Die for Me

“Ah, my kouros,” Papy said, walking over to the marble statue. “Fifth century BCE. A true prize. The Greek government wouldn’t have even let it out of the country nowadays, but I bought it from a Swiss collector whose family acquired it in the nineteenth century.” He led me past a jeweled reliquary in a glass case. “You never know what you’re getting these days, with all these iffy provenances.”

“What’s this one?” I asked, stopping in front of a large black vase. Its surface was decorated with a dozen or so reddish-colored human figures in dramatic poses. Two armored groups faced each other, and in the middle a fierce-looking naked man stood at the head of each army. They held spears toward each other in a face-off. “Naked soldiers. Interesting.”

“Ah, the amphora. It’s about a hundred years younger than the kouros. Shows two cities at battle, led by their numina.”

“Their what?”

“Numina. Singular, numen. A type of Roman god. They were part-man, part-deity. Could be wounded, but not killed.”

“So since they’re gods, they fight naked?” I asked. “No armor necessary? Sound like show-offs to me.”

Papy chuckled.

Numina, I thought, and muttered under my breath, “Sounds like numa.”

“What did you say?” Papy exclaimed, his head jerking upright from the vase to stare at me. He looked like someone had slapped him.

“I said numina sounds kind of like numa.”

“Where did you hear that word?” he asked.

“I don’t know . . . TV?”

“I very seriously doubt that.”

“I don’t know, Papy,” I said, breaking his laser gaze and searching for something else in the gallery that could bail me out of the situation. “I probably read it in an old book.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, hesitantly accepting my explanation but keeping his worried look.

Trust Papy to have heard of every archaic god and monster that ever existed. I’d have to tell Vincent that revenants, or at least the evil branch of revenants, weren’t as “under the radar” as they thought. “So thanks for the invitation, Papy,” I said, relieved to change the subject. “Was there something you wanted to talk about? Besides statues and vases, that is.”

Papy smiled wanly. “I asked you to come here to check on you and Georgia. Is this just a skirmish,” he said, glancing at the vase, “or a full-out war? Not that it’s any of my business. I’m just wondering when you’re pla

“I’m sorry, Papy,” I said. “It’s totally my fault.”

“I know. Georgia said that you and some young men left her stranded at a restaurant.”

“Yeah. There was kind of an emergency, and we had to leave.”

“And you didn’t have enough time to bring Georgia with you?” he asked skeptically.

“No.”

Papy took my arm and gently led me back toward the front of the store. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing you’d do, princesse. And it doesn’t sound very gentlemanly on the part of your escorts.”

I shook my head, agreeing, but there wasn’t anything I could say to defend myself.

We arrived at the front door. “Be careful who you choose to spend time with, chérie. Not everyone has a heart as good as yours.”

“Sorry, Papy. I’ll sort it out with Georgia right away.” I gave him a hug and walked out of the darkened room, blinking in the sunlight. And after picking up a bouquet of Gerbera daisies from a neighborhood florist, I went home for a last-ditch effort at making peace with my sister. I don’t know if it was the flowers that did the trick, or if she was just ready to forgive and forget. But this time, my apology worked.

Instead of discouraging me from seeing Vincent, Papy’s speech made me even more eager to see him. It had been a long five days, and though we pla

“I was just calling you,” I said, laughing.

“Yeah, right,” his velvety voice came from the other end of the line.

“Is Ambrose up and about?” I asked. At my request, he had been giving me updates on his kinsman’s recovery. The day after he was stabbed the wound had begun closing up, and Vincent assured me that, as usual, Ambrose would be as good as new once he “woke up.”

“Yes, Kate. I told you he was fine.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s still hard for me to believe, that’s all.”

“Well, you can see him yourself if you want to come over. But do you want to go out first? Since we managed to handle Les Deux Magots without anyone being killed or maimed, I thought I might take you there again.”

“Sure. I’ve got a few hours until di

“Pick you up in five?”

“Perfect.”

Vincent was waiting outside on his Vespa by the time I got downstairs.

“You’re fast!” I said, taking the helmet from him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied.

 * * *

It was the first cold day of October. We sat outside the café on the boulevard Saint-Germain, under one of the tall, lamplike space heaters that sprout up on all the café terraces once it begins to get chilly out. Its radiating heat toasted my shoulders, while the hot chocolate warmed my insides.

“Now this is chocolate,” Vincent said as he poured the thick lava of melted chocolate into his cup and added steamed milk from a second pitcher. We sat and watched as people walked by, sporting coats, hats, and gloves for the first time that year.

Vincent leaned back in his seat. “So, Kate, my darling,” he began. I lifted my eyebrows, and he laughed. “Okay, just plain old Kate. In our agreed spirit of disclosure, I thought I would offer to answer a question for you.”

“What question?”

“Any question, as long as it pertains to the twenty-first and not the twentieth century.”

I thought for a moment. What I really wanted to know was who he was before he died. The first time. But he obviously wasn’t ready to tell me.

“Okay. When did you die the last time?”

“A year ago.”

“How?”

“A fire rescue.”

I paused, wondering how far he would let me go. “Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt?”

“Dying. I mean, I suppose the first time it’s the same as any other death. But after that, when you die to save someone . . . does it hurt?”

Vincent studied my expression carefully before answering. “Just as much as if you, as a human, were hit by a subway train. Or asphyxiated under a pile of burning timbers.”

My skin crawled as I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that some people . . . or revenants . . . whatever . . . experienced the pain of death not just once but repeatedly. By choice. Vincent saw my unease and reached for my hand. His touch calmed me, but not in the supernatural way.

“Then why do you do it? Is this just about having an overblown sense of community service? Or repaying your debt to the universe for making you immortal? I mean, I respect the fact that you’re saving people’s lives, but after a few rescues, why don’t you just let yourself get older, like Jean-Baptiste, until you finally die of old age?” I paused. “Do you die of old age?”

Ignoring my last question, Vincent leaned in toward me and spoke earnestly, as if making a confession. “Because, Kate. It’s like a compulsion. It’s like pressure building up inside until you have to do something to get relief. The ‘philanthropic’ or ‘immortal’ motives wouldn’t make the pain and trauma worth it on their own. It’s going against our nature not to do it.”

“Then how has Jean-Baptiste resisted it for . . . what? Thirty years straight?”