Die for Me

“Come here,” he said. I inched my way toward him, not knowing what to expect. He lifted his arm, slowly, and touched my hand. He wasn’t as cold as before, but he didn’t feel quite human, either.

“See?” he said, the corners of his lips curving upward. “Alive.”

I stepped back, pulling my hand from his. “I don’t understand,” I said, my voice mistrustful. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked resigned. “I’m sorry I ever got you mixed up in this. It was selfish. But I didn’t think it would turn out this way. I didn’t think . . . at all. Obviously.”

My feeling of general alarm was replaced by a creeping sensation of fear of what would come next. I couldn’t imagine what sort of revelation he was going to come out with. But a little voice inside me said, You knew. And I realized that I had.

I had known that there was something different about Vincent. I had felt it, even before I saw his photo in the obituaries. It was something just a little east of normal, but too obscure for me to put my finger on. So I had ignored it. But now I was going to find out. A frisson of expectancy caused me to shudder. Vincent saw me tremble and frowned regretfully.

We were interrupted by a tapping at the door. Charlotte rose to open it and moved aside as, one by one, people stepped into the room.

Jules walked up to me first and, gently touching my shoulder, asked, “Are you feeling better?”

I nodded.

“I am so, so sorry for how I handled things before,” he said with remorse. “It was a knee-jerk reaction, trying to get you away from Vince as soon as possible. I was rough with you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Really. It’s okay.”

A familiar figure walked up behind him and jokingly pushed him aside. The muscular guy from the river turned to Jules and said, “Trying to hog her for yourself?” and then, bending down to my height, he held out his hand. “Kate, enchanted to meet you. I’m Ambrose,” he said in a baritone voice that was as thick as molasses. Then, switching into a perfectly American-accented English, he said, “Ambrose Bates from Oxford, Mississippi. It’s nice to meet a fellow countryman in this land of crazy French people!”

Clearly enjoying the fact that he had surprised me, Ambrose laughed deeply and clapped me on the arm before sitting down next to Jules on a couch and giving me a friendly wink.

A man I had never seen before stepped toward me and gave a nervous little bow. “Gaspard,” he introduced himself simply. He was older than the others, in his late thirties or early forties. Tall and gaunt, he had deep-set eyes and a shock of badly cut black hair sticking up in all directions. He turned and walked away toward the others.

“This is my twin brother, Charles,” said Charlotte, who had stayed by my side as presentations were made. She pulled forward the redhead copy of herself. Bowing and giving my hand a mock kiss, he said sarcastically, “Nice to see you again, now that it’s not raining masonry.” I smiled unsurely at him.

I don’t know if it was my imagination, or if everyone actually took a step backward, but all of a sudden it seemed like the only people in the room were me and the man I was facing. It was the aristocratic gentleman from yesterday—the owner of the house. Though everyone else had greeted me in a somewhat friendly ma

Standing before me, he bowed stiffly from the waist. “Jean-Baptiste Grimod de la Reynière,” he said, looking stonily into my eyes. “Although the rest of my kindred may reside here, this is my house and I, for one, feel that your presence here is very unwise.”

“Jean-Baptiste,” came Vincent’s voice from behind me. “None of this was intentional.” He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, seeming to have used all his energy with those six words.

“You, young man . . . you were the one who broke the rules by bringing her into our house in the first place. I have never permitted any of you to bring your human lovers here, and you flaunted my injunction most egregiously.”

I felt my cheeks flame at his words, but wasn’t sure which I was responding to: the “human” part or the “lovers” part. Nothing made sense anymore.

“What was I supposed to do?” Vincent argued. “She had just seen Jules die! She was in shock.”

“That was your own problem to solve. You shouldn’t have gotten involved with her in the first place. And now you are going to have to clean up your own mess.”

“Ah, lighten up, JB,” said Ambrose, leaning back and casually draping his arms along the entire length of the couch back. “It’s not the end of the world. We’ve checked her out, and she’s definitely not a spy. Plus, she’s not exactly the first human to know what we are.”

The older man shot him a withering look.

The one who’d introduced himself as Gaspard spoke up in a timorous voice. “If I may be permitted to clarify . . . the difference here is that every other human interacting with us was . . . ah . . . was individually chosen from families who have served Jean-Baptiste for generations.”

Generations? I thought with dismay. An icy finger brushed its way up my spine.

“Whereas you,” Jean-Baptiste continued with undisguised distaste, “I have known for less than a day, and already you are intruding on my kindred’s privacy. You are most unwelcome.”

“Sheesh!” exclaimed Jules. “Don’t hold back your true feelings, Grimod. You old-timers really need to learn to open up and express yourselves.” Jean-Baptiste acted like he hadn’t heard.

“Well, what are we supposed to do then?” Charlotte said, addressing our host.

“Okay, stop. Everyone,” Vincent said with a shallow breath. “You are my kindred. Who votes that we tell Kate?”

Ambrose, Charlotte, Charles, and Jules raised their hands.

“And what would you have us do?” Vincent directed his question toward Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard.

“That’s your problem,” Jean-Baptiste said. He stared me down for another few seconds and then, turning on his heel, strode rapidly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Thirteen

“SO,” SAID AMBROSE WITH A CHUCKLE, RUBBING his hands together. “Majority rules. Let’s get this party started.”

“Here,” said Charlotte, pulling a couple of big cushions from the couch to the floor. Sitting down Indian-style on one, she smiled at me and patted the other invitingly.

“It’s okay,” Vincent reassured me when I hesitated, and relinquished my hand.

“Kate,” Jules said, “you realize that what we talk about here doesn’t go outside these walls.”

Vincent’s words were slow and precise: “Jules is right. Our lives are in your hands once you know, Kate. I hate to force that type of responsibility on anyone, but the situation’s gone too far. Do you promise to keep our secret? Even if you”—it sounded like he was ru

I nodded. Everyone waited. “I promise,” I whispered, which was the best I could do with a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. Something extremely bizarre was going on here, and I had too few clues to guess what it was. But with Jean-Baptiste’s flippant use of the word “human” and Vincent and Jules both apparently having been resurrected, I knew I had gotten myself in deep. It was not knowing what I was deep in that was scaring the pee out of me.

“Jules . . . you start,” Vincent said, closing his eyes and looking more dead than alive.

Jules measured up the situation and decided to have pity. “Maybe it would be easier if we let Kate ask us what she wants.”

Where to even start? I thought, and then remembered what had set everything into such a downward spiral in the first place. “I saw a picture of you and Vincent in a 1968 newspaper that said you died in a fire,” I said, turning to Ambrose.