It’s right there. The N.A. and broken swastika symbol. Whatever the Numa Army is, this guy’s definitely part of it.

Chapter Nine

Ambrose greets us at the front door. “Finally!” he says. “Jeanne won’t let us eat until everyone’s here.” He grabs me around the neck in a playful but all-too-realistic stranglehold. “So, how’s your first day been, newbie? Good, huh? Work up an appetite? Let’s get you some food. Then a workout.”

“Maybe Louis would prefer getting moved into his room to a late-night workout,” Charlotte says, gesturing at my bag, which still sits inside the front door.

Ambrose ignores her and pulls me toward the kitchen. “Do you realize that if you die now, each time, you’ll transform back into this...” he waves his hand up and down as if displaying an underwhelming specimen, “...not quite peak form.”

“I think Bran is hoping Louis won’t die until he’s a little older,” Charlotte rebuts. “Which should give you plenty of time to play Louis’s personal trainer...if he even wants you to!” She loops her arm through mine and accompanies us down the back hallway toward the kitchen.

Ambrose tips his head to the side, as though he’s listening. He chuckles. “Arthur says I shouldn’t assume everyone wants to be as jacked as me. Which is ridiculous. Of course they do! Let’s call it a compromise. We won’t let you die until you get at least as tall and as ripped as me. Then...” He makes a squeech kind of noise and draws his finger across his throat.

Charlotte leans in. “Don’t let him push you around, Louis. He’s under the impression that you’re here solely for his entertainment.”

Ambrose throws open the kitchen doors, and we walk in to see Jeanne pulling an enormous pan of lasagna from the oven. The undisputed house mom at La Maison, her gray hair is stacked up in a bun, and her plump figure and rosy cheeks make her look like she’d give the best hugs ever. Even so, I’ve decided to bide my time until she offers. Beside her, two bowls of salad sit on the counter and a tray of steaming garlic bread is cooling on a sideboard. My mouth starts watering like someone turned on a tap.

But when I tear my eyes away from the food, I completely forget about the meal. Because there, at the long dining table, Vincent—the same guy who served my ass to me on a plate at this morning’s meeting—is serving apple sauce to a toddler sitting in a highchair.

I realize my mouth is hanging open but am unable to do anything about it.

Vincent sees me and frowns. “How’d it go?” he asks Charlotte.