Die for Me

“Convenient, that, just as you were starting to get tired,” chuckled Ambrose. Turning back to his teacher, he slowed to a more sustainable pace.

Vincent picked up a towel from a chair and mopped the sweat off his face. “Shower,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He walked to one corner of the room and stepped up into a pine box the size of a sauna, with a large showerhead sticking out of the open top.

Ambrose and Gaspard continued their workout, the older man looking like he could go for hours without a break. I watched, amazed, as they stopped and changed weapons, and began working on some fencing-style footwork while Gaspard called out instructions.

Until I had picked up that two-handed sword, I never imagined how difficult martial arts could be. The movies make it look so easy, with all the flying up walls and acrobatic swordplay. But here, with the sweating and grunting and force expended with every single movement, I realized that I was witnessing truly breathtaking skill. These men were lethal.

The hissing of the shower stopped, and Vincent stepped out with only a towel around his waist. He looked like a god straight out of a Renaissance painting, his brown skin stretched tightly over his muscular torso and black hair falling back from his face in waves. I felt like I was in a dream. And then that dream walked right up and took me by the hand. “Let’s go up?” he asked.

I nodded, speechless.

Chapter Thirty

ONCE WE WERE BACK IN HIS ROOM, VINCENT pulled some clean clothes out of a paneled cupboard set into the wall. He gri

“So, Vincent,” I said, pretending to inspect his photo collection as I heard him dress behind me. “Can you come to di

“Finally, she asks. And unfortunately, I must decline.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised. I turned to see him walking up to me with an amused expression.

“Because I will not be in any condition to meet your family this weekend, much less make conversation or even sit, propped up, at a di

“Oh,” I said, “when are you dormant?” My voice faded as the strange word tripped off my tongue.

He picked his cell phone up from a table and checked the calendar. “Thursday, the twenty-seventh.”

“That’s Thanksgiving,” I said. “We’ve got Thursday and Friday off school. It’s a shame you won’t be around.”

“The clock stops for no man, especially my type. Sorry.”

“Well, how about before then?” I asked. “Today’s Monday. How about tomorrow night?”

He nodded. “That would work. It’s a date. So . . . I’m meeting the grandparents? What should I wear?” he teased me.

“As long as you’re not wearing a body bag, I should think you’ll do just fine,” I laughed, turning back to his collection of portraits.

Among the head shots of angelic children, battle-worn soldiers, and tough teenage hoodlums was an old black-and-white photo of a teenage girl. Her dark hair was crimped into a 1940s hairstyle, and she wore a flowery dress with squared shoulders. Both hands were raised to one side of her face, where she was securing a daisy behind her ear. Her dark lips were open in a playful smile. She was stu

“Who is this?” I asked, knowing the answer before the words had finished leaving my mouth.

Vincent walked up behind me and placed his hands on my arms. He smelled freshly washed, like lavender soap and some kind of musky shampoo. I sank back into him, and he wrapped his arms around me. “That’s Hélène,” he said softly.

“She was beautiful,” I murmured.

He dropped his head to lean his chin on my shoulder, kissing it softly before he did. “Until I saw you, I didn’t let myself think of any woman besides her. My life since her death has been spent avenging it.”

Hearing the pain in his voice, I asked, “Did you ever find the soldiers who did it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you . . .”

“Yes,” he replied before I could say the words. “But it wasn’t enough. I had to go after every other murderous villain I could find, and even when the worst of the occupiers and collaborators were gone, it wasn’t enough.”

It was hard to think about Vincent destroying people, either human or revenant. Although now that I had seen how well he fought, I knew that he and his kindred were probably capable of taking out an army. But what kind of person could spend more than half a century thinking only of vengeance?

The cool, dangerous edge that had both attracted and alarmed me when we met—it had a basis. Now I knew what it was. I envisioned his face contorted with fury, and shuddered at the thought.

“What is it, Kate?” Vincent said. “Would you prefer that I took her photo down?” I realized that I was still staring at the picture of Hélène.

“No!” I said, turning around to face him. “No, Vincent. She’s a part of your past. I don’t feel intimidated by the fact that you still think of her.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that I was lying. I did feel intimidated by this beautiful woman. Vincent’s only love. Even though the hairstyle and clothes placed her securely seventy years in the past, he had guarded her memory so closely that it had influenced everything he had done—and not done—since she died.

“It’s been a long time, Kate. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, but usually it feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. Hélène is gone, and I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that you have no competition, from her or anyone else.”

He looked like he had more to say but couldn’t decide how to say it. I didn’t push him. Getting off the topic of ex-loves was fine with me. I took him by the hand and led him away. And though we left the photos behind, my sense of unease remained.

“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room. I turned my attention to the bookshelves, which were lined with books in several languages, all mixed together. Most of the English ones I recognized. We have a similar taste in reading material, I thought, smiling.

Spotting a row of fat photo albums on a lower shelf, I pulled one out and opened it. 1974–78 was handwritten on the inside cover, and I giggled as I began flipping through, seeing photos of Vincent wearing distinctly hippyish clothes and long hair with sideburns. Even though there was something ridiculous about the styles, he was just as handsome then as he was today. Nothing had changed but his accessories.

I turned a page and saw Ambrose and Jules standing together with competing enormous Afros. On another page, Charlotte was wearing Twiggy-style makeup and a micro-minidress, posed next to a Charles who looked like a teenage Jim Morrison: scraggly hair, shirtless, with rows of beaded necklaces. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud at that one.

“What’s so fu

“Show me some more, these are priceless,” I said, bending over to slot the album back into its space.

I stood back up to find him standing inches away from me. “I don’t know, Kate. Swallowing my pride enough to show you photos of me looking like a clown through most of the twentieth century might just cost you something.”

“How much?” I breathed, transfixed by his sudden nearness. I unconsciously moistened my lips.

“Hmm. Let’s see,” he whispered, as he raised his hands to my waist and held me firmly. His fingers kneaded the small of my back, making my knees dissolve.

“It might cost you just a few kisses here. . . .”

He leaned his head down to the side of my neck and held his mouth an inch away from my ear, exhaling warm breath onto my skin. I felt goose bumps rise all over my body as he slowly leaned forward and pressed his lips to the side of my neck.