Siaka laughs. “Bran doesn’t think there’s anything of importance in the books, or we’d have already searched them. But since the Archives are down the street from my chemistry class tomorrow morning, I’ll drop by afterward.”

“Text me when you leave school,” I say. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Seriously, you’ll just be standing outside by yourself for a long time. It’s totally not worth it.”

“Watching you disappear through a magical door is totally worth it.”

“If you say so,” he replies, and I can hear his smile. “I have homework to do before tomorrow’s class, so I better go.”

“Study hard,” I say and hang up.

And thoughts of Siaka and a magical door and what it would be like if I could pass through with him into the Archives, all alone just the two of us, make getting back into my research an almost impossible task.

Jeanne brings me dinner in the library, saying that the others are eating out and won’t return until later. I’m getting restless from being in the same room all day, so after I eat, I take a pile of books back to my room. As I settle down on my couch for another interminable research session, my phone rings.

“Hi,” Siaka says, and his voice gives me goosebumps.

“Hi back.”

“So, the human half of our ‘work collaboration’ has to go to bed. Enjoy your sleepless night.”

“Sweet dreams,” I say, and hang up feeling warm and fuzzy. The word boyfriend pops into my mind, and I let it stay for a few delicious seconds before picking up the top book from my stack and try to concentrate.

It is a handwritten journal by a twelfth-century troubadour in Occitania who collected poems about revenants. A lot of it sounds dubious, but some stories, like the girl who died pushing a child out of the path of a team of galloping horses, and then “resurrected Christ-like three days later, only to disappear forever into the mists,” sounds like a pretty accurate depiction of a bardia. I take notes for Gaspard but find nothing relating to a magical formula ensuring normal humans become revenants when they die.

Four books later, sunlight is squeezing past the curtains, spilling into a glowing patch on the hardwood floor. I put my book down and check the old-fashioned clock Jules probably bought when he was still human. It’s already nine a.m. Time for breakfast. I’m thinking about the hot cup of coffee I’m going to fix myself when the words—GET UP!—are yelled inside my mind.

“What is it?” I ask the air.

An attack. Gaspard’s volant spirit talks directly into my brain. Go down to the armory. Get suited up. There’s going to be a fight. I’ll tell the others.