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on the seat and closed his eyes.
    â€œGood man.” Ambrose leaned over the seat and patted Bran reassuringly on the knee before turning to Arthur. “Dude, can’t you drive this thing any faster?” he urged in a low voice. “Skeletor back there is fading fast.”
    I watched Bran for a moment, wanting to ask him about Vincent—to see if he knew anything about disembodied spirits. His mother had mentioned family records when I had asked her to help Vincent resist dying. She had told me her line of healers knew some of the revenants’ secrets, and she would check their accounts to see if she could help us. I wondered if Bran knew everything his mother had. But seeing his exhaustion and battered face, I knew this wasn’t the time to ask.
    In a record ten minutes we were entering the gate at La Maison, where a welcoming committee waited by the front door. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard stood on either side of a concerned-looking Jeanne, who made a rush for the car as we pulled up.
    Georgia and I helped shift Bran out, then followed as Arthur and Ambrose supported him, his arms propped around their shoulders. They got him to the front door, where Jean-Baptiste waited. “I’ll be fine,” Bran reassured his bodyguards, and they carefully set him down as he extended a shaking hand toward JB.
    â€œ Bonjour ,” he began, but as his fingers touched the revenant leader’s hand, a bright light, like a camera flash, exploded between them, causing everyone around to shield their faces. I blinked several times before the spots began clearing from my vision, and saw that Bran had gone stiff. He let out a deep moan, his head fell forward, and he sank unconscious to the ground.
    â€œAre you okay?” Gaspard yelped, rushing to JB’s side. The revenant leader blinked a few times and shook his arm out experimentally.
    â€œWhat the hell was—” Georgia began, but was cut off by Jeanne, who had leapt into emergency mode. “Up! Get him up!” she commanded, and Ambrose scooped Bran’s floppy form into his arms. Carrying him to Vincent’s room, he deposited him carefully on the bed. Jeanne was there in an instant, applying cold wet cloths to Bran’s head and wrists. Within seconds his eyelids were fluttering open.
    â€œWhere am I?” he mumbled. Jeanne handed him his glasses, which had fallen when he had. Pulling them on with shaking hands, he peered anxiously at our faces, looking downright startled when he saw me.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t looking at someone else. His astonished look—like he didn’t recognize me after I had spent the last couple of hours scurrying around underground Paris with him—was freaking me out.
    He kept staring for a few seconds, blinking a few times with his non-swollen eye. Then sighing deeply, he said, “Nothing, child,” and leaned back into the pillow.
    â€œAre you okay?” Jeanne asked, tucking a blanket around his trembling form.
    Ignoring her question, Bran asked, “May I suppose that your residence is safe from the evil ones?”
    â€œYou can bet your sweet . . . um, yes, sir,” said Ambrose, editing himself. “As long as you’re here with us you’ll be safe from the numa.”
    â€œSafe,” breathed Bran. “No one will be safe until the Victor triumphs.”
    â€œThe Victor?” asked Arthur.
    â€œHe means the Champion,” I clarified.
    Gaspard spoke up. “I am sorry to inform you, dear ally, that the Victor has been captured. He is now in the hands of our enemies.”
    Bran considered Gaspard’s words. “Yes, your Kate has informed me of that,” he replied finally. “But Violette doesn’t yet have his power. And if she cannot figure out the magic of the transfer herself, she will not learn it from me. That will at least give us some time.”
    Jeanne stepped forward.