I take offense at that,” Jules called from the other side of the table, where he was serving himself a flute of champagne. “I consider myself very dangerous indeed.” He saluted the three of us with his glass before sauntering off toward a pretty revenant across the room.

“Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight?” Vincent whispered, handing me my glass.

“Only about twelve times,” I said coyly, flouncing out the skirt of the floor-length pewter-colored gown Georgia had helped me find.

“Perfect, then, because thirteen’s my lucky number,” he said, and gave me an appreciative once-over. “But gorgeous doesn’t quite do you justice. Maybe . . . dazzling? Stunning? Ravishing? Yes, I think that’s better. You look ravishing, Kate.”

“Stop it!” I laughed. “You are totally doing this on purpose to see if you can make me blush! It’s not going to happen!”

Vincent smiled victoriously and brushed my cheek with his finger. “Too late.”

I rolled my eyes as the bell-like sound of a spoon being tapped against a wineglass quieted the room. Ambrose switched the music off, and everyone turned to Jean-Baptiste, who stood before the crowd in all his noble stuffiness. From the portraits decorating the room, his clothing and hairstyle could be seen to evolve over the last 240 years, but his aristocratic demeanor hadn’t changed a bit.

“Welcome, dear kindred, revenants of Paris,” he announced to the forty-odd guests. “Thank you for joining us this evening in my humble abode.” There was a stir of movement and a swell of bemused laughter.

He smiled subtly and continued. “I would like to make a toast to our beloved departing kindred, Charles and Charlotte. You will be sorely missed, and we all hope for your expeditious return.” Everyone followed Jean-Baptiste in raising his glass, and as one chimed, “Santé!”

“Well, that’s a diplomatic way to put it, when he’s the one who sent them into exile!” I whispered to Vincent, and then glanced over at Charles, who was perched uncomfortably on an ancient upholstered settee on one side of the room. Since the day he had put his kindred at risk by handing himself over to the numa, his perpetual sour, sulking expression had been replaced by one of despair and depression. Gaspard sat beside him, lending emotional support.

Jean-Baptiste continued, “I’m sure we would all like to join the twins in the sunny south, but our work is cut out for us here in Paris. As you all know, ever since our human friend Kate”—he waved his glass in my direction and nodded politely at me—“dispatched so handily our enemies’ leader, Lucien, just over a month ago, the numa have maintained complete silence. Although we have remained at the ready, there has been no attempt at vengeance. No counterattack.

“And more worryingly there have also been absolutely no numa sightings by our kindred. They haven’t abandoned Paris. But the fact that they are avoiding us on such a thorough basis is so egregiously out of character for our old foes that we can only surmise that they have a plan. Which also means that they must have a leader.”

This was a revelation to the group in the room: Their patient expressions suddenly changed to looks of consternation. Whispering began among a few, but Vincent’s steady gaze toward the speaker told me that he was already privy to this information. Jean-Baptiste’s second, I thought with a mix of wonder and uneasiness. I couldn’t wait to get Vincent on his own so I could quiz him about it.

Jean-Baptiste silenced the discussions with more spoon clinking on his glass. “Kindred, please.” Once again, the room fell silent. “We all know that Nicolas was Lucien’s second. But surely, considering his short temper and love of ostentatious gestures, if he had taken over we would have heard something by now. Silence is our clue that someone else has assumed control. And if we don’t know who we are up against, or when and where their eventual attack will come from, how can we prepare our defense?”

The murmuring started back up. This time Jean-Baptiste’s raised voice quieted the crowd. “AND SO . . . in the face of a potential critical situation, we are honored to have the assistance of the person who knows more about our history and that of the numa than anyone else in this room. The person regarded as the most knowledgeable among our kindred in France, and an influential figure in our worldwide Consortium. She has offered to help us investigate the problem at hand and plan our strategy for self-defense, or—if necessary—a preemptive strike.

“Without further ado, I introduce to those of you who haven’t had the opportunity to make her acquaintance, Violette de Montauban and her companion, Arthur Poincaré. We are honored to have them join our house during the absence of Charlotte and Charles.”

From behind Jean-Baptiste stepped a couple I had never seen before. The girl’s snow-white complexion was set off by black hair that was pulled back from her face with a bunch of vivid purple flowers. She was tiny and fragile-looking, like a sparrow. And though she looked younger than me, I knew that for a revenant that didn’t mean a thing.

The boy moved in a distinctly old-fashioned style, stepping up to her side and holding his arm out for her to take it with the tips of her fingers. He was probably around twenty, and if his streaky blond hair hadn’t been tied back into a tight ponytail and his face so clean-shaven, he would have looked exactly like Kurt Cobain. With a major case of blue-blood.

They bowed formally to Jean-Baptiste and turned toward the room, solemnly nodding their acceptance of the enthusiastic welcome. The girl’s eyes paused on me and continued to Vincent, who was standing behind me with his hand resting on my hip. Her eyes narrowed slightly before moving on to scan the crowd, and then, seeing someone she knew, she stepped forward to chat. Jean-Baptiste followed her cue and began talking to a woman standing next to him.

The speech seemingly over, I searched for Charlotte to gauge her reaction to her replacements’ presentation. Their introduction during the twins’ party must have been a last-minute decision.

Charlotte stood at the back of the room with Ambrose, who had his arm draped securely around her shoulders. I guessed that the support he was giving was both physical and moral. Although she didn’t look surprised, it looked like her smile was costing her a lot of effort.

“I’m going to go talk to Charlotte,” I murmured to Vincent.

“Good idea,” he said, casting a worried glance at her. “I’ll make sure Charles is holding up.” He leaned over to kiss my temple and then, straightening, walked away.

I set off toward Charlotte. “Just wondering if you wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air,” I said.

“I would love that,” she said, and reaching for my hand, she transferred herself from Ambrose’s custodianship to mine. Not for the first time, I wondered how she was going to hold out in the south of France—a whole nine-hour drive away from her support system. I didn’t doubt Charlotte’s strength. She had certainly been a solid shoulder for me to lean on. But now that she needed her friends the most, she was being forcibly separated from them.

We grabbed our coats on the way out and stepped into the bracing December air. The moon lit up the courtyard, illuminating its large marble fountain, which contained a life-size statue of an angel holding a woman in his arms. It was an image I never failed to compare to Vincent and me. In my eyes, the personal symbolism it held was as weighty as the stone it was carved from.

Charlotte and I sat down on the edge of its empty basin and huddled against each other for warmth. I looped my arm through hers and pulled her close. Getting close to Charlotte had helped me ignore the guilt of cutting off my friends back in New York. During the very worst period of my grieving for my parents, I had deleted my email address and hadn’t contacted them since.

“Did you know that your”—I hesitated, searching for a word less offensive than “replacements”—“that Violette and Arthur were coming today?”

Charlotte nodded. “Jean-Baptiste told me yesterday. He said he didn’t want me to feel like he was in a rush to replace us. But Violette offered to come, and he needs her. I can’t help but feel bad about it anyway. You know . . . unwanted. Like I’m being punished.”

“Even if it feels like a punishment, which Jean-Baptiste has assured everyone it isn’t, you’re not the one who’s being sent away. It’s Charles who messed up, no matter how unintentionally.” I squeezed her arm in support. “Jean-Baptiste’s rationale does make sense. If something big is going on with the numa, this would be a dangerous time for Charles to be here in the middle of it, indecisive and confused. Plus, he said you could stay if you wanted.”

“I can’t live without Charles,” she said mournfully. “He’s my twin. We’ve been through everything together.”

I nodded. I understood. We had a lot in common, Charlotte and I . . . if you didn’t take our mortality into account. Both of us had experienced the death of our parents. We were both left with only a sibling to link us to our former lives. I had my grandparents, of course, but my sister felt like the last remaining thread that connected me to reality. Although the meaning of the word “reality” had radically changed for me in the last few months.

“So do you know the new guys?” I asked.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve never met them, but everyone’s heard of them. They’re part of the ‘old guard.’ If you think Jean-Baptiste’s old, they’re ancient. Although they’re just as aristocratic as him.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious,” I laughed. “Violette looks like she died really young.”

Charlotte smiled. “Fourteen. Her father was a marquis or something, and she was a lady-in-waiting to Anne of Brittany. She died saving the young queen’s life during a kidnapping attempt.”

“Queen Anne? That makes her practically medieval!” I racked my brain for names and dates from my French history classes, but Charlotte beat me to the punch.

“She died right around 1500.”

“Holy cow. She’s more than a half a millennium old!”

Charlotte nodded thoughtfully.

“How about Arthur?”

“He’s from the same era. They actually knew each other in life. He was one of her father’s counselors, I think. In any case, they both reek of courtliness. She and Arthur live in a medieval castle in the Loire Valley, where I’m sure they feel right at home.” There was a bitter tone in Charlotte’s voice. It sounded like she wished they would go back to their château and leave us all alone.