“You’ve been speaking English to me all afternoon, and you haven’t made one mistake yet,” I complimented him as we waited for our food to come.
“When you sleep as little as we do, you have a lot of time for things like books and films. I’d rather read in the original language and watch movies without having to read the subtitles. So I’ve managed to learn my favorites: English, Italian, and some of the Scandinavian languages.”
“Okay, I’m starting to feel intimidated.”
“I’m sure if you had enough decades to work on it, you’d totally show me up,” he responded, his eyes vivid in the flickering candlelight.
The waiter set our plates in front of us. “Bon appétit,” said Vincent, waiting for me to pick up my fork and knife before touching his own.
“So you eat normal food,” I commented, watching Vincent cut a piece off his magret de canard.
“What? Were you expecting me to order raw brains? I thought we were going to stay away from unearthly topics of conversation tonight,” he said with a grin.
“It’s not every night I have dinner with an immortal,” I joked. “Give me a little leeway.”
“We eat normal stuff. We drink normal stuff. We don’t sleep, except when we’re dormant, which doesn’t really count as sleeping. Anyway, everything else works the same. . . .” His eyes narrowed brazenly, and his lips formed a sexy smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”
I blushed and concentrated intently on my silverware.
“Kate?”
“Mmm?”
“What’s the rest of your name?”
I met his eyes. “Kate Beaumont Mercier. Beaumont’s my mom’s maiden name.”
“It’s French.”
“Yes. I’ve got French roots on both sides of the family. Anyway, naming your kids after your maiden name is a Southern thing. And the South is where Mom grew up. In Georgia, actually.”
“It’s all falling into place now.” Vincent smiled.
“How about you?”
“Vincent Pierre Henri Delacroix. We get two middle names in France. Pierre’s my dad’s name, and my grandfather was Henri.”
“Sounds very aristocratic.”
“Maybe way, way back.” Vincent laughed. “But my family was nothing like Jean-Baptiste’s. It’s easy to tell what kind of background he’s from.”
“Jean-Baptiste,” I murmured. “He doesn’t seem very fond of me.”
Vincent’s face darkened. “I want you to know that, though Jean-Baptiste is like my own family, his opinion of you doesn’t matter to me. If you want him to like you, then I will reassure you: It will come. You have to earn his trust . . . he doesn’t give it easily. But until then, you are with me. He will respect my choice and be civil from now on.”
Vincent saw the doubt on my face and said quickly, “That is, of course, if we keep seeing each other. Which I hope we will.”
I nodded to show I understood, and Vincent, seemingly relieved to see I hadn’t made a run for it after his overearnest diatribe, changed the subject. “So are you and your sister very close?”
“Yeah, she’s not even two years older than me, so we’ve always joked about being twins. But we’re totally different.”
“How so?”
I took a bite and thought about how to describe my sister, the social butterfly, without making her sound shallow.
“Georgia is a total extrovert. Not like I’m exactly a shrinking violet, but I don’t mind spending time by myself. My sister has to be with people twenty-four/seven. In New York everyone knew her. She always managed to find the best parties and was continually surrounded by her entourage: band members, DJs, performance artists.”
“And let me guess . . . you were too busy reading and going to museums to join her.” I laughed when I saw Vincent’s wry grin.
“No, I went with her sometimes. But I wasn’t in the spotlight like Georgia. I was just Georgia’s little sister, along for the ride. She took care of me. She always nominated someone in her group to make sure I had a good time.”
I didn’t explain how she would always choose a “date” for me: gorgeous hipster guys who, to my amazement, enthusiastically took on the challenge of entertaining Georgia’s sister. A few of these setups had turned into something more. Not much more, really, but if one of these guys happened to be at a party Georgia and I went to, I knew I had someone to dance with, sit next to, and maybe kiss in some dark corner of the room later in the night. Georgia called them my “party boys.”
Now, with Vincent sitting across the table from me, larger than life, they seemed like ghosts. Shadows, in comparison to him.
“I worried how she would handle having to step down from her queen-of-nightlife throne when we moved,” I continued, “but I underestimated her. She’s well on her way to reaching the same level here.”
“Different city, same scene?”
“She’s basically out every night that Papy and Mamie don’t force her to stay home. But unlike in New York, I don’t go with her.”
“I know,” he said, spearing a potato with his fork, and then stopped and looked quickly up to see if I had noticed his slip.
“What?” I asked, surprised, and then Ambrose’s words suddenly came back to me. We’ve been checking her out, and she’s not a spy. “You’ve been following us!” Feeling simultaneously flattered and appalled, I pulled my legs back from his and kept to my side of the table.
“No one was following Georgia, just following you. And it wasn’t me. At least after the day we talked at the Picasso Museum. After that, I felt I owed you some privacy. It was Ambrose and Jules; once they knew that I was . . . interested in you, they insisted on making sure you weren’t a danger to us. I never doubted you, though. Honestly.”
“A ‘danger’?” I asked, dismayed.
Vincent sighed. “We have enemies.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s change the subject,” Vincent said. “The last thing I want to do is get you involved in something that could put you at risk.”
“Are you at risk?” I asked.
“We don’t come into contact with them that often. But when we do, it ends in each side trying to destroy the other. So since you asked me to be honest, I have to say yes. But I’ve had decades of experience protecting myself. I don’t want you to worry.”
I suddenly remembered my early morning walk with Georgia along the quay. “The night I saw you dive into the Seine after that girl. People were fighting under the bridge. With swords.”
“Well, then, you’ve already seen them. Those were the numa.”
Even the word sounded evil. I shuddered. “What are they?”
“They’re the same as us, but in reverse. They’re revenants, but their fate isn’t to save lives. It’s to destroy them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become immortal when we die while saving someone’s life. They win their immortality by taking lives. The universe seems to like equilibrium.” His smile was bitter.
“You mean they’re resurrected murderers?” I felt a cold blade of panic scrape a path from my stomach to my heart.
“Not just murderers. They all betrayed someone to their death.”
I inhaled sharply. “What? Wait a minute. Do you mean that anyone who dies after betraying someone to their death turns into an immortal bad guy?”
“No, not all. Just some. It’s like us. Not everyone who dies saving someone else is resurrected. I’ll explain some other time—it gets a bit complicated. All you need to know is that the numa are bad. They’re dangerous. And they never die because they keep on killing. Which is facilitated by their line of work: They’re basically glorified mafiosi, running prostitution and drug rings, and in order to have a legal face for their business dealings, they own bars and clubs. Not surprisingly, in their world the opportunity for death and betrayal comes along frequently enough.”
“And those are the . . . things, who were fighting under the bridge that night?”
Vincent nodded. “The girl who jumped. She had gotten involved with them. They drove her to decide to kill herself, and then went along to make sure she followed through.”
“But she looked so young. How old was she?”
“Fourteen.”
I flinched. “So why were you there?” I asked.
“Charles and Charlotte were walking, with Jules volant. Jules saw it before it happened and rushed home to get me and Ambrose. When we got to the scene, the twins held some of the numa off beneath the bridge while the girl . . . well, you saw what happened. I reached her just before she jumped.”
“Did you get the . . . bad guys?” I didn’t want to say the word, it had such an unsettling effect on me.
“Two of them, yes. A couple others got away.”
“So you don’t just save people. You kill people too.”
“Numa aren’t people. If we have a chance to destroy an evil revenant, we do. Humans can always change; that’s why we avoid killing them if we can. There is always a possibility of redemption in their future. But not the numa. They started on their path while they were human. Once they’re revenants, they’re past any hope for salvation.”
So Vincent was a killer, I thought. A bad-guy killer, but a killer nonetheless. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“And the girl who threw herself off the bridge?”
“She’s fine.”
“Are you obsessed with her?”
Vincent laughed. “Now that I know she’s fine, no.” Under the table, he pulled my legs back between his, and some of the warmth returned. “I’m just lucky revenants can’t read one another’s minds, because Jean-Baptiste would kill me if he knew I had told you about the numa.”
“Security breach?” I laughed.
Vincent smiled. “Yes, but I trust you, Kate.”
“No problem there,” I said. “You probably already know this from your spy network, but I don’t have anyone to tell even if I wanted to. It’s not like I have crowds of friends waiting around to hear my undead gossip.”
Vincent laughed. “No. But you have me.”
“I’ll be extra careful not to blab about monsters around you, then.”
“How is it that we just talked for two hours and I still don’t know anything about you?” I complained as we left the restaurant.
“What do you mean?” Vincent responded, starting up the scooter. “I told you a ton about us.”
“About you as a group, lots, but you as a person, nothing,” I shouted over the noise of the engine. “You didn’t let me ask you any questions. Puts me at a disadvantage.”
“Get on,” he said, laughing. I climbed up behind him and wrapped my arms around him, feeling close to bliss.
We crossed the river and began driving toward our part of town. With the wind whipping my hair wildly about below the edge of the helmet, and the warm body of my . . . potential boyfriend pressed up against me, I wished he would keep driving till we hit the Atlantic Ocean, more than four hours away. But when the Louvre Museum edged into view on the other side of the Seine, Vincent slowed down and pulled over to the riverside. He turned off the bike and locked it to a post before taking my hand and leading me toward the river.
“Okay, ask me something,” he said.
“Where are you taking me?”
Vincent laughed. “You get one question, and you’re going to use it on that? Okay, Kate. Because you’ve been so patient, I will answer.” We stepped up onto the Pont des Arts—a wooden footbridge leading across the river—and began walking across.
The city was lit up like a Christmas tree, and its bridges illuminated with spotlights that made them appear majestic and otherworldly. The Eiffel Tower twinkled in the distance, and the reflection of the moon shone on the surface of the water swirling below us.
We reached the center of the bridge. Vincent led me gently to the side rail and, standing behind me, wrapped me in his arms and pulled me close to him. I closed my eyes and inhaled, filling my lungs with the river’s distinct marine smell, which I had, over the years, come to equate with a state of tranquillity. My heart slowed, and then as Vincent’s muscles flexed around my shoulders, accelerated.
We stood there, looking out at the City of Light together for a few euphoric moments before he leaned his head down and whispered, “The answer to your question of where I was taking you would be . . . to the most beautiful place in Paris. With the most beautiful girl I have been lucky enough to set eyes on, and who I desperately hope will agree to meet me again. As soon as possible.”
I looked up over my shoulder and registered his sincere expression. He turned me slowly to face him. He gazed at me for a full minute with his big dark eyes, as if trying to memorize every inch of my face.
Then he raised his hand to brush a lock of hair back from my face, tucking it gently behind my ear as he lifted my lips to his.
Our skin barely touched. He was hesitant, as if he knew what he wanted but was afraid of scaring me away. Our lips brushed, and I felt like a chord had been struck inside me, and my body was humming with a pure musical note. I slowly lifted my arms to drape them around his neck, afraid that a sudden move might break the spell. But as his lips met mine once more, the magic escalated and the note grew into a sweeping crescendo that blocked out every other sound.
Paris disappeared. The rippling of waves beneath us, the hum of the cars passing on either side of the river, the whisperings of the couples passing us hand in hand . . . they all disappeared, and Vincent and I were the only people left on earth.
Chapter Eighteen
SOMETHING RUSTLED AT THE FOOT OF MY BED. I forced one eye open, and through the haze of an interrupted dream, I saw my sister perched on the edge of my mattress. She looked way too overexcited for this time of the morning. Or was it still night? Raising one eyebrow, she commanded, “Tell me all!” and then, ripping back the covers that I threw over my head, attempted to sound severe. “If you don’t, I won’t allow you to see him again.”
Moaning, I wiped my eyes blearily and propped myself up on my elbows. “What time is it?” I yawned, noticing that Georgia was fully dressed.
“You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes to get ready for school. I let you sleep in.”
I looked over at my clock and saw that she was right. Panicking, I threw off my blankets and began leaping around the room, grabbing a bra and panties out of a drawer and digging through a stack of clean clothes sitting folded on a chair. “I thought that after getting in so late, you might need the extra sleep,” she cooed.
“Thanks a lot, Georgia,” I groaned, slipping a clean red T-shirt over my head and rummaging through my closet for a pair of jeans. And then, having a sudden flashback to the previous night, I sank into a sitting position on the bed. “Oh my God,” I said as I felt my lips forming a reveal-all dreamy smile.
“What happened? Did he kiss you?”
My glowing face must have said it all, because my sister jumped up and said, “That’s it, I have to meet him!”
“Stop, Georgia, you’re embarrassing me. Give me some time to figure out if I even like the guy,” I said as I stuck my feet through the pant legs and stood to shimmy them up my hips.
“We’ve gone over this before,” my sister said, grabbing me by the shoulder and scanning my face for one searching second. “And I’m sorry to inform you, Katie-Bean, but from the look of things, it’s way too late for that.” And she pranced out of the room, laughing and clapping her hands.
“Glad to provide the morning’s entertainment,” I grumbled, and leaned over to speed-tie my shoelaces.
The day passed quickly—I fell into a dreamlike state as soon as I sat down in each class, and spent the hours musing about the previous evening. It seemed too good to be true: Vincent confessing his feelings for me by the river, the candlelit dinner, and then . . . my heart lurched every time I thought of the kiss on the Pont des Arts. And of how after that Vincent drove me home and gave me another kiss, short but stunningly tender, in fro
nt of my building.
The look of total devotion that I had seen in his eyes as he took me in his arms had shaken me. I hadn’t known whether to be afraid of it or respond in kind. But I couldn’t let myself reciprocate. I wasn’t ready to let my guard down.
At lunch I turned my phone on to check my messages. Georgia always sent me a few inane texts during the day, and sure enough there were two messages from her: one complaining about her physics teacher and a second, also obviously sent from her phone: I love you, baby. V.
I wrote her back:
I thought I told you to buzz off last night, you creep-o French stalker guy.
Her response came back immediately:
As if! Your beet-red cheeks this morning suggest otherwise . . . liar! You’re so into him.
I groaned and was about to turn my phone off when I saw that there was a third text from UNKNOWN. Clicking on it, I read: Can I pick you up from school? Same place, same time?
I texted back: How’d you get my number?
Called myself from your phone while you were in the restaurant’s bathroom last night. Warned you we were stalkers!
I laughed, and thanked my lucky stars that revenants couldn’t read minds, although I’d have to remember to watch what I did on the days he was floating around town as an all-seeing spirit.
Yes x 3. See you then, I wrote, and for the rest of the day gave up all pretense of paying attention in class.
He was waiting for me when I walked out the gates. My heart rate accelerated as I saw him casually leaning against a tree near the bus stop. I couldn’t prevent a huge smile from spreading across my face.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, handing me a helmet as I approached the Vespa. He pulled his glasses off and leaned forward to kiss me on either cheek. And that insignificant gesture that is repeated dozens of times a day in France—every time you say hello or good-bye, every time you are introduced to someone, or run into a friend—those two little pecks that make up the bises all of a sudden assumed an entirely different meaning for me.
In what felt like slow motion, Vincent’s cheek touched my own, at which point my lungs forgot how to work. He pulled back slightly, and our eyes met as he leaned toward my other cheek and brushed his lips gently against my skin. I opened my mouth to inhale, attempting to send some oxygen to my brain.