Die for Me (16 page)

Vincent leaned forward and took my hands in his. They were warm and strong, and his touch sent a rush of excitement coursing through my body that lodged in my heart. “Kate,” he said, “I can stay away from you. It would be a miserable existence, but I could do it if I knew you were happy.

“But if you want to be with me, too, I can offer you this solution: I will resist dying for as long as I am with you. I've talked to Jean-Baptiste, and we'll figure out a way for me to handle it. I won't put you through the repeated trauma of living through my deaths. I can't do anything about the fact that you will be without my physical presence for three days a month. But I can control the rest. And I will. If you decide to give me the chance.”

WELL? WHAT
COULD
I SAY?

I said, “Yes.”

WE SAT ON THE FLOOR CUDDLED UP NEXT TO
each other, facing the fire. “Are you hungry?” Vincent asked.

“Actually, I am,” I confessed, surprising myself. I hadn't had much of an appetite for about . . . three weeks.

While he went to the kitchen, I phoned my grandmother. “Mamie, would you mind if I skipped dinner? I'm going to eat out.”

“From the tone of your voice, would I be correct in guessing that this is about a certain boy?”

“Yes, I'm at Vincent's house.”

“Well, good for you. I hope you can clear this all up and join us again in the land of the living.” I flinched. If only she knew.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I said. “I might be out late.”

“Don't worry, darling Katya. But remember you have school tomorrow.”

“No problem, Mamie.”

My grandmother paused for so long that I wondered if she had hung up. “Mamie?” I asked after a few seconds.

“Katya,” she said slowly, as if pondering something. Then, in a decisive voice, she continued, “Darling, forget what I just said. I think it's better to get things sorted out than to try to be sensible about getting a good night's sleep. Does Vincent live with his parents?”

“With his family.”

“That's good. Well, if you decide to spend the night, give me a call so I won't worry.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“If it means having to take a sick day, then that's fine. You have my permission to stay at his family's house . . . in your own bed, of course.”

“Nothing's going to happen between us!” I began to protest.

“I know.” I could hear her smile through the headset. “You're almost seventeen, but you are older than that in your head. I trust you, Kate. Just take care of things and don't worry about coming home for me.”

“That's very . . . progressive of you, Mamie,” I said, paralyzed with amazement.

“I like to think I'm up with the times,” she joked, and then said ardently, “Live, Katya. Be happy. Take risks. Have fun.” And she hung up the phone.

My grandmother just gave me permission to have a sleepover with my boyfriend. That takes the cake for weirdness-of-the-day,
I decided.
Even more than Vincent's pledge not to die for me.

He returned with a huge tray of food. “Jeanne comes through for us once again,” Vincent said, laying the tray down on the table. It was piled with thinly sliced charcuterie,
saucissons
, cheeses, baguettes, and five or six different kinds of olives. There was bottled water, juice, and a pot of tea. Exotic fruits were piled in a bowl, and tiny macaroons in different colors were stacked in a pyramid on a high-stemmed cake plate.

I popped a tiny ball of fresh goat cheese into my mouth and chased it with a sliver of oil-drenched sun-dried tomato. “I feel spoiled,” I said dreamily, leaning my head on Vincent's shoulder. It felt so good to touch him after three weeks with only my pillow to hug.

“Good. That's exactly what I want you to feel. The only way I can compensate for this extraordinary situation is to make it up to you in an extraordinary way.”

“Vincent, it's amazing just being here with you. I don't need anything else.”

He smiled and said, “We'll see about that.”

As we ate, something Jean-Baptiste had said earlier in the day popped into my mind.

“Vincent, what happened to Charles?”

He was silent for a moment. “What did Jean-Baptiste tell you?”

“That Charles threw a knife at his portrait and ran away.”

“Yeah. Well, that was the end of the story. It started with the boat wreck and just got messier.”

“What happened?”

“Well, the day after the rescue, when his mind woke back up, Charles had Charlotte help him track down the mother of the girl who had died. He started following her around in volant form, wallowing in the guilt of not having saved her child. After he reanimated a couple of days later, he began stalking the woman. Leaving presents at her door. Taking flowers to the funeral home. He even attended the little girl's funeral.”

“Very creepy.”

Vincent nodded. “Charlotte was worried and told Jean-Baptiste the whole story. He sat Charles down and forbade him to see the woman. He even mentioned sending the twins to one of his houses in the south, to distance Charles from the situation until he got his head back together.

“And that's when Charles flipped. He was out of control, ranting about how unfair the whole thing was. How he didn't want to be a revenant for eternity, forced to sacrifice himself for people he didn't even know, and exiled if he tried to get involved in their lives. He blamed Jean-Baptiste for feeding and caring for him after he woke up, and not letting him die ‘as nature intended' after he was shot. And that's when he threw the knife.”

“At least he didn't throw it at Jean-Baptiste!”

“He might as well have, the way it hurt JB. Then he stalked out of the house, and Charlotte just about had a nervous breakdown.” Vincent paused. “We're sure he'll come back once he gets it out of his system.”

“He seems to have had a chip on his shoulder even before the boat accident,” I said.

“Yeah. He's always been the most existentially minded of all of us. Not that I haven't thought long and hard about our purpose here. He's just had the hardest time accepting it.”

That would explain a lot,
I thought, feeling a little bit sorry for Charles.

“When did he leave?”

“Two days ago.”

“That's when I saw him,” I said. “Friday night, a bit after midnight.”

“That's what Jean-Baptiste said. So . . . you were out clubbing without me?” He gave me a teasing smile. I could tell he was trying to lighten the atmosphere by changing the subject.

“I was attempting to dance my sorrows away.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

“Maybe it would work if I were there,” he said smugly. “Should we go out dancing some night?”

“I don't know. I've never seen a dead guy dance. Think you can keep up with me?” I joked, and in response Vincent grabbed my shoulders and leaned forward to press his lips firmly against mine.

My senses were instantly concentrated into those few tiny millimeters of our skin that were touching. And then he broke the connection, leaving my heart pounding in my throat, as if the kiss had yanked it up out of my chest.

“I take that as a yes?” I panted.

“I missed you,” he said, and leaned in for more.

 * * * 

“It's late. You should be getting back,” Vincent said after a couple of hours of lying on the couch and cuddling and catching up on all my nonevents.

“Actually, I have special permission from Mamie to stay at your family's house tonight, if I need the time to patch things up with you.” I felt a wicked grin spread across my face.

“What?” From his look of surprise, it seemed I had finally told him something shocking instead of the usual vice versa. “I've got your grandma on my side? Will wonders never cease?”

“I'm not sure it's exactly on
your
side; it's more on my side. Or maybe even hers. She doesn't want me to waste away from misery under her own roof.”

Vincent laughed. “Well, we wouldn't want to misuse Mamie's trust. You can take my bed. I don't need it anyway.” He winked. “Anything to spend more time with
ma belle
Kate.”

I melted inside.

While he concentrated on getting the fire restarted, I got up and wandered around his room, looking at his things for more clues as to who this mystery boy really was. When I reached his bedside table, I froze. Where my photo had stood was a small pot of flowers.

“I gave your photo to Charlotte,” Vincent said, walking up behind me. “It was too hard for me to see your picture every day when I knew I couldn't see you in the flesh.”

I touched his arm to show I wasn't upset. “I'll give you another one. That wasn't the most flattering of portraits, I have to say.”

“Good idea,” Vincent said and, digging a camera out of the table next to his bed, held it up like a trophy.

“Right now?” I grimaced, wondering if I looked as tired as I felt.

“Why not?” he asked, and standing next to me, he put his arm around my shoulder and held the camera out in front of us. “Hold still. It's better with no flash,” he said, and pressed the shutter release. He turned the camera around so we could see the shot.

My heart was in my mouth as I looked at the image of myself standing next to this godlike boy. His eyes were half-shut, and in the dim light of the room the circles under them actually made him appear more handsome than ever—but with a hint of darkness.

And me . . . well, I was glowing. Next to him, I looked like I was where I was supposed to be. And I felt it too.

We sat up on Vincent's bed and talked until late in the night. Finally my eyes began to close on their own, and he asked if I wanted to sleep. “Want, no. Need, maybe. Too bad your revenant insomnia can't rub off on me.” I smiled, stifling a yawn.

He pulled a light blue-green T-shirt out of a cupboard and tossed it to me across the room. “To match your eyes,” he said.

I rolled my eyes at the cheesy remark but was secretly pleased that he happened to know my exact eye color. The shirt was big enough to come halfway down my thighs. “Perfect,” I said, and looked up to notice that Vincent had turned around to face the wall.

“Go ahead,” he said in a playful voice.

“What are you doing?” I asked him, laughing.

“If I am forced to watch Kate Mercier strip down to her undies in my very own bedroom, I'm afraid I won't be able to answer to Mamie for what might happen.” The huskiness in his voice made me wish, for just a second, that he would follow through with his threat.

Pulling the shirt over my head, I said, “Okay, I'm decent.”

He turned around and looked at me, whistling under his breath. “You're more than decent! You look practically edible.”

“I thought revenants weren't into eating human flesh,” I teased, blushing in spite of myself.

“I didn't claim we never lapsed when pushed beyond our limits,” Vincent countered.

Wondering if all our conversations were going to be this bizarre, I shook my head with a smile and fished my phone out of my bag. Texting Georgia, I asked her to tell the school I was staying home “for personal reasons” and that I would bring a note from my grandmother on Tuesday.

And soon afterward, sitting on the bed with my back against the wall and my head on Vincent's shoulder, I fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning, I was covered in blankets and resting on a whisper-soft feather pillow. Vincent was gone, but there was a note on the table.

Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you sleep? The urge to wake you up and tell you was too tempting, so I left instead of risking your sleep-deprived wrath. Jeanne's got breakfast for you in the kitchen.

Throwing the previous day's clothes on, I walked groggily down the hallway to the kitchen. When Jeanne saw me walk in, she gave a cry and, running over to me, grabbed my head between her plump hands and planted a huge kiss on each of my cheeks.

“Oh, my little Kate. It's good to have you back. I was so happy when Vincent told me you were stopping by last night. And he actually ate this morning, for a change! I thought he was on a hunger strike, but he was just so sick over losing you. . . .” She stopped herself, putting a hand over her mouth.

“Listen to me run on, and you having just woken up. Sit, sit. I'll get you some breakfast. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” I said, flattered by all the attention.

Jeanne and I chatted while I was eating. She wanted to know everything about my family, where I was from, and what it was like to live in New York. I stayed for a little while after I finished eating, but couldn't wait to see Vincent.

Jeanne could tell. Picking up my empty cup and plate, she shooed me out of the kitchen. “I'm sure you don't want to spend your day in here with me. Go find Vincent. He's working out in the gym.”

“Where's the gym?” I asked, curious about a side of Vincent's life I didn't yet know.

“Silly me, I keep thinking you know your way around, when you've only been here a couple of times. It's in the basement. The door to the left as you leave the kitchen.”

I heard them before I saw them. The clang of steel against steel. The heavy breathing, groans, and exclamations. It sounded like the special effects sound track for a martial arts film was being played full blast in an echo chamber. I got to the bottom of the stairs and gasped as I looked around.

The room extended the entire length of the house. The stone ceiling was curved in a barrel arch. Tiny windows were hewn into the top of the wall along its length, at what must be ground level outside. Rays of sunlight angled into the room, transforming swirling dust motes into spooky-looking columns of smoke.

The walls were lined with arms and armor, everything from medieval crossbows, shields, and swords to battle-axes and pikes. Mixed in were more contemporary swords and an assortment of hunting rifles and old army guns.

In the middle of the room, Vincent was swinging a massive, two-handed sword at another man, whose black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. He parried, holding up his own dangerous-looking blade to deflect the blow. Their speed and force was astonishing.

Vincent was wearing baggy black karate pants but was barefoot and shirtless. When he spun with the sword, his rock-hard abdominal muscles and broad chest rippled as he raised and lowered his weapon. He was chiseled, but not pumped up like Ambrose. His body was perfect.

After a few minutes of blatant spying, I stepped down into the room, and the other man glanced toward me and nodded.