“Hey, if you can ad lib a Flame-finger house blessing, Bran definitely picked the right person for the job!” Georgia says, as we walk back to the Métro.

“Agreed,” says Charlotte. “So...any memories of numa activities in your old neighborhood?”

I shook my head. “No. Further down toward Pigalle they had some bars. But most lived in the sixteenth arrondissement.”

“Okay, let’s check that out then,” Charlotte said. “Next stop, sixteenth.”

“I should actually get going. I’m having dinner with my dad,” Siaka says. He stoops down to unchain the Vespa. “But I’ll stop by La Maison tomorrow if that’s okay. Louis and I need you to set him up on the bardia database.”

“Sounds good,” Charlotte says.

Siaka’s gaze fixes on the air just to the right of my head, as if he spots something hovering there. “By the way, Arthur, Louis helped me prepare a new remedy for you to test when you reanimate.”

That’s right, I remember. Flame-fingers can see volant spirits.

Arthur replies to Siaka in my head. I hope it tastes better than the last one.

I translate, and Siaka laughs. “I’m not even telling you what was in the last one,” he says to the air.

“You better not tell him what’s in this one either,” I say with a grin.

Joy, Arthur deadpans.

Siaka gives everyone cheek kisses, saving me for last. Despite my best efforts, his lips against my cheek turn my knees to Jell-O. He hops on his Vespa and drives away, all sexy leather-jacket biker guy. Once I tear my eyes from his receding form, I see Georgia grinning wickedly. “It’s good to see you and Siaka get along so well, since you’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

My ears get hot and my face flushes. Charlotte is making a great effort not to laugh. “Shall we move on?” I suggest.

“Or...we could keep standing here watching you watch Siaka drive away,” Georgia says, looking like the Cheshire Cat.

Don’t listen to her, Arthur says. Georgia will ‘ship’ any two people whose eyes meet for more than a millisecond.

I clear my throat to hide my embarrassment. “We can go now,” I say.

***

We spend the next couple of hours visiting places I went when I was a numa, starting with the luxury apartments where Nicolas and other important numa lived in the sixteenth arrondissement—the wealthy part of town.

By the time we get to Judas, the next stop on Charlotte’s itinerary, it’s pushing nine p.m. “So this is the place we fought those Numa Army guys a couple of days ago,” she says.

“You already know the bar was owned by the numa,” I say. “Violette came here a few times to meet with the human manager. Before that it was run by—”