Die for Me (8 page)

WE WERE ON OUR OWN. FINALLY. AND WHAT
should have been a terrifying situation—me . . . alone in an old castle . . . sitting next to someone I had just discovered was a monster—well, it wasn't terrifying at all. Incredibly, it seemed more awkward than anything.

I sat facing him on his bed, this boy who seemed to be on the verge of death. Even in his feeble state he was beautiful. I had every reason to be afraid, but instead I was gripped by the strangest emotion. I felt like protecting him.

“So . . . ,” Vincent said.

“So . . . you're immortal?”

“'fraid so.”

He looked tired and worried, and for the first time, very vulnerable. I suddenly felt like I held all the power in my hands. Which, concerning
us
, I suppose I did.

“How's that make you feel?” he asked.

“Um. It's a lot to take in all at once. But it definitely explains things.” I felt his fingers clutch my own. “Is the reason I'm not afraid right now because you're holding my hand?”

“What do you mean?” he said with an uneven smile.

“It's one of your superpowers, isn't it? What is it? The Tranquilizing Touch or something?”

“Superpowers!” He chuckled. “Um. Yeah, Miss Perceptive. How did you figure that one out?”

“Charlotte used it on me earlier. And I doubt I could have gotten through this informational meeting without the few hits you gave me.”

The corners of his mouth curved slightly. His fingers loosened and then curved back around my hand. “I see. And no, even though I'm touching you, I'm not doing the ‘Tranquilizing Touch' as you call it. It doesn't happen every time I touch you. I have to will it. But at the moment, you seem to be managing fine on your own.”

I glanced at his bedside table and saw that my photo had been placed downward. Resting on top of it was the letter I had written to him the day before. It already seemed like years ago.

“You got my note,” I said.

“Yeah. It helped explain why you went all stalker on me.” He laughed. “I still can't believe that Jean-Baptiste let you in. It's just as much his fault that you found me as my own for bringing you here the first time. I'm definitely not letting him hold that one over my head. How you managed to convince him to let you past the front door, I will never understand.”

Vincent's laugh was edged with something that sounded like victory. “You're amazing,” he said, his eyes radiating warmth. I sat there basking in it, until he closed them and laid his head back against the pillow.

“Are you okay?” I asked, worried.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just feeling really weak. Do you mind giving me something from that table?” He nodded toward a folding tray set up next to the head of his bed, holding an array of fruits and nuts.

I picked up a plate of dates and then sat back down next to him with it.

“Thanks,” he said, touching my hand again before picking up a fruit and popping it into his mouth.

“So the necklace was for Charlotte,” I said, watching his face carefully.

He grinned. “See? Girl
friend
. Not girlfriend. Just someone I've known for what . . . the last half century?”

“Not that it matters,” I said quickly, embarrassed.

“Of course not,” Vincent said, faking a serious look and nodding solemnly.

I looked down at my hands. “You said it takes a while to recover from . . . whatever. When will you be up and about?”

“It depends on what condition you're in when you become dormant. I wasn't injured or anything, so by tonight I'll be as good as new. Better, actually.”

I could tell he was trying to lighten the mood, but he looked so exhausted I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. “Oh, Vincent.”

“It's not bad, really, Kate. It's actually good to have some downtime . . . to recharge a little, since after this I won't sleep again for weeks.”

My frown made him stop. “We don't need to talk about this now. Don't worry about me, though. I'm the one who's worried about you. How—how are you?”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Well, if you're not doing the calming thing and I haven't freaked out and run screaming from your house, I guess I'm doing pretty well.”

“Amazing,” he said again.

“Okay, stop it with the flattery,” I teased. “Save it for the next victim you draw helplessly into your lair.”

Vincent's laugh was cut short by the sound of the door opening. I turned to see Jean-Baptiste striding into the room, with Gaspard trailing along in his wake.

“Kate, go find Charlotte and the others,” Vincent said softly, “but once you're told you can go, don't leave without coming back to see me. Please.”

Gaspard walked me to the open door. “They're in the kitchen,” he said, indicating the far end of the corridor. Then, leaving me in the hallway, he closed the door behind him.

I followed the delicious smell of fresh bread toward the kitchen, but hesitated in front of the swinging door. Taking a nervous breath, I pushed it open and stepped inside. The whole crew was sitting around a huge oak table. As one, they looked up and waited for me to do something.

Ambrose broke the ice. “Enter, human!” he said in a
Star Trek
voice, muffled slightly by a full mouth.

Charlotte and Charles laughed, and Jules waved me over to an empty chair next to him. “So you survived the wrath of Jean-Baptiste,” he said. “Very brave.”

“Very stupid for coming here,” Charles added, not looking up from his plate.

“Charles!” Charlotte scolded.

“Well, it was!” Charles said defensively.

“What would you like, dear?” interrupted a motherly voice from above my shoulder.

I turned to see a plump middle-aged woman wearing an apron. She had soft rosy cheeks, and her graying blond hair was tied up in a bun.

“Jeanne?” I asked.

“Yes, dear Kate,” she answered. “That's me. I've been hearing all about your eventful evening from the others. I'm sorry I didn't get to meet you before, but unlike the rest here, I need a good night's sleep.”

“Then you're not . . .” I hesitated.

“No, she's not one of us,” Jules responded. “But Jeanne's family has been in the service of Jean-Baptiste for . . .”

“Over two hundred years,” Jeanne said, finishing his sentence as she shoveled a mountain of scrambled eggs onto Ambrose's plate. He gave her a ravishing smile, and said, “Marry me, Jeanne,” leaning over to kiss the hand holding the serving spoon. “In your dreams,” she laughed, and tapped him playfully on the hand with the spoon.

Putting a fist on her hip, she looked up at the ceiling as if trying to remember a poem she had memorized. “My great-great-great-grandfather (plus a few) was Monsieur Grimod de La Reynière's valet, and went to war with him when he fought under Napoleon. It was that ancestor, only fifteen at the time, whom Monsieur Grimod saved, pushing him from the path of a cannonball that took his own life. It's a good thing the boy was determined to bring Monsieur's body back from Russia for burial, because he was there three days later when Monsieur woke up and was able to care for him. And my family's been with Monsieur ever since.”

She recounted this incredible story like she would describe her trip to the market that morning. It must seem natural to her, having been raised by a mother and grandmother who told her the same story. But I felt overwhelmed as my mind tried to twist its way around the repercussions.

“Thanks, Jeanne. Kate looked almost normal again until you started talking,” Jules said.

“I'm fine,” I responded, smiling at her. “I'll just have some bread and coffee, thank you.”

Jeanne pushed a coffee capsule into a high-tech coffee machine and turned it on before bustling over to the oven and taking a tray of croissants out.

“I'm off,” Charles said, pushing his chair under the table, and after coolly bumping fists with Jules and Ambrose, he marched out of the kitchen without a second glance at me.

I looked at the others. “Was it something I said?”

“Kate,” Ambrose said, chuckling, “you've got to remember—even though Charles's body should be eighty-two, his maturity level is stuck at fifteen.”

“I'll go with him,” Charlotte chirped, seemingly embarrassed by her twin's rudeness. “Bye, Kate.” She leaned over to kiss me on both cheeks. “I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon.”

“So what happens now?” I asked as the door closed behind her. I felt oddly torn between the urge to go back to my grandparents' house and see my real, living, breathing family and the desire to stay here, among these people who, after just a few hours of knowing me, already seemed to accept me. Or at least most of them did. Never mind that they weren't human.

Before anyone could answer, Gaspard stuck his porcupine hair through the door. “You can go, Kate. But Vincent asked to see you on your way out.” He disappeared back into the passageway.

As I rose to my feet, Jules stood and said, “Do you want me to walk you home?”

Ambrose nodded, and with a full mouth said, “Walk her home.”

“No, that's okay, I can get home on my own.”

“I'll walk you to the door, then,” Jules said, pushing his chair under the table.

“Good-bye, Jeanne. Thanks for the breakfast. Bye, Ambrose,” I called as Jules politely opened the door for me to pass through first, and walked with me down the long hallway to Vincent's door. I went in and he closed the door behind me, waiting in the hallway.

“So what did they say?” I asked, approaching the bed. Vincent was whiter and weaker-looking than before, but smiled consolingly.

“It's okay. I've promised to take full responsibility for you.”

Though I didn't know what that meant, I felt torn between thinking I didn't need a babysitter on the one hand, and rather liking the idea of being Vincent's ward on the other.

“You can go home now,” he continued, “but as Jean-Baptiste said before, you can't talk about us to anybody. Not that they would believe you anyway, but we try to stay as under the radar as possible.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“You've heard of vampires?” he asked, smiling mysteriously.

I nodded.

“You've heard of werewolves?”

“Of course.”

“Had you ever heard of us?”

I shook my head.

“That's called ‘staying under the radar,' dear Kate. It's what we're good at.”

“Gotcha.” I took his outstretched hand.

“Can I see you again in a few days?” he asked.

I nodded, suddenly uncertain when I thought of what the future could hold. Pausing at the door, I called, “Take care,” and then immediately felt stupid. He was immortal. He didn't have to
take care
. “I mean rest up,” I corrected myself.

He smiled, amused by my confusion, and saluted me.

“Milady.” Jules stepped forward, bowing like a doorman in a Merchant-Ivory film, and placed my hand on his arm. “Shall we?” I couldn't help but laugh. He was going all out to make up for upsetting me.

Back in the grand foyer, I picked up my book bag. As I stepped outside, he touched my arm and said, “Listen. I'm sorry I was rude before today, you know . . . in my studio and at the museum. I swear it was nothing personal. I was just trying to protect Vincent and you . . . and all of us. Now that it's too late for that, well, please accept my apology.”

“I totally understand,” I told him. “What else could you do?”

“Whew—she forgave me,” he said, hand on heart, his playfulness obviously returning. “So. You sure you'll be okay?” he asked me, stepping closer with a look that struck me as more than just friendly concern for my well-being. He saw me read his face and smiled flirtatiously, lifting an eyebrow as if asking a question.

“I'll be fine, really. Thank you,” I responded, blushing, and stepped over the threshold onto the cobblestones.

“Vince'll come see you as soon as he can,” he said, thrusting his hands into his jean pockets and nodding good-bye.

I waved back at him and walked slowly out of the courtyard into the street beyond, feeling as if I were in a dream.

THE WEEKEND WENT BY IN A BLUR, WITH MY
body doing one thing and my mind back in the house on rue de Grenelle.

I didn't know when to expect word from Vincent. On Monday morning, as Georgia and I left for school, I spotted an envelope taped to our building's front door with my name printed on it in a beautiful, old-fashioned cursive. I opened it, and from inside pulled a piece of thick white card, on which was written in sweeping script, “Soon. V.”

“Who's V?” asked Georgia, with eyebrows raised.

“Oh, just this guy.”

“What guy?” she asked, stopping dead in her tracks and grabbing my arm. “The criminal?”

“Yes,” I laughed, breaking away from her grasp and pulling her along toward the Métro. “Except that he's not a criminal. He's . . .”
He's a revenant, a kind of undead-guardian-angel type of monster that runs around saving human lives.
“He just hangs out with some iffy people.”

“Hmm . . . I think I should meet him.”

“No way, Georgia. I don't even know if I'm going to keep seeing him. All I need is for you to interfere and complicate things before I actually decide I like him.”

“Oh, you like him all right.”

“Okay, I like him. I mean whether I'm going to keep seeing him.”

She looked at me skeptically.

“I can't explain it, Georgia. Just let's not talk about it. I promise to let you know if anything happens.”

We walked in silence for about two seconds before she said, “Don't worry. I won't try to steal him from you.”

I hit her with my book bag as we ran down the stairs to the Métro.

Vincent had said he wanted to see me “in a few days,” but we were on day four, and I had begun wondering when, if ever, I would see him again. Maybe he had changed his mind about me once he had gotten stronger. Or maybe Jean-Baptiste had changed it for him. I just thought about his note and hoped he would show.

After the last bell rang on Tuesday, I walked through the school's front gates and headed toward the bus stop. My pace slowed as I spotted a familiar figure standing across the street. It was Vincent.

His black hair shone in the late-September sun, and he radiated energy and life. He looked like some kind of perfect mythological creature.
He
is
some kind of perfect mythological creature,
I reminded myself. I felt breathless. Though his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, I saw his lips curve up into a smile when he saw me coming through the gates.

A vintage red Vespa was parked where he stood, and as I crossed the street toward him he held up a matching helmet. After the four-day wait, I felt like throwing my arms around him in relief. But when I got a step away I hesitated, remembering what he had looked like the last time I had seen him.

He had been near death. Lying there almost lifeless on his bed like a scene from an old black-and-white horror film. And now here he was, four days later, every pore of his body oozing health. What was wrong with me? I should be running
away
from him as fast as I could, not into his arms.
Monster, not human,
I reminded myself.

He saw me pause, and although he had been leaning in to greet me, he took a step back and waited for me to make the first move.

“Hey. You look a lot more . . . alive,” I said, flashing him a tense smile, while inside me the battle between impulse and caution continued.

He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his expression a cross between sheepish and apologetic. “Yeah. Walking, talking . . .” His voice faded as he watched my expression carefully.

Make up your mind,
I thought, prodding myself into action. Reaching out, I took the spare helmet from his hand. “So, the back-from-the-dead thing . . . good party trick,” I said, pulling the helmet on.

Vincent's expression was one of immediate relief. “Yeah, I'll have to show you how it works sometime,” he laughed and, swinging one leg over the scooter, held out a hand to me.

I took it hesitantly. It was warm. Soft. Mortal. I settled myself behind him and pushed all lingering doubts back to a far corner of my mind. “Where are we going?” I asked, finally letting myself feel the excitement that had been struggling to break free.

“Just a little ride around town,” he said, as he kick-started the Vespa and zoomed out into the street.

Holding Vincent felt like heaven, and driving through Paris on a vintage Vespa felt like the best adventure I had had in years. We crossed a bridge over the Seine into Paris, and cut across town to drive along the riverbank. The water glimmered in the autumn light.

After a twenty-minute ride, we came to the Île Saint-Louis, one of two natural islands in the middle of the Seine that are connected to the mainland by bridges, and linked to each other by a footbridge.

Vincent locked the scooter to a gate and then, taking me by the hand, led me down a long flight of stone steps to the water's edge.

“Listen, I'm sorry I couldn't come to you sooner,” he said, walking along the quay with me hand in hand. “I had a job to do for Jean-Baptiste. I came as soon as I could.”

“That's okay,” I responded, refraining from asking him questions. I preferred to forget about all the weird fantasy-novel events from the previous weekend. I wanted to pretend that we were just a boy and a girl spending an afternoon by the riverside. But I had a nagging feeling that the reverie wouldn't last for long.

As we approached the tip of the island, the narrow sidewalk opened out into a large cobblestone terrace. “This place is always crowded during the summer, but no one ever thinks to come here the rest of the year. Which leaves it empty for us,” Vincent said as he led me to the north side.

Lowering himself to the edge of the terrace, he spread his coat on the stone and reached his hand up for me to take it. I felt like we were the last two people on earth. This knight in shining armor had swept me away to his little island of peace in the midst of the busy city and wanted to sit with me for a few fairy-tale moments.
This can't be real.

We watched the tiny waves sparkle and flash like mirrors in the sun atop the fast-flowing viridian river. Enormous puffy clouds drifted across a wide expanse of sky that you rarely saw when walking among the city's buildings. The waves lapped loudly against the base of the wall, their sound mounting to a crashing crescendo when boats motored by. I closed my eyes and let the tranquillity of the place flow through me.

Vincent touched my hand, breaking the spell. His brow was lined with concern as he appeared to search for words. Finally he spoke. “You know what I am, Kate. Or at least you know the basics.”

I nodded, wondering what could possibly come next.

“The thing is . . . I want to get to know you. I have a feeling about you that I haven't had for a long, long time. But being what I am makes things”—he paused—“complicated.”

Watching his agonized expression, I felt like touching him, reassuring him, but exercised every last ounce of my self-control to keep still and hold my tongue. He had obviously thought about what he wanted to say, and I didn't want to distract him from it.

“You've just been through a great loss. And the last thing I want is to make things more painful for you than they already are. If I were a normal guy, living an everyday life, I wouldn't even be talking to you about this. We would just hang out, see how it went, and if things worked, great. If not, we would each go our own way.

“But I can't do that in good conscience. Not with you. I can't let someone who I feel I could care deeply for begin this journey without knowing the consequences. Knowing that I'm different. That I have no idea what this could mean if it goes further. . . .” He seemed both dismayed by his own words and determined to spit them out. “I hate even having to talk to you like this. It's too much, too fast.”

He paused for a moment and looked down at our hands, separated by mere inches of cobblestone.

“Kate, I can't stop myself from wanting to be with you. So I'm putting all of this forward for you to consider. To decide what you want. I want to try. To see how we could be. But I will walk away right now if you give me the word—only you know what you can handle. What happens next, with us, is up to you. You don't have to decide right now, but it would be nice to know how you feel about what I've said.”

Drawing my feet up from where they dangled off the edge of the quay, I wrapped my arms around my legs. I rocked back and forth for a few minutes in silence and did something I rarely allowed myself to do. I thought about my parents. About my mother.

She teased me for being impetuous, but had always told me to follow my heart. “You have an old soul,” she said once. “I wouldn't say this to Georgia, and for God's sake, don't tell her I told you this. But she doesn't have the same intuition you do. The same ability to see things for what they are. I don't want you to be afraid to go after the things you really want in life. Because I think you will want the
right
things.”

If she could only see what I wanted now, she would eat her words.

Shifting my eyes from the passing boats to Vincent, sitting motionless by my side, I studied his profile as he looked out at the water, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't even a choice. Who was I trying to fool? I had made my decision the first time I saw him, whatever my rational mind had tried to convince me of since then.

I leaned toward him. Reaching up with one hand, I swept my fingers down his arm, running their tips along his warm skin. He turned his head and looked at me with a longing that made my heart skip a beat. I brushed my lips against the bronzed surface of his cheek and braced myself to have the strength to say the words I knew I must. “I can't, Vincent. I can't say yes.”

His eyes showed pain, despair even, but not surprise. My answer was the one he had expected.

“I'm not saying no, either,” I continued, and he visibly relaxed. “I'm going to need some things if we're going to see each other.”

He let out a low, sexy laugh. “So you're making demands, are you? Well, let's hear them.”

“I want unlimited access.”

“Now that sounds interesting. To what, exactly?”

“To information. I can't do this if I don't understand what I'm getting into.”

“Do you need to know everything right away?”

“No, but I don't want to feel like you're hiding anything either.”

“Fair enough. As long as it goes both ways.”

A slight smile lifted the corners of his perfectly sculpted lips. I looked away, before I lost my courage.

“I need to know when I'm not going to see you for a while. When you do the death-sleep thing. So that I won't worry that I've driven you off with my mortality. Or my incessant questions.”

“Agreed. That's easy enough to schedule, when things are normal. But if something were to happen to . . . throw things off . . .”

“Something like what?”

“Do you remember being told about how we stay young?”

“Oh. Right.” The awful image of Jules jumping in front of the train returned to my mind's eye. “You mean if you were to ‘save someone.'”

“Then I would be sure to get word to you from one of my kindred.”

I remembered hearing him use that word before. “Why do you say ‘kindred'?”

“It's what we call one another.”

“Kind of medieval-sounding, but okay,” I said skeptically.

“Anything else?” he asked, looking every bit like a naughty schoolboy waiting to be given his punishment.

“Yes. It doesn't have to be right away, but . . . you have to meet my family.”

Vincent laughed outright, a rich sound that startled me with its amusement and relief. Leaning toward me, he took me in his arms and said, “Kate. I knew you were an old-fashioned girl. A girl after my own heart.”

I let myself melt into his embrace for a few seconds, and then pulled back and assumed the most serious expression I could muster. “I'm not committing to anything, Vincent. Just to the next date.”

All of a sudden I felt that the old me—the pre-car-wreck Brooklyn me—was outside looking in at the new me, the me that not even a year ago had been forced to instantly grow up. The me who had been battle-scarred by tragedy. I was amazed to witness myself sitting next to this breathtaking guy and speaking those cautious words to him. How on earth had I morphed so quickly into this levelheaded person? How could I be sitting there, stoically laying down conditions for something that I wanted more than anything I'd ever had?

Self-preservation. Those two words came to my mind, and I knew what I was doing was right. My whole being had been torn to shreds when I lost my parents. I didn't want to open myself up to falling for Vincent and risk losing him, too. Deep down I knew I had barely survived my parents' “disappearance.” I might not survive another.