My face has given something away: I see compassion on my kindred’s faces. One girl speaks up. “We were so sorry to hear about Jean-Baptiste,” she says, and everyone else nods and adds their own words of condolence.
Gold speaks up. “We’re going to make this brief, Jules. No formal inquisition necessary. In America we don’t have leaders, or ‘heads,’ like you do in Europe. Everything is done democratically. I usually speak for the crowd, since I am the official American historian—somewhat like Gaspard is for you. But any New York revenant animated over twenty years can be on the council, and it holds all the power.”
Gold pauses and looks around the group, waiting to see if anyone wants to jump in. When no one does, he says, “You have expressed a desire to join us here in New York. Could you give us an indication of how long you plan on staying?”
Here we go. “An indeterminate amount of time, if you are willing to host me,” I respond.
I see curiosity burn behind the eyes of the bardia. A member of the council speaks up. “Can you tell us the purpose of your stay?”
“I need time away from Paris,” I say.
“Wouldn’t your kindred prefer you to stay closer . . . say, elsewhere in France?” she presses.
“At the moment, I was hoping for a bit more . . . distance.” This is harder than I thought. If I could say it in French, I could add the innuendos needed to imply that it was a personal issue and they could mind their own damn business. But their expressions show openness and willingness to help me, so I swallow my bitterness. Note to self: They’re not the ones I’m upset with.
“Your kindred called you back to France to fight with them barely two days ago,” someone says, “and you complied. But you returned to New York last night—immediately after the battle. Can we conclude that this break from France is your decision, and not something wished for by your leaders?”
I take a moment to formulate my response. “My kindred would prefer that I stay. It is my decision to leave. But I am here with their blessing.”
“We will not be perceived as taking your side in any type of personal dispute, then, if we welcome you among us?”
“Definitely not,” I respond.
Everyone seems to relax. So this is what they were digging for.
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.