Avoiding death wouldn’t be a problem if I stay here in Brittany. We’re in the middle of the countryside. All cows and sheep and farming and...that’s pretty much it. It’s officially the most boring, uneventful place on earth. That’s what Bran had planned...a few more years of this snoozefest and I would, as he said, “achieve my full potential.” But yesterday I got the call. I’ve been invited to move to Paris. Why? Bran just said that my “bardia kindred” would fill me in. (I always feel uncomfortable when he uses that term, since it isn’t technically accurate: I’m not yet a bardia, so I haven’t earned the status of “kindred.”)

Paris is where I grew up. But this time will be different. The thought of being with people I’ve basically idolized for the last five years fills my heart with both dread and excitement. I knew Kate a little. I spent a few days weaning her back to life after Violette killed her. But the rest of her kindred I only met on the day of the Final Battle, just before I died and was whisked away to Brittany. Jules and Ava stopped by about three months after I moved in with Bran, but they only stayed a day.

I’ve begged Bran to tell me everything he knows about Paris’s bardia. Googling is useless, because they use aliases when they save lives or do anything in the public eye. So basically, I’m moving in tomorrow with a bunch of undead superheroes who I barely know but secretly worship. And even though I used to be their enemy and haven’t technically yet become one of them, they say they want my help.

So...no pressure or anything.

Chapter Two

“Here he is! The lean mean fightin’ machine, come all the way from Bumfart Brittany to give me some exercise!”

A man the size of a tank appears in the grand archway of the massive stone Paris mansion the bardia call “La Maison,” flinging the doors open before I can get close enough to knock. I have to look up to meet his eyes. Ambrose is about twice as big as I remember him; the training videos do no justice to his sheer bulk.

He throws a meaty arm around my shoulders and squeezes, making me feel like a very fragile pencil. “You don’t have to knock, man, you’re kindred,” he says, pulling me into the foyer, then yells over his shoulder, “Hey baby, look what the Crow dragged in!” He lets go of me and reaches for Bran. (Bran’s name means crow in Breton, and with his bottle-thick glasses, black, slicked-back hair, ivory skin and sharp nose, the nickname suits him.) My mentor does a fancy sidestep to avoid Ambrose’s grasp, and slips past us.