Die for Me

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

Chapter Fifteen

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 ru

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 gri

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 co

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.