I sat with him for a while, and then made my way back upstairs. Dozens of Paris’s revenants moved from room to room like ghosts, speaking in hushed voices and waiting for a phone call that might never happen. The hours passed and there was no news. Yet nobody left. The revenants were quiet, but on the alert. Ready.
Jeanne had insisted on staying. She wandered around, placing trays of finger food on every available surface and cleaning up after everyone.
“Do you want me to make you something special, my little cabbage?” she asked, hugging me for the millionth time since we had returned. I had cried the first time she held me, but my tears seemed to have dried up, leaving numbness in their place.
“I can’t eat, Jeanne.”
“I know,” she said, patting my shoulder. “But I had to offer. It’s the only thing I know to do for you.”
Finally, around midnight, I told Ambrose I was leaving. I couldn’t stand the grave faces and hushed conversations another moment. “I’ll come back. I’m just going to take a walk.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
Shaking my head, I asked, “Ambrose, after the numa hunts that you and Gaspard staged today, do you really think any of them will be hanging around the center of Paris?”
“No, but some of the humans around here can be just as bad.”
I tried to smile. “I’ll be fine. But if you guys hear anything—” I began.
He cut me off. “I will call you. I swear.”
“Thanks, Ambrose.”
I slipped out the front gate and headed toward the river. And when I reached its edge, it was if something possessed my arms and legs and I started running. My hurt shoulder ached with every step, but I ignored it, running from my heart’s pain and my mind’s fear. And even when those emotions were exhausted and the ghosts chasing me were overthrown by a second wind of determination and denial, I continued to run.
I finally came to a stop, leaning over and panting to catch my breath. Beside me, the Pont des Arts stretched dark over the Seine. Without thinking, I moved toward it, climbed the steps, and stepped out onto the wooden walkway. When I got to the center of the bridge, I stopped and, leaning against the guardrail, stared down into the dark, churning water. A gust of winter wind blew my hair around my face, and I pushed it back and inhaled the marine smell of the river. And let myself remember.
This was where Vincent and I had kissed for the first time, just five months ago. It seemed like a lifetime already. It was the day I had told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him anymore. That I would commit only to the next date and no further. And he brought me here and kissed me anyway. Now that I knew him better, I was sure he had planned it. He figured if he could steal my heart, I might abandon my reason, too. I couldn’t prevent the nostalgic grin that forced itself onto my lips.
I wondered if I would see him again, and defiantly choked back the tears welling in my eyes. I couldn’t think like that. Because if I did, it would mean that Violette had destroyed him and he was gone. Forever. I spoke to the water rippling beneath me: “I refuse to believe it.”
“You refuse to believe what?” came a low voice from behind me.
I spun to see a man dressed in a long fur coat standing a few feet from me. And though I knew instantly who—and what—he was, I wasn’t afraid. Instead an incendiary hatred rose inside me. “You!” I snarled, and threw myself at him, fists raised and arms flailing. He dropped something he was holding and, moving quickly, grabbed my wrists before I could strike him.
“Now, now. Is that any kind of way to greet a messenger?” Nicolas said, glancing at the objects at his feet.
My eyes flew downward, and when I saw what was lying there, something broke inside me. “No,” I whispered. He let go of my arms, and I bent to pick up the white lilies scattered at my feet.
“Violette said that if you didn’t have your book handy, I should tell you what they mean.”
“White lilies are for funerals. I don’t need a flower manual to tell me that.” I wanted to strangle him, but instead I took the flowers in both hands and crushed them, ripped the heads off the stems, and hurled them over the side of the bridge into the water. “What have you done with him?” I demanded.
“Our dauntless leader has taken your lover’s body to her castle in the Loire, where she will dispose of it when she sees fit. I was instructed to pass that message on.”
“And what else were you instructed to do?” I felt my knees bend slightly and my fists clench as my body took on the defensive stance Gaspard had taught me.
Nicolas smirked. “Charming. As if you could fight me. Actually, I am under strict orders not to touch you. Violette is of the opinion that letting you suffer would be more fun.”
I finally voiced what I had been wondering since our battle at Sacré-Coeur. “What did I ever do to her?”
Nicolas chuckled. “I wouldn’t think it’s anything personal. She merely wanted the Champion, and you helped her verify that it was indeed your Vincent. Now that she has him, she doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Then why make me suffer?”
“Oh, that. Probably because you’re human. She’s not very fond of mortals, you know. Five hundred years of saving you miserable beings in order to maintain her existence seems to have left her a tad bitter.”
I shook my head in disbelief. If centuries of being obliged to rescue humans had warped Violette’s perception of the value of life, it didn’t seem to have done the same for Arthur. What could turn a young, hopeful human into a centuries-old bitter immortal? I just couldn’t understand.
Something else had occurred to me. “Why would she go through the trouble of taking Vincent’s body hours away if she’s just going to destroy it?”
“Well, now,” he replied pedantically, “she didn’t tell me that, and I didn’t ask. But in her negotiations with Lucien, she assured him that she held the secret to some sort of mystical transfer of the Champion’s power to the one who destroys him. Whether that means destroying him today to ensure his permanent riddance, or finishing him off tomorrow and keeping his ghost as a pet, I couldn’t really say. She’s the expert on all things Champion. Which, of course, is why we welcomed her with open arms.
“And now that my commission is complete, I will leave you. I’m sure you will want to go back and inform the others. Oh, and please tell them that a rescue attempt would be useless. If Vincent’s not gone now, he will be before they can get to him.” He wrapped his coat snugly about him and strode off into the night.
Stifling the desire to run after him and attack him from behind (he was right—I couldn’t take him), I slid down to sit with my back against the guardrail. Nestling my head against my bent knees, I closed my eyes. A church bell chimed twelve. My thoughts were battling over hope that Violette was lying … and utter hopelessness that she wasn’t. Over despair that I would never see Vincent again … and determination that I would do anything it took to keep that from happening. I knew I should call Ambrose immediately to pass along Nicolas’s message, but the thought of taking my phone out of my pocket seemed too monumental of a task.
I felt the signum cold against my skin and, raising my head, traced the outline of the pendant through my shirt. My attention was caught by something white floating beneath me on the surface of the water. The crushed lilies had floated under the bridge and were making their way toward the spotlit Eiffel Tower.
And suddenly I knew. She had done it. Violette had destroyed Vincent. After more than eighty years of walking the earth, his spirit had now left it. If we’d lived in separate worlds before, now we were in separate universes. The finality struck me like an anvil.
The smile that lit his face whenever he first caught a glimpse of me. His hand clutching mine as we walked the city streets. The look in his eyes before we kissed. Those experiences were now trapped in the past. And the future that I had imagined with him now drifted into oblivion like those mangled flowers.
I had lost him.
And as the
weight of that realization snapped the last remaining threads of hope in my heart, I heard it.
Two words spoken clearly inside my head: Mon ange.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK WOULD NOT BE HERE, RESTING IN your hands or playing on your audio book or appearing on your e-reader if it weren’t for the following people. I owe them all my deepest gratitude.
My super-agent Stacey Glick of Dystel & Goderich, whose continued advice and hand-holding have provided me with a much-needed stabilizing force. Thank you, Stacey.
My editor, Tara Weikum, and assistant editor, Melissa Miller, who helped me tame all of my wild ideas into ones that actually worked. The patience you’ve shown and insight you’ve given have shaped this book into something exponentially better than it would have been. I am eternally grateful.
Copyeditors Valerie Shea and Melinda Weigel worked with both this book and Die for Me, polishing the rough edges, pointing out my mistakes, and patiently correcting my embarrassingly bad punctuation, especially the dreaded commas and em dashes. Merci!
My crack team of beta readers were of invaluable assistance, including the indefatigable Claudia, my beloved Kimberly Kay, book-smart Olivia, and Buffy-quoting Katia and Kylie Mac. And my friend Josie Angelini lent a hand, both as reader and tireless cheerleader. Mes remerciements sincères à vous tous!
Mark Ecob and Johanna Basford made the covers of Die for Me and Until I Die the works of breathtaking beauty that they are. My publicist Caroline Sun has energetically promoted the books, along with the marketing team of Christina Colangelo and Megan Sugrue. And I am in awe of the enthusiasm and support given me by my UK Little, Brown/Atom book family, including editor Sam Smith, editorial assistant Kate Agar, and publicist Rose Tremlett.
Several friends lent me and my manuscript their homes during the times I needed to run away. Much thanks to Lisa in New York, Laila and Terry in Paris, Nicolas and Paul in Saintes, and Jean-Pierre and Christiane just down the road.
I could not write without the support of my family and loved ones, especially: Laurent (my anchor, without whom I’d be drifting up among the clouds somewhere); my children, Max and Lucia; my sister, Gretchen; my darling Grammy; my resourceful cousin Melissa; my whole eccentric and devotedly loving H. clan; and my French family: Jeannine, Jean-Pierre and Christiane, Alex and Romain.
And lastly, but not any less importantly, I thank my readers. I was astounded by the enthusiasm with which you rallied behind me and my first book—you are the most supportive fans a writer could ever hope for. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. This book is for you.
Amy Plum, Until I Die
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends