Die for Me

“During the night,” he responded. “The evening I begin dormancy, I usually end up watching movies and loading up on some calories, since I’m no good for anything else.” He waved his hand toward the coffee table, which was set with tea and an assortment of mini pastries.

I looked at him in amusement. “Jea

“Who else?” he responded with a chuckle. “Every time you stop by she acts like we’re receiving visiting royalty.”

“As she should,” I said, holding my chin a bit higher before throwing myself onto the couch in order to attack a mini chocolate éclair. “So where’s the TV?” I asked.

“Oh, I watch in our screening room. Ambrose is a movie buff, and he convinced Jean-Baptiste to build our own cinema here. It’s in the basement, alongside the gym.”

“Now that is something I would love to see,” I said.

“I may just have one or two of your favorite films waiting downstairs for you. We could even order some pizza and dine in style. Is it a date?”

“A real date! I accept!” I almost squealed, and then, trying to dampen my enthusiasm, continued, “Only since you claim you’ll be such boring company, of course. Otherwise I’d be fine just sitting here, staring into your eyes all night.”

Vincent paused, looking at me suspiciously for a second, and then, gri

“Yes,” I laughed. “You’re pretty quick for an old guy.”

“Damn, and I thought I had finally found a true romantic,” he joked, and then hesitated as a serious look stole over his face. “Speaking of boring company, do you mind talking about what we’ll do while I’m asleep?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering what could possibly come next.

“Tomorrow I’ll be body-and-mind dead. I would rather you not see me when I’m unable to communicate. But starting Friday morning, my mind will be awake. So that you won’t feel like I’m stalking you, do I have your okay to come and see you . . . in volant form?”

“Hmm. That’s got to be the strangest offer I’ve ever received,” I laughed. “I don’t know . . . can you do anything to let me know you’re there? Like write me a ghostly text message? Or make my pen move?”

He shook his head. “Only if someone comes along who can hear me, like Charlotte or Jules.”

Thinking of my messy bedroom, which I hoped he hadn’t already secretly seen while floating around, I countered, “Aren’t you going to be on ‘walking duty’ with someone?”

Vincent smiled, tiny lines of fatigue creasing the corners of his eyes. “Well, yes, if anyone’s walking I’ll be going along. But I’d like to come see you in my downtime.”

“Then why don’t I come here?” I asked. “That way whoever’s home can ‘interpret’ for me.”

“If you don’t mind, that would be nice,” Vincent said. I noticed he was steadying himself on the couch with one hand.

“Are you okay, Vincent?” I asked.

“Yes. Although I’m starting to feel weak. No biggie.” He exhaled deeply and sat down on the couch next to me. “So tomorrow’s a no-go, but I’d love to see you Friday.”

“Deal. I’ll come over in the morning. Since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving in the States, school’s out tomorrow and Friday. I’ll just bring my homework and do it here.”

We ordered pizza and curled up on the couch to wait for it to arrive. “How did it go last night with Georgia?” he asked.

I had been scrupulously avoiding the issue, hoping I wouldn’t have to tell Vincent that I had failed.

“We’re not speaking,” I admitted.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t tell her that you knew Lucien. I was afraid she might say something to him. I just told her that you knew his reputation, and what kind of criminal dealings he and his associates were known for. She didn’t buy it. She wants you and me to stay out of her business.”

“You’re upset,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“Yes. I’m upset . . . not that Georgia and I are fighting. That’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’m upset because I’m afraid for her. She told me that they’re only seeing each other casually. But I can’t help but worry.”

“You’ve done everything you can,” Vincent said. “You can’t control your sister. Just try to put it out of your mind.”

Easier said than done.

After our pizzas were delivered, we moved downstairs to the screening room and plopped down onto a massive old worn-leather couch to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which Vincent had pulled from their vast movie collection. Sitting there in the darkened room and munching on slices of mushroom and Parmesan, for once I actually felt like Vincent and I were doing something a real, normal couple would do . . . that is, if I didn’t think about what was going to happen to him after midnight.

I left around nine. He insisted on walking me home, and we strolled along the darkened Paris streets at a snail’s pace. He seemed as weak as if he were actually eighty-seven years old. It was hard to believe that this same guy had been wielding a sword the weight of a couch just a few days earlier. When we got to my door, he gave me a slow, tender kiss and turned to go.

“Be careful,” I said, not knowing the etiquette of saying good-bye to someone who was going to spend the next three days dead. Vincent winked and blew me a kiss, and turning the corner, he was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

MAMIE HAD ASKED US IF WE WANTED TO HAVE A traditional Thanksgiving di

So I spent Thanksgiving Day on my bed reading, trying not to think of my boyfriend, dead on his bed a few blocks away.

On Friday morning, I walked the five minutes from my house to Jean-Baptiste’s. Standing outside the massive gates, I typed the digicode that Vincent had texted me into the security box and watched the gates swing open.

Once at the front door, I wasn’t sure whether I should knock or just walk in. As I raised my hand the door opened, and Gaspard stood in front of me, nervously wringing his hands.

“Mademoiselle Kate,” he said, giving me an awkward little bow. “Vincent told me you were here. Come in, come in.” He didn’t even attempt to give me the bises, and, afraid that my mere presence was giving him a heart attack, I didn’t insist.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Sadly, no,” Gaspard said. “Come back to the kitchen. Vincent’s telling me to ask if you want a coffee.”

“No, no, I just had breakfast. I’m fine.”

“Ah, okay then. Vincent says if you want to come back to his room, he’s ready to help you with your . . . trig?” Gaspard looked confused.

“Trigonometry,” I said to him, laughing. And then to the air I said, “Thanks, Vincent, but I left it at home. You get to look over my shoulder for English lit and European history today.”

Gaspard laughed a nervous laugh. “Vincent says that I should be the one to help you with that. My, my, it’s true, I have been around to see a bit of history. But I wouldn’t want to bore you with my tales.”

Sensing that helping a teenager with her history homework would be the last way he would want to spend his morning, I politely declined, to his obvious relief.

“Charlotte’s out, but I’ll let her know you’re here when she returns,” he said, dropping me off in front of Vincent’s door.

“Thank you,” I responded.

Vincent’s room was as I had seen it the first time. Windows and curtains closed. Fire cold in the hearth. And Vincent cold on the bed. I shivered as I saw his motionless form behind the gauze bed curtains.

Shutting the door behind me, I placed my bag on the couch and approached the bed. He lay there completely immobile. Devoid of life. It struck me how different he looked from somebody who was merely sleeping, with their chest in perpetual motion, breath coming in and out of their mouth. Pulling the drapes back, I gingerly sat down on the bed and gazed at him, magnificent even in death.