THEFIRSTTIMEISEEHER,IPEGHERASAJUMP

risk.

VinceandIarewalkingthequays,andtheresheis:long,darkhairwhippingaroundherfaceasshe

stands on the edge of the cobblestone walkway looking down at the water, a mere five feet above the
waves.TheSeineisswollenfromwinterrains,sothoughthejumpwouldbeharmlessfromthatheight,
thebarelychoppysurfacecouldhidedangerouscurrents.

Weheadtowardher,myhandalreadyextendedtotouchherarm.Topassmycalmtoher,oneofour

onlyreal“superpowers”asarevenant(or,asAmbroselikestocallus,“undeadguardianangelswitha
bad case of OCD”). But before we reach her she turns and walks away, heading for one of the quay’s
stonebenches,whereshecurlsherlegsuptoherchestandropesherkneesinwithherarms.Sheremains
thatway,huggingherself,rockingbackandforth,andstaringblindlyacrosstheriverwithtearscoursing
downhercheeks,aswepassunnoticed.

“Whatdoyouthink?”IaskVincent,whopullshisscarfupoverhisnoseandmouth,shieldinghimself

fromthefrigidJanuarywind.

“Idon’tthinkshe’sgoingtojump,”hesays.“Butlet’scirclearoundunderthebridgetomakesure.”
WestridesidebysideuntilwegettotheCarrouselBridge.Eventheindigentswhoregularlysleep

under its arches have cleared out. It is one of the coldest days on record . . . at least since I moved to
Parisacenturyago.

Wegoodrevenants,calledbardia,arefatedtowatchoverhumans,savingthemfromprematuredeath

by suicide, murder, or accident. Our job is definitely easier in weather like this, with everyone staying
indoors.Butevenmembersofthereanimatedundeadcanfeelthecold.

Most of our work for the last few days has been rounding up the few remaining street people and

getting them to care centers before they suffer frostbite or even death from exposure. Judging by her
clothesandhygiene,thisgirlisdefinitelynothomeless.Insteadshe’sprettyenoughtoaddtomygirls-to-
ask-outlist.However,hittingonsomeonewhoiscryingisn’tquitemystyle.

Soifshe’snothomeless,whyisshehere,takingasolitarystrollnexttotheriverinthefreezingcold?
Weconfirmthattherearenostragglersunderthebridge,andthenturntoheadbacktothebench.When

wereachit,itisempty.Afewyardsaway,Iseethegirlclimbingthestairstostreetlevel.Sincethere’s
nooneelsearound,wefollowheratasafedistance,readytorunifsheheadsforthebridge.“Ambrose,
useyourforesight—doyouseeherjumping?”Iask.

Naw.ThewordskipsmyearsandgoesstraighttomymindinAmbrose’sdeepbaritone.But she is

abouttosprintuptherueduBac.

“Weshouldfollowher,”IsaytoVincent.“She’sactingbizarrelyenoughtomeritafewmoreminutes

ofsurveillance.”

“Agreed.Shecouldstillthrowherselfinfrontofacar,”hesays,concerned.“Something’sobviously

wrongwithher.”

“I’mbankingonitbeingtheresultofabadbreakup,”Ireply.“That’swhathappenswhenpeopleget

too serious. Feelings get hurt. Hearts get broken. Some people never learn. Don’t get serious. It’s my
numberonerule.”Irubmyhandstogetherandblowonthem,tryingtoforcehotbreaththroughmywool
gloves.“Myfingersareicicles.Andthestreetsareempty.Let’sheadbacktoLaMaison.”

Wimp,tauntsAmbrose.
“Hey,ifyouweren’tcurrentlydisembodied,you’dbeagreeingwithme,ghostboy,”Isay,andhear

himchuckle.Vincentisn’tpayingattentionandpicksuphispace.Iglanceaheadofusandseethatthegirl
hasstartedtorun.

Wefollowher,leavingagoodhalfblockbetweenus:Thereisnotrafficforhertothrowherselfin

frontof,andwedon’twanttocallunnecessaryattentiontoourselves.ShejogsuptherueduBac,crosses
theboulevardSaint-Germain,andfinallyturnsleftatasquarewhereold,statelyapartmentbuildingsare
groupedaroundasmallpark.

Shewalksuptoone,andwhileopeningthedoor,turnsandcastsaquicklookbehindher.Vincentand

IduckourheadsdownandwalkstraightuptherueduBacwithoutherseeingourfaces.

ButIsawhers.AndherexpressionisoneIrecognize—I’veseenitmanytimesduringmyexistence.

Especiallyinthelineof“work”I’min.Thegirlissufferingfromterriblegrief.

VincentandIlockeyes,andItipmyheadleft.Towardhome.Heunderstandsandwewalktotheend

oftheblock,turningeastwardtowardLaMaison.It’snotlikewecanreadeachother’sminds.Butwhen
you’rebestfriendswithsomeoneforoverhalfacentury,youstarttorecognizetheireverygesture.We’re
likeanoldcouple.Wordsarealmostunnecessary.

We walk for a while in silence, keeping an eye out for anything amiss. Ambrose doesn’t spot any

activityatallintheneighborhoodandissingingaLouisArmstrongsongdirectlyintomybrain,probably
topissmeoff.“Whoistheluckyladytonight?”Vincentasksashetapsthecodeintooursecuritypanel.
Thegateswingsslowlyopen.

“Quintana,”Irespond.
“From?”
“NewYork,upstatesomewhere.Overheredoinganartdegree.”
“Blond?”heasks.
“Negative,”Irespond.“Darkhairwithbluetips.Alternativechic.”
“Soundslikeyourtype,”hejokes.WebothknowIdon’thaveatype.“Female”ismytype.
Like I said. We’re an old couple—we need few words. But we couldn’t be more different. Vincent

stopped dating decades ago, not that he had been much into it before. “What’s the point?” he had said.
Thiswasaround1980,andthatyear’sbouquetofParisienneswasbreathtaking.

“What’s the point?” I exclaimed. “They’re beautiful. And soft. And they smell good. What do you

mean,‘what’sthepoint’?”

“Wecanonlygosofar,andthenwehavetodisappearfromtheirlives.It’snotworthitifwecan’t

evengetclose,”hesighed.

“Excuseme,butImakearegularhabitof‘gettingclose’!”
“Idon’tmeanlikethat,”heresponded.“I’mtalkingemotionalintimacy.Andwhyriskexposureofour

entirekindredforagirlyou’reonlygoingtospendafewnightswith?”Hisexpressionwasflat.Uncaring.
ButIknewtherewasanoceanofpainbottledinsidehim.

“Man,noonewillevercomparetoHélène.It’sbeenseventyyearssinceyousawhermurderedby

thoseNazisandyou’restillhangingon.You’vejustgottoacceptthatyourfirstloveisyourgreatest,and
everythingelseisgoingtobesecond-best.Butsecond-bestisbetterthannothingatall.”

MyargumentsfallondeafearswithVincent.Ifhewon’tamusehimselfwithhumans,theonlyother

choiceistogorevenant.AndweknowprettymuchallofthefemalemembersofourkindredinFrance.
They’re like sisters to us. Revenants do occasionally fall for one another. It happens. But it just hasn’t
happened to Vincent or me. And until the next global convocation, we probably won’t meet any new
bardiabeauties.

WhichisA-OKwithme.Whysettleforonegirlifyoucanhavealot?It’sagoodmotto,Ifind.Works

fordrinks,friends,andwomen.Notsomuchforenemies.ButoursituationinFranceisstable.Similar
number of numa and bardia. The balance of good and evil has reached an equilibrium in the past few
years.

WhichmeansI’vegottimetoplay.

TWO

“SADGIRLATTWOO’CLOCK.”

I look in the direction Ambrose nods, and see the girl sitting on the bench, hugging her knees and

watchingthewater.

“Howmanytimesdoesthatmakethisweek?”Iask.
“Well, we saw her last Wednesday when you and Vin were acting like babies about the cold spell.

Twonightslatershewasback.Nothingforaday,thenthreedaysinarow.Thisisthesixthtimewe’ve
seenherintwoweeks,”Ambrosecalculates.

“And we’ve never seen her in the ’hood before. At her age, she’s either visiting relatives, or has

movedhere.She’sdefinitelynotatourist...notwiththatcatastrophiclookonherfaceandthefactthat
shevisitsthesameboringplaceeverydayinsteadofgoingtotheEiffelTower,”Isay.

Wefallsilentaswereachherbenchandpasswithouthernoticing.Thegirlneverseesus.Shenever

seesanything.She’slikeaghostflittingthroughtheearthwithoutleavingatrace.

“Noone’shere,”Ambrosesaysasweduckunderthebridge.It’slessfrigidthanlastweek,buteven

so,thenumberofpoorsoulsdaringtosleepintheroughhasdwindled.Ambrosecrackshisknucklesand
windmillshisarmsaroundbeforefallingintohisboxingroutine...bouncingupanddownfromsideto
sideandthrowingpunchesataninvisiblefoe.

Istarttospeak,andthenstopmyself.
“What?”Ambroseasks,executingapowerfulinsidehook.
Isigh.“It’saboutSadGirl.Doesn’titseemlikeVincent...”
“Yep,Vin’sstalkingher,”Ambrosefinishesforme.
I didn’t mean to be that direct. I just wondered if Ambrose noticed the change in Vincent too. But I

knowhe’sright.OursurveillancewalksseemtoleadpastrueduBacmoreandmoreoften,andeachtime
wespotSadGirl,Vincentinsistsonwaitinguntilwe“seehersafelyhome.”

“We’re not Boy Scouts,” I reminded him the third time. “We’re not here on earth to help little old

ladiesacrossthestreet.Noone’sthreateningtoharmher,andshe’snotgoingtocommitsuicide.”

“Iknow,”hereplied.“Butsomething’sdifferentabouther.Something’swrong.”
“Well,it’snotanythingyou’llbeabletofix.”
Vincentnodded,acceptingwhatIsaid,butnotlikingit.Hestaredupatthesideofthebuildinguntila

lightwentoninathird-floorwindow,andthenvisiblyrelaxed,knowingshewassafelybackinherroom.

“Whoelselivesinthebuilding?”Iasked,testinghim.
Withoutthinkingtwice,Vincentsaid,“Firstfloor:familywithtwosmallchildrenandadog.Second

floor:geriatriccouple,threeteacupterriers.Thirdfloor:ourmysterygirl,anotherteenagegirlabitolder
than her, and two elderly people. Fourth floor: family with baby and basset hound. Fifth floor’s empty.
Andthetopfloorhaslightsonduringthedaytime.Someoneinthebuildingprobablyworksupthere.”

“You’vebeenwatchingpeoplecomeandgo,”Isaid.
Henodded,lookingguilty.
“That’snotourjob.”
He ran his hand through his hair, stopping halfway through to yank on it in frustration. “Don’t tell

anyone,”hesaid.

“I won’t. But, man, you gotta stop. You haven’t even saved the girl and you’re getting obsessed.

Flashingamberlight,dude.”

Heshrugged,lookingmiserable.“She’samystery.”
“...thatcanbeleftunsolved,”Iadded.
But the problem is solved for us, because a week later, she’s gone. Disappears just like that,

overnight. And part of Vincent goes with her. For the two days a month that he’s volant, he keeps
disappearing.Ihaveanideaofwhereheis.Hauntingtheemptythirdfloorofacertainapartmentbuilding.
But he never says anything and I don’t ask. He just keeps getting more and more distant, closing in on
himself.

MarchandAprilarebusymonths.Weintervenewithseveralsuicideattempts(andunfortunatelyfail

to rescue one), stop a few hit-and-runs before they happen, and rescue several victims of our enemies.
(Not all revenants are good like we bardia—our evil twins are called “numa.”) Through all of this
Vincenthasthiskindofvacantairabouthim,andyouknowheisthinkingaboutSadGirl.

SoIknowsomethinghashappenedwhen,inearlyJune,VincentreturnsfromwalkingwithCharlotte

withhisfacelitupliketheEiffelTower.“What’sup?”IwhispertoCharlotteasVincentflitsaroundthe
kitchenlikehisChuckTaylorssproutedwings.

“Agirl.Human,”shesays.
“Long,darkhair,paleskin,blue-greeneyes?”Iask.
“That’stheone,”Charlotteconfirms,stealingaglanceatVincent,whohappilyspoonsamountainof

sugarintohiscoffee.

The next day I’m patrolling with Vincent when we spot her, and end up following her from her

buildingtoacinemaontherueChampollionthat’sscreeningLes400Coups.She’schangedsincethelast
timeIsawher.Herskinislightlytannedandshenolongerlooksskeletal.Shehasbeeneating,obviously,
anditlooksgoodonher.She’sstillsad,butdefinitelylooksstronger.

“Okay,man,she’ssafelyinthetheater.Canwegonow?”
“HaveyoueverseenLes400Coups?”Vincentasks,hisfacetotalinnocence.
“Aboutfiftytimes.Ifyourecall,wewenttothepremieretogetherin1959.Andno,wearenotgoing

tostalkherintothecinemajusttowatchthebackofherheadforanhourandahalf.”

Anhourandahalflater,westepoutofthecinema,blinkinginthesunlightasthegirlwalksaheadof

us,makingherwaybackhome.

“Youknowwhat?”Isay,notevenattemptingtomaskmysarcasm.“Thatmoviehasn’tchangedabitin

thelasttwentyyears.”

Vincentthrustshishandsinhispocketsanddoeshishunched-overwalkaswefollowSadGirldown

theboulevardSaint-Michel.Igrabhisarmandyankhimtoastop.“Vince.Dude.Nomore.Thisisgetting
unhealthy. I’m not going to say anything to the others about it, but man . . . you need to get a hold of
yourself.OrI’lltalktoJean-Baptiste.”

Hefixesmewiththissoulfullooklikehe’sdyinginside.“Jules.Ican’thelpit.”
Iexhale.“It’sokay,Vince.Butwe’renotfollowingherhome.She’sfine.Let’sgocheckoutthepark.”

And he follows me up the boulevard toward Luxembourg Gardens looking like a boy who has been
punishedbutistryingtobebraveaboutit.

For the next couple of weeks he stops following her, at least when I’m around. I don’t want to ask

Charles or Charlotte or even Ambrose where he goes when they are with him. I don’t want to call
attention to it. Jean-Baptiste would be breathing down his neck if he found out, and we all know how
unpleasantthatcanbe.

Andthenithappens.We’reattheCaféSainte-LuciewithAmbrose,sittingatourregulartable,when

Vincent’slipscurveintoaslowsmile.Iturntoseewhathe’sstaringat,andtheresheis,SadGirl,sitting
atacornertable,reading.Shehasthisrapturousexpressionasshereads,likethereisnothingsheloves
betterthansittingoutside,turningpages.Herberry-redlipsarequirkedupintoanunself-conscioussmile.

“Great,”Imoan,turningbackaround.Ambroseleansovertoseewhowe’relookingatandexclaims,

“Hey,isn’tthat...”

“It’sthegirl,”Vincentsays.“Butshe’snotassadasbefore.”
“Well,well,well,”Ambrosesays,foldinghisarmsacrosshisbroadchest.“Whydon’tyougoover

andtalktoher?”

“Andsaywhat?”Vincentscoffs.
“Sheseemstolikereading.Tellheryou’reinabookclubandinvitehertojoin.”
“Abookclubwithonemember.Goodone,Ambrose.She’sreallygoingtobuythat,”Vincentremarks

dryly.

“Naw,JulesandIcouldcomeandpretendwereadthebookstoo,”Ambrosesayswithonlyasoupçon

ofhumor.

“Idon’tneedtopretendIreadbooks,”Iinterject.
“Man,moviestrumpbooksanyday,”Ambrosecounters,leaningbackinhisseat.
“Wearenothavingthisconversationagain,”Isay,butglancingoveratVince,Iseehe’snotlistening.

He’slostinthegirl.AndAmbrosehasthegalltolookamusedbythesituation.

Sad Girl starts hanging out there regularly, at the same table in the far corner of the café terrace.

Which,ofcourse,meansthatwhatusedtobeourfew-times-a-weekcoffeebreakbecomesaneveryday
ritual.Sometimestwiceaday,fromwhatIgatherfromCharlotteandCharles.ButIhavemoreimportant
thingstoworryaboutthanVincentandhisobsessions.Lucien,thenumaleader,andhiscrewhavebeen
settingoffminicatastrophesallovertown.Overthelastfewmonths,thenumahavegottenmoreandmore
active,andJBandVincentarewonderingwhatthenumachiefhasuphissleeve.

We saved a potential suicide from him a couple of weeks ago. She was fourteen and pregnant, and

Lucienhadconvincedherthatlifewasn’tworthliving.Asusual,heandhiscrewtaggedalongtoseethe
deeddone.Torevelintheirrepulsivegleeathavingtrickedyetanotherhumantoherdoom.

I was volant, walking with Charlotte and Charles, and foresaw what would happen. I flew to fetch

VincentandAmbroseasreinforcementsjustasCharlotteandCharlesbeganfightingLucien’shenchmen.
Vincentdidn’tgettothegirlintimetotouchher—topassherhiscalm—butdoveintotheriverrightafter
she jumped and saved her. Charlotte and Charles killed two numa under the bridge, but Lucien and
anothergotawaywhileAmbrosewasfendingoffsomecuriouspassersby.

Afterthatincident,Lucienseemstolaylow.Acoupleofweekspasswithoutourcatchingsightofhim

orhismen.AlthoughallIwanttodoisescapetomystudioandpaint,Ifindmyselfspendingmostofmy
freetimebabysittingCharles,whoisonceagaininoneofhisexistentialcrises:Whyarewehere?Why
couldn’t he have just died and stayed dead? Why is he forced to live out this existence that he never
chose?SadGirliscompletelyoffmyradar.

SoIamunpreparedwhenVinceandIpassthecaféonemorningandseehersittingatherusualtable.

“Icouldusealittlecaffeinefixaboutnow,how’boutyou?”Vincentsays,eyesgluedtoherface.

It’suselesstoresist.Ifollowhimontotheterrace,wherehetakesatableafewrowsawayfromhers

onanaisleshewillhavetopasswhensheleaves.Ispendthenexthalfhourtryingtoignorethefactthat
VincentisonlyhalflisteningtothestoriesI’mtelling.SoIampuptheintrigueandgivehimastoryI’m
surehe’sneverheard.

Itwasabout1910andJuanGrisandIwereleavingtheBateau-Lavoir,thathideouswoodenbuilding

wherewealllivedandworked.Ifpossible,itfeltevencolderinsidethebuildingthanout.Wewereso
frozen that even with gloves on we couldn’t manage to paint, so our plan was to go sit in a warm café
untilourfingersunstuck,andthengetbacktowork.Betweenus,wehadenoughcashfortwocoffees,and
Iguesswewerelookingprettyrough—butwhowasn’tinthosedays?

Anyway,onourwaybacktotheBateau,JuanandIgotnabbedbythepolice.Handcuffedandtakenin.

Weknewwewerealreadyonthepolicelistsforsuspicionofbeinganarchistsandrabble-rousers(which
wewerenot).Butthiswasnoregularroundupofindigents.No—thesecopsconfusedJuanwithoneofthe
robbers of the rue Ordener bank. They were sure it was him, even though we swore up and down we
wereinnocentartists.

“Proveit,”oneofthecopssaid.SoIgrabbedapenandpaperoffthedeskanddrewapictureofone

oftheChatNoircancangirls.Butinmysketch,shehadforgottenhercostume,allexceptforthefeathered
headpiece.Withawhoopofraucouslaughterandslapsontheback,theyletusgo.

I’mfinishingmystorywhenIrealizethatVincent’snotevenlistening.Heleapstohisfeetandruns

overtothegirl’stable.IturntoseeSadGirlstandingbehindtwowomenwhoaregatheringupagazillion
shoppingbags,waitingtogetbythemtoleave.Butsheforgotherpurse—it’sdrapedoverthebackofher
chair—andthat’swhatVincentwenttoget.Hereturnswithit,andhasjustsatbackdownwhenshegets
tiredofwaitingtoleaveinthatdirection,turns,andheadsstraighttowardus,towardtheotherexit.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks as she passes mere inches away. She turns and looks at

himinquisitively.“Yourbag,”hesays,andholdsitupontwofingers.Shethankshimandreachesforit,
butheyanksitback.Andthentheydothiskindofstrangedancewhereshe’stryingtograbthebagand
he’spullingitaway,insistingshetellhimhernamebeforehe’llgiveherthebag.Aclassicpickupline
thathehasunabashedlystolendirectlyfromyourstruly.

Ofcourse,unlikeme,hefoulsthewholethingup.Inonecatastrophicmovement,shegrabs,hegives

in,andthecontentsofherbagspillallovertheterrace.Herhairbrushlandsonmyfoot,whileVincent
picksupherdriver’slicenseandstudiesitlikeit’stheRosettastone.

Retrievingherbookfromunderoneoftheneighboringtables,heholdsitup.“ToKillaMockingbird

en anglais,” he says, and then launches into his near-perfect English trying to start up a conversation.
“Greatbook—haveyoueverseenthefilm...Kate?”

Her expression morphs from pissed off to astonished. “How did you know my name?” she asks.

Vincent holds up her driver’s license, and she turns beet red. She won’t even look at him and he’s
apologizingupanddown,andIfinallybuttintopointouttheobvious.“Helpthegirlup,Vincent,andstop
showingoff.”

Vincent extends a hand toward her but she ignores it, struggles to her feet, brushes herself off, and

grabsthehairbrushI’mholdingouttoher.Vincenthandsherherbook,andwithalookthatmanagesto
combinehumiliationwithdeephatred,shestompsoutoftheplace.

“Now that, my friend, was smooth,” I say as Vince and I watch her walk out to the street and then

glancebackatus.Herfaceisnowpuce,butVincentdoesn’tnotice.Hefloatsbackdownintohischair.

“Hey,spaceman,timetocomebacktoEarth,”Isay,wavingmyhandinfrontofhisface.
He pops out of his trance and looks me in the eyes. “Kate Mercier. American, Brooklyn address,

birthday December ninth,” he says in this awed voice, like he’s just discovered the formula for turning
mudintogold.

Ishakemyheadindismay.“Man,you’vegotitbad.Butyouknowyoucan’tdoanythingaboutit.”I

taphisshoulder.“AmélieandIaregoingouttonight.Comewithus.I’llhaveherbringafriend.It’sjust
whatyouneedtogetyourmindoffwhat’s-her-name.”

Heshakeshishead.“No,thanks.AndhernameisKate.”

THREE

I’MHEADINGUPTHESTAIRSTOMYBEDROOM

afterafullhourofworkingoutinthearmory.Gaspardwalks

outofthesittingroomand,seeingme,stopsinplaceunderthechandelier.“Mustyouinsistonwalking
aroundthehousenaked,Jules?ItmakesmefeellikeI’mlivinginsomekindofsordidfraternityhouse.”

“I’mnotnaked,”Isay,pointingtothetowelaroundmywaist.
“Atoweldoesnotcountasclothing,”Gaspardchides.
“Whateveryousay,”Irespond,and,yankingoffthetowel,drapeitovermyshoulderslikeascarf.
Gaspardshakeshisheadmournfullyandwandersofftowardthekitchen,mumbling,“Iamlivingwith

cretins.”

Justthen,CharlesandCharlottecomebustlingbreathlesslythroughthefrontdoorlikeanangrymob’s

chasingthemwithpitchforks.Charlottetakesonelookatmeandstartslaughing.Ireturnthetoweltomy
waistandask,“What’sgoingon?”

“RememberthatgirlwhoVincentwasfollowing?”Charlotteblurtsout.
“Theonehetalkedtoatthecafélastweek?Whatwashername...Kate?”Iask.
“Yes,well,nowhe’sgoneandsavedher.”
“Whereishe?”Iask,feelingatingleofpanic.
“He’svolant,sohe’sprobablyfollowingherhome.Abigstonefelloffthesideofthebuildingabove

CaféSainte-Lucieandnearlycrushedher.Vincentforesawitandtoldme.Igesturedforhertocomeover
toourtable,andshegotoutofthewayjustintime.Thestonecrushedthechairshehadbeensittingin.
Shewouldhavebeenkilledonimpact.”

“Soitwasactuallyyouwhodidthesaving,”Charlesinterrupts.“MaybeVincentwon’tgettheenergy

transfer.”

“Idefinitelygotsome—Ifeltit.Look,Ifiledthesedowntothenubthismorning.”Charlotteholdsher

handsout,displayingnailsthathavealreadygrownpastherfingertips.“ButIdidn’tgetthefullsurge—
justabit.Someofherenergydefinitelywenttohim.”

“Crap,”Isay.“Whatevermysticalforcescreatedrevenants,theysurecomplicatedthingsbymakingus

obsessoverthepeoplewesave.That’sallVincentneeds.Evenmoreofanurgetofollowheraround.”

JustthenIfeelapresenceentertheroom.Onlyoneofusisvolantthisweek,soIknowexactlywhoit

is.“Vince,man,youaresoexceedinglystupid,”Isay.

WhatwasIsupposedtodo...letherdie?heresponds.
“Of course not,” I concede. “But you know what this means. You’re playing with fire, man. And I

don’twanttobearoundwhenyoucomehomewiththird-degreeburns.”

IknowwhatI’mdoing,heinsists.
“Likehellyoudo,”Isay.IwanttoshakehimandremindhimofhowmuchCharlessufferedthetime

hefellinlovewithahuman.ButCharlesisstandingrightthereprobablythinkingthesamething,soIjust
grabmycoatandleavetogototheoneplacewhereIamcompletelyincontrol:Igotomystudioandlose
myselfinmypainting.

FOUR

AH, THE MARAIS. MY FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD

in Paris. The vestiges of history within its two

arrondissements span everything from the remains of a Roman wall to ultra-modern art galleries.
WheneversomeoneproposeswalkingtheMarais,theyknowI’min.

SowhenavolantAmbrosementionspatrollingfromtherivertorueSaint-Denis,Ijumpatthechance.

It’seasytotalkVincentintocomingalongbecausehe’sstillmooningaboutmeetingtheAmericangirltwo
daysago.Iknow,becauseeverytimehethinksaboutherhegetsthisstupidgrinonhisface,andhe’sgotit
rightnow.

Westartoffatmygallery,whereIshowVinceandAmbrosesomenewfiguredrawingsI’mworking

on,thenzigzagdownruedesRosiersthroughtheJewishdistrict,uprueVieilleduTemplepastallofthe
trendystores,restaurants,andbars,ontotheruedesFrancs-Bourgeoiswithitsbeautifulsixteenth-century
mansions,punctuatedbyrowsoffashionandcosmeticshops.

We head north toward some shadier neighborhoods, specifically the rue Saint-Denis, where our

enemiesareinvolvedinthethrivingprostitutionandstrip-showbusinesses.Andjustaswe’repassingthe
PicassoMuseum,Vincentsays,“Sorry,notinterested.”

“What’sAmbrosewant?”Iask.
IwasjustsuggestingtoVinthatwepopintothemuseumforalittlelessoninCubism,hesays.
NormallyIwouldpass.I’veseeneverypaintinginthereamilliontimes.Isawseveralofthembefore

theirpaintwasevendry,sincePablo’sstudiowasdownthehallfrommineattheBateau-Lavoir.ButI
havebeenthinkingaboutthelinearqualityofoneofhisearlyself-portraitslately—whichhassuspicious
similaritiestooneofmyownworksfromthatyear.Andtruthbetold,Iwouldn’tmindinspectingitup
close.

Withinminutesweareinsidethemuseum,standinginfrontofoneofPablo’sAnalyticalCubistcafé-

table-with-newspaper-and-bottlestilllifes.

“Itjustlookslikeonebigmesstome,”saysAmbrose.
“No,see,hetakeseachindividualitem—thenewspaper,thebottle,theglass”—Ipointeachoneout

—“flattensthem,andthenrearrangesthosetwo-dimensionalformsonthecanvas.It’sgenius,really,but
thepointisitwasn’thisidea.ItwasBraque’s.Andthetwoofthemgotintothishow-Cubist-can-we-get?
competitionuntilyou’vegotcanvasesfullofbarelyrecognizablesplintersofobjects.ButdidPablogive
Georgescreditforcomingupwiththeideainthefirstplace?Ofcoursenot.Becausehewasanarcissistic
megalomaniac.”

“Don’tlook,”saysVincent.
“Whatdoyoumean,don’tlook?Themoreyoulookthemoreyou’llseehowI’mtotallyrightand...”
“No,don’tlookbehindus,”hesays.
SoofcourseIdo.Andtheresheis:Not-Quite-As-SadGirl,sittingtherespacedoutinfrontofoneof

Pablo’sabstracts.Ican’tbelieveit.

No,actually,Ican.“Whatanincrediblecoincidence,Ambrose,”Imurmur,“thatatthesamemoment

you propose a lesson in Cubism, Vincent’s obsession is sitting right here in the Picasso Museum. Nice
one.”

IhearAmbrosechuckle,andknowhesetthewholethingup.“Thisisnotbeinghelpful,Ambrose,”I

growl.“It’sbeinghurtful.”

Vincentdoesn’tseemtothinkso,hereplies.
IturntoVincent.“Don’tgotalktoher.I’mwarningyou.Thisisthelastthingyouneed.You’retoo

intohertomakeitaone-nightstand,andhavingamortalgirlfriendistheworstthingthatyoucoulddo.

Justpretendyoudidn’tseeher,andlet’swalk.Look,she’slookingdown.Shewon’tevenseeyou.”

Vincentjuststandstherelikehe’shypnotizedorsomething.
“Iamleavinginfiveseconds,Vince,andyouarecomingwithme.Four.Three.Two.You’reonyour

own,dude.”Ibookitoutofthere.Idon’twanttostaytowatchthistrainwreckhappen.

IfeelAmbrose’spresencenearby,keepingupwithme.“Justawarning,”Itellhim.“I’llgetyouback

forthisnexttimeyouaskmetocomewithyouvolanttotheracetrack.It’llbethebiggestlosingstreakof
yourlife,man.”

Vincentcouldusealittledistraction,Ambrosesays.Hehasn’tgoneoutwithagirlforyears.
“I think you will agree that there’s a difference between a girl and that girl. As in Vincent’s so

obsessed with her already that he’s going to fall. Hard. And then we have Charles Mach Two on our
hands.Resentfulforwhatheis,andmakingalltherestofussufferforitwithhisragingattitude.”

ButGeneviève...Ambrosebegins.
“Geneviève was already married to a human when she died and animated. That’s a totally different

case.Speakingof,areyoustillpiningawayforher,waitingforPhilippetodie?”

Hey,IlikePhilippe,Ambroserebuts.He’sgoodtoGeneviève.
“Butyoustillwanthimtodie.”
It’snotthatIwanthimtodiethisveryinstant.It’sjustthathe’sgottopassawaysometimesoon.

Theguyisancient.Ijustneedtobereadywhenithappens.

“That’stwisted,”Isay.AsecurityguardwatchesmecautiouslyasI“talktomyself”whileexitingthe

museum.ProbablythinksI’msomekindofnutcase,cometosplashpaintalloverPablo’scanvases.Not
thatitwouldn’tbeanimprovementforsomeofthem.

FIVE

ISCRAPETHEOILSONTOMYPALETTE:AMIXOF

ZincBuffandMontserratOrangeforherslightlytannedskin,

VandykeBrownforherlong,thickhair,VenetianRedforhersucculentlips,andPeryleneBlackforeyes
likeoceans.

Valérie lies on my antique green couch, wearing nothing but what she was born in. I stand ten feet

away,nearthewindowofmystudio,lettingthenaturallightilluminatemycanvas.

I’m painting Valérie as a reclining nude, Modigliani-style. I miss the guy, even though he was

obnoxious.Alwaysdrunkorhighandpickingfights.Doingoutrageousthingssothatnoonewouldnotice
thefactthathewasdyingoftuberculosisandavoidhimlike...well,liketheplague.

TherewasthattimewewereatabarneartheBateau-Lavoire,andhedidastripteaseinfrontofa

tableof“ladiesofacertainage.”Rippedoffeverylaststitchofhisclothing.Almostgavethebiddiesa
heartattack.“ServesthemrightforhangingoutinMontmartre,”hetoldthepolicemanwhoshowedup.
Thosewerewilddays,andhewasthewildestofusall.Butgivehimabrushandhepaintedlikenoone
hasoreverwill.Touchedbyangels.BreathedonbyGod.Andinspiredbythedevil.

I use one sweeping stroke to define the upper curve of Valérie’s body, from shoulder to foot. She’s

readingapaperback,clearlybored.Ionlyneedhertolookupattheendofthecomposition,whenIpaint
inherface,soIallowherthisoff-time.“Okay,let’stakeabreak,”Isay,andshestands,hersoft,curvy
bodyasexquisiteastheVenusdeMilo,asfreshasaripepeach.

I will never tire of looking at women. Appreciating their beauty. Reveling in each girl’s individual

charm.There’snothingmorebeautifulonearth.Andevenmoretantalizingaretheonesyoucan’ttouch,
likeValérie:Inevermixbusinesswithpleasure.Andnotjustbecauseofsecurity.(Loversaren’tallowed
intoourpermanentresidences.)No,itwasahard-earnedlessonafterafewcatastrophicencounters.All
youneedisforonemodeltoseeanotherpaintedinasuggestivepose,andvoilà—you’vegotacatfightin
themiddleofyourpaintingexhibition.

Valériescoopsuparobeanddrapesitlazilyaroundherbeforepickingherbookbackupandlyingon

herstomachtoread.Iwalkbacktothebathroomtowashoutmybrushes,andhearthefrontdooropenand
closeandValérietalkingtosomeone.It’sVincent.Good—I’vebeentryingtoreachhimallafternoon.

Istepoutofthedarkbathroomintothesun-drenchedstudiotoseeSadGirl—Kate—standinginfront

ofthewindow,backlitbythewarmsunofthesummerafternoon.Shelookslikeasaintfromamedieval
painting:pure,beautiful,glorious,crownedwithraysofgoldenlight.

Butsheisnotasaint.She’sahundredpercenthuman,andtotallyfallsintothe“lover”category.She

shouldn’t be here with Vincent. I manage to tear my eyes from her to see Vincent standing by her side,
lookinglikehishead’sabouttoexplode.

“Kate,thisisJules.Jules,Kate,”hespitsoutasfastashismouthwillmove.“Listen,Jules,KateandI

werewalkingaroundtheVillageSaint-PaulandIsawsomeonethere,”hesays,raisinghiseyebrows.I
cantellfromhistonethatsomeoneisnotjustanyoneandthatanumamustbemereblocksaway.

“Outside,”Iorder,frowningatKateasIusherVincentouttothestaircaseandclosethedoorbehind

us.BeforeIcansayanything,Vincentlaunchesintothestory.Lucienandoneofhisguardsweresittingat
acaféwithsomeunluckyhuman—abusinessman,fromthelooksofhim.Andfromthepitifullookonhis
face,thenumahadprobablyruinedhimfinanciallyandweregoingtoblackmailhimorsomething.

“Andyoujustlefthimthere?”Iask.
“Ihadto,”Vincentresponds.“It’snotlikeIcanfighttwonumaaloneandinpublic.Ican’tdoanything

without backup.” He’s upset. There was his archenemy working his evil ways with an unsuspecting
human,andVincentwaspowerlesstointervene.

“I’mwithyounow,”Ireassurehim,“andAmbrosecanbeourthird.”

Vincepullsouthisphoneandspeed-dialsGaspard,tellinghimtosendAmbrosetomystudio.“He’s

onhisway,”heconfirms.

“Good.Nowyoucantellme...whythehelldidyoubringherwithyou?”Icrossmyarmstocontrol

myself;I’msotemptedtothrottlehim.

“I’mnotondutytwenty-fourseven.She’swithmebecausewe’reonadate.”
“Thatisexactlywhysheshouldnotbehere.”
“JBonlysaidwecouldn’tbringpeoplehome,”Vincentsays.“Idon’tseewhyshecan’tcomehere.”
“Dude.Anywherewehaveapermanentaddressisoff-limitsfor...‘dates.’Orwhatever.Youknow

therules.”

“Valérie’shere,”Vincentprotests.
“Idon’tdateValérie,orelseshewouldn’tbehere.Inanycase,yourdateisover!”
He scowls like he wants to punch me in the face. And then he sighs and his shoulders slump. He

knowsI’mright.HetakesKatedowntothecourtyardandsayshisgood-byes.Shelooksdisappointed,but
that’snotmyproblem.Oncesheleaves,Vincentrunsbackupthestairs.

“Ambroseishere.HesawLucienandNicolas,”hesays.“They’remakingtheirwayinthisdirection.

Butmoreimportantly,Ambroseforesawthehumanwho’swiththemthrowinghimselfinfrontofaMétro
traininaboutthreeminutes’time.Wehavetogonow!”

“Session’sover,Valérie,”Isay.Ipickupmycoatandthrowherthekeys.“Couldyoulockupbehind

you?Justdropthekeysinmymailboxwhenyouleave.”

“ButI’veonlybeenhereahalfhour,”shesays,sittingup.Shelooksuncertain.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay you for the whole three hours,” I say. She nods, satisfied, and begins getting

dressedasIfollowVincent.WewalkquicklytowardtheSaint-PaulMétrostation.

You’vegotexactlyaminuteandahalf,Ambrosesaysaswejogdownthestairs.
“Who’supthistime?”IaskVincent.
“Well,itwasAmbrose’sturntodie,buthesavedthatkidtwodaysago,”Vincentreplies.
“What’sitbeenforyou—ayear?”Iask.
Vincentnods.
“MylastwasMarch.Soyoucantakeit,”Ioffer.
Noone’sgoingtotakeitifyoudon’tgetyourbuttsdowntherestat,saysAmbroseasweemergeout

ofthehallwayintotheplatformarea.

“There he is—the guy who was with Lucien,” Vincent says, and points to a man in a suit who is

blatantlycrying.

That’sourjumper,verifiesAmbrose.
Themanplaceshisbriefcaseontheplatformandlowershimselfdownontothetracks.“Now!”Isay,

andVincentgetsreadytorun.Butbeforehecan,wehearagirlscreamingbehindus.Someoneelsehas
noticedthemanonthetracks.I’mstunnedtoseethatit’sKate.She’spointingtotheguyandfreakingout.
Vincentlooksatme.Iknowwhathe’sthinking.“Let’sgo,”Isay.

VincentrunsforKate,andIjumpdownontothetracks.Themanissobbing,holdinghisheadinhis

handsastherushofwindannouncinganoncomingtrainblowsmebackastep.Thetrainroundsacorner
andbearsdownonhimasIrunbetweenthetrackstogettohim.He’shalfaplatformaway:I’mnotsureI
canreachhimintime.

Thetrainappears,andtomeitislikeadragon,solid,shining,andenormous:theyellowheadlightsits

eyesandthewailinghornitsbattleshriek.It’slikeSt.Georgeversusthedragon,Ithink,but this time
thedragonwins.

Themanletsoutaterrifiedbleat,andwithnotimetospare,Ipushhimtotheothersideofthetracks

—tosafety.Andinmyfinalsecond,IturntoseeVincenttryingtoshieldKatesoshewon’tseemedie.
Thetrainisuponme,sparksflying,brakesscreechingasthedrivertriestoavoidtheinevitable.

Notimetodiveoutofitstrajectory.Thisisthewayofmykind,Ithink.Deathisawelcomemistress,

butdamn,isshebrutal.

IbracemyselfforthesplitsecondofwrenchingpainthatIwillexperienceastheimpacttakesmylife.

Vincent’seyesmeetmine.Itouchmyfingerstomyforeheadinsalutetomykinsman,andthenIdie.

SIX

WHENMYMINDAWAKES,THEHOUSEISQUIET.I

sweepthroughthefloors,seewho’saround,andstopwhenI

seeVincentaloneinhisroom.He’sstretchedoutonthefloorthrowingchunksofbreadintothefireand
watching them spark. An untouched tray of food sits in front of him. He must have skipped dinner, if
Jeannebroughthimroomservice.

What’sup?Iask,knowingtheanswerhassomethingtodowithher.
“Jules.You’reback.ThatMétrocrashlookedprettypainful.Ihopeyougetextrabonuspointsforit.”

Hisvoiceismournful.Iknowhe’sgladto“see”me,butsomething’sdefinitelywrong.

Istaysilentandfinallyhesays,“Katesayssheneverwantstoseemeagain.”Hecrushesapieceof

bread into a tiny ball before jettisoning it into the flames. “She thought something was wrong with me
sinceIdidn’tseemupsetaboutyoudying.”

Acompletelynormalreaction,seeingsheishumanandweareimmortal,Ireply.
“ButJules,”hesays,rollingoverontohisbackandstaringattheceiling.“She’sdifferentfromanyone

elseI’veevermet.Ihaven’tfeltthisforagirlsinceHél—”

Whoa,whoa,whoa,Isay,cuttinghimoff.Youhaveofficiallyenteredthedangerzone.Youshouldbe

thankingyourluckystarsthatKatedumpedyou.Whatifshehadfallenforyou,andyouhadtoreject
her?Thatwouldberough,man.Rulenumberonewiththebabesisdon’teverhurtthem.Makethem
think it’s they who broke up with you. And in your case, that has actually happened. Saves you from
havingtobeanassholelateron.

“Butwhatiftherewasaway,”hebegins,rippingcrumbsoffthemangledbaguetteinhishand.
There is no way, I say. Okay, there are rare examples you hear about from time to time at a

convocation.Ahandfulofstoriesfromwaybackwhen.Butman,whowouldwantthat?Theygrowold
whileyoustayyoung?It’snotnatural.

“We’renotnatural,”Vincentsaysinadeadvoice.
Iignorehimandcontinue.PlusJean-BaptistehasforbiddenitfortheFrenchkindred.You’reonly

hissecond:Untilyoutakehisplace,he’stheboss.

Vincentdoesn’tsayanythingafterthat,butIknowIhaven’tchangedhismind.Forthenextcoupleof

weeksheskulksaround,aballofnerves,watchingKatefromafar.Nevergoingcloseenoughforherto
catchsightofhim,andbeingcarefularoundtherestofustolooklikehe’snotstalkingher.ButIcantell
he’s just dying to see her face. And when he catches sight of her at the café or walking home from the
Métrostation,helooksalltranquil.Likehe’sonlyokayifheknowsshe’ssafe.It’sfreakingmeout.Ihave
afeelingit’sgoingtoendbadly,butthere’snothingmoreIcansay.Andinanycase,mymindisonother
things.

Whenever I die, I’m moody for weeks afterward. Thoughtful. I think about my deaths, run Google

searchesonthoseofmyrescueswhoarestillalive,seehowthey’reallaredoing.Butthemostimportant
rescueinanyrevenant’slifeistheveryfirst.Theonethatturnedusfromhumanintobardia.Myfirstsave
islonggone—hediedoverhalfacenturyago.Buttherearevestigesofhiminmuseumsaroundtheworld,
and it comforts me to see the masterpieces he created after I died. Half of Fernand Léger’s oeuvre
wouldn’texistifIhadn’thandedhimmygasmaskanddiedinhisplace.

Thereisaparticularpaintingofhis,TheCardGame,thatIlovetovisit,mainlybecauseI’minit—I

admit.ButalsobecauseitresidesjustacrosstownattheMuséed’ArtModerne.AndsinceI’mgoingona
monthsincereanimation,Imakemyregularpilgrimagetoseeit.

The painting depicts a group of soldiers playing cards—soldiers Léger said were from his own

battalion.Irecognizemypipe,buthemademyfacelooklikearobotskeleton.Hepaintedmeasanimage

ofdeath,soonafterIdiedsavinghislife.Thescenetakesmebacktothoseendlessnightsofcardplaying
aswewaitedfortheenemytoshellourtrenches.Cardsweretheonlythingthatcouldtakeourmindsoff
ourfeebleholdonmortality.

Andnowdeathisnolongeraconcernforme.ItissomethingthatIcrave.ThatIwelcome.ThatIneed

in order to remain immortal. Although Léger was depicting his soldiers as automatons—easily
expendable,easilyreplaced—themetalarmorheusedtorepresentourskinseemslikeaposthumousway
ofprotectingallofus.Ofmakinguslessdestructible.IknowthewarsaffectedLégerdeeply,astheydid
everyoneinEurope.Butheleftvisiblerecordsofhisbattlewounds.

That’senough.IhavehadmyfillofTheCardGame—atleastforthislifecycle.Iturntomakemy

wayoutoftheroom,andfreezeinplace.Myheartispoundinglikeabassdrum.

It’s the situation that every revenant dreads, and the reason bardia who live in small towns have to

moveeverytimetheydie.It’snotsupposedtohappeninacityoftwoandaquartermillionpeople!We
avoidgettingtoknowthehumansinourneighborhood.Weavoidmakingfriendswithhumansatall(okay
—temporarygirlfriends,butthat’sdifferentbecausethey’re...temporary).Becauseifahumanseesus
dieandthenrecognizesusafterwereanimate,weareupshitcreek.

But Vincent made a friend. A friend who saw me die. And she is sitting across the room, staring

straightatme,hermouthhangingopeninincredulity.Shegetsupfromherbenchandwalkstowardme.
“Jules!” she says, and her voice is a squeak because she can’t believe her eyes. I have one second of
shockbeforeI’mabletopullthemaskdownovermyface.

“Hello,”Isay,andcockmyheadslightlytotheside.“DoIknowyou?”
“Jules,it’sme,Kate.IvisitedyourstudiowithVincent,remember?AndIsawyouattheMétrostation

thatdayofthecrash.”

Igiveherthekindofsmileyougivesomeoneyoufeelsorryfor.“I’mafraidthatyouhaveconfused

mewithsomeoneelse.MynameisThomas,andIdon’tknowanyonenamedVincent.”

Katetakesasteptowardme,andangerflashesinhereyes.“Jules,Iknowit’syou.Youwereinthat

horribleaccidentwhen...justoveramonthago?”

Ishrugandshakemyhead.
“Jules,youhavetotellmewhat’sgoingon,”sheinsists.
People are starting to look at us, and I need to diffuse the situation before Kate goes into a full-out

hissyfitinthemiddleofapublicplace.ButwhatcanIdo?Ican’ttellherthetruth.Andshe’snotgoing
swallowmyobviouscharade.Itakehergentlybytheelbowandleadherbacktowardthebench.“Letme
helpyousitdown.Youmustbeoverexcited.Oroverwrought.”

Katejerksherarmawayfromme.“Iknowit’syou.I’mnotcrazy.AndIdon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.

ButIaccusedVincentofbeingheartlessforrunningawayfromyourdeath.Andnowitturnsoutyou’re
alive.”

Kate’sbasicallyyellingnow,andIfeelbeadsofsweatformingonmyforehead.Everyoneintheroom

iswatchingus.Asecurityguardwalksbrisklytowardusfromthefrontdesk.“Isthereaproblemhere?”

“Noproblem,sir.Theladyseemstohavemistakenmeforsomeoneelse.”
“Ihavenot!”Katehisses,anddoesthisfist-clenchingfootstomplikeanangryschoolgirl.Shehuffs

off,outthemuseumdoor,andIshrugattheguard,whohaslostinterestnowthatthestormhaspassed.As
soon as he walks away, I’m off, down the stairs, booking it back out to the car I parked on the rue
Rambuteau.Iknowwhereshe’sgoing:VincenthadtheidioticideaoftakingherbacktoLaMaisonafterI
died,to“calmherdown.”IfshetakestheMétro,I’mgoingtohavetomakerecordtimetobeatherback
toLaMaison.

TheworstthatcanhappenisthatJBwillturnherawayatthegate,Ithink,butI’vegotareallybad

feelingaboutthiswholething.Vincentisvolant.Ifsheinsistsonseeinghim,wewon’tbeabletoproduce
a walking, talking Vincent until tomorrow afternoon. And Kate looked damn well determined as she

marchedawayfromme.She’snotthekindofgirlwho’sgoingtoeasilygiveup.

Paris traffic is working against me on this all-crucial occasion, and by the time I run in through the

frontdoor,JeanneisarguingwithJBaboutayoungvisitorhesaidwaswaitinginthesittingroomwitha
noteforVincent.

The sitting room is empty now, except for a handwritten letter signed by Kate. So I rush straight to

Vincent’sroom,andtheresheis,standingnexttohiscold,deadbodyandfreakingoutlikeanactressina
black-and-whitehorrorfilm.

Icanfeelavolantspiritintheroom.“Lookslikethegame’sup,Vince,”Isay.

SEVEN

KATE’SINITIATIONINTOLAMAISONHAPPENS

thenextmorningwhensheseesthatVincentreanimatedandwe

tell her what we are. She handles it better than I would have expected. Not that I expected her to go
running,screamingoutofthehouse.Butdiscoveringthatthereisawholeworldofundeadsuperheroes
existingsidebysidewiththeregularhumanworldwouldfreakmostpeopleout.Katetakesitinstride.
Onlyateenager,andsheacceptswhatwetellherwithcourageandgrace.Iamofficiallyamazed.

However, Jean-Baptiste is furious that a human who wasn’t preapproved by him entered our house

andlearnedoursecrets.Andwhilehe’schewingVincentout,Kateactuallycomestothekitchenandhas
breakfast with us—not only a crowd of people she’s just met, but people she’s just discovered are
basically monsters. She stands there at the door looking uncertain until Ambrose bids her to “Enter,
human,”andlaughing,shecomestositnexttome.

ShemeetsJeanne,andIcantellthatknowingthereisanotherhumanintheroomcomfortsher.Andby

the time she digs into the bread and coffee Jeanne serves her, she’s chatting with the group like she’s
knownusallherlife.

WhenGaspardstickshisheadinandtellsKateshe’sfreetogo,Ileapattheopportunitytowalkher

out.Aftershesaysgood-byetoVincent,Iputonmyverybestnineteenth-centurymanners,bow,andplace
herhandonmyarmasIescorthertothefrontdoor.Andwhenwegetthere,IdowhatI’vebeenwanting
toallmorning:Iapologize.

“I’m sorry I was rude before today, you know . . . in my studio and at the museum. I swear it was

nothingpersonal.IwasjusttryingtoprotectVincentandyou...andallofus.Nowthatit’stoolatefor
that,well,pleaseacceptmyapology.”

Shewatchesmequizzically,asifshe’stryingtodecidewhetherI’mseriousornot.Andthenshepicks

upherbagandslingsitoverhershoulder.“Itotallyunderstand,”shesays.Andshegivesmealips-closed
smilewithateasingsparkleinhereye.“I’mameremortal.Whatelsecouldyoudo?”

This girl is oozing with graceful charisma, like a teenage Audrey Hepburn, and I totally get what

Vincentseesinher.Knowingshe’llprobablybearoundalot,Ireallypouronthecharm.

I press my hand to my chest. “Whew—she forgave me.” And I step toward her so that only a few

inchesofspaceseparateus.“You’resureyoudon’tneedmetowalkyouhome?”Isay,liftinganeyebrow
andgivinghermymostflirtatioussmile.

Sherefuses,butblushesdeeply—hotpinkspreadingacrosshercheeks.Asusual,Ifeelawildrushof

success.Iloveflirtingmorethanfood.Orevenfighting.Andevokingablushisoneofthemostsatisfying
resultsIcanhopefor.

Ilikethisgirl,Ifindmyselfthinking.I’mactuallylookingforwardtoherbeingaround.

ThenextweekVincentcomeshometwodaysinarowwiththisgrinonhisfacethat’sgottomeanhe’s
beenhangingwithKate.

“Soyou’regoingtokeephertoyourself,”Ijokewithhimaswejogdownthestairstothearmory.

“Finallywe’reallowedtohaveaprettygirlinthehouseandyou’rehoardingher.”

“No,I’mnot,”heinsists.“AmbroseisgoingasKate’ssister’sdatewithusthisSaturday.”
“Um,excuseme,”Isay,grabbingapairofshortswordsoffthewall.“Bestfriend,here?Theguywho

isalwaysofferingtosetyouupwithhotbabes,andyouleavemeout?”

“Jules.Saturday.You’revolant,”heremindsmeashechooseshisownweapon:aJapanesekatana.
“Oh,right,”Iadmit.“Butthatstilldoesn’tmeanIcan’ttagalong.Youguyscouldusesomeghostly

backupifyou’regoingtobeoutonthetownwithtwoverydistractingladiesonyourarms.”

Vincent laughs and faces me in a two-handed assault pose. “I knew you’d want to come. I was just

waitingforyoutoask.Youknow...grovelabitaftertreatingKatesorudely.”

I lift my swords. “Dude, I’m done with the groveling, and fair Kate agreed to forgive me my

misdeeds.”

“Did she, now?” Vincent asks, looking amused. “I can only imagine the way that you apologized.”

Andhelaunchestowardme,swinginghissworddownwardtostrikemycrossedblades.Ipulltheshort
swordsapartinanupwardthrust,sendingVincentbackastep.

“Hey,pouringonthecharmiswhatIdobest,”Isaybetweenbreaths,andreadymystanceforhisnext

lunge.“WhatcanIdo?Theladiescan’tresistme.”

WhenwemeetKateandGeorgiaattheMétrostation,Iimmediatelyseeakindredflirtatiousspiritinthe
sisterasshecoosoverVincentandAmbroseinturn.Thesisterscouldn’tbemoredifferentinlooks,but
there’sstillsomethingtherethatsays,Wesharegenes.However,it’sKatewhoattractsmyattention.She’s
glowing.Radiant.NotraceofSadGirlleft.

Georgiaanswersherphone,andVinceandAmbrosestarttalkingaboutwhetherornottheyshouldgo

totheplaceGeorgiasuggested,whichhappenstobeinanuma-frequentedneighborhood.

Hey,Ambrose,Isay,interrupting,tellKate‘Hi,beautiful’fromherghostlylothario.Helaughsand

tellsKatewhatIsaid,winningmemysecondblushinoneweek.

“Hey,watchit,”Vincentjokes.
Tell her it’s a shame she had to fall for someone as boring as you. Being an older, more

experiencedman,Iknowhowtotreatalady.Vincentroarswithlaughter.“Lookslikesomeone’sgota
crush,”hesays,andthenrelaysmymessage.

KategivesthisflatteredsmileasVincentremindsmethateventhoughI’mtechnicallytwenty-seven

yearsolderthanheis,atthemoment,we’rebothnineteen.

We take the Métro to Denfert, then walk a few minutes down a pedestrian street to Georgia’s

restaurant,onlytofindalargecrowdoutsidewaitingfortables.WhileGeorgiagoesintocajoleoneof
herfriendsintogettingusin,Idecidetotakeaquickspinaroundtheneighborhood.AndwithinsecondsI
feelthatdisturbing,about-to-be-sucked-into-a-black-holefeelingthatIalwaysgetwhennumaarearound.
Imovetowardthesourceoftheuneaseonlytoseethenumaleaderhimself—Lucien—walkingwithtwo
ofhismenjustafewblocksawayfromwhereVinceandCo.arestanding.Irushbacktoalertthemtothe
situation.

I’llgobackandwatchwhichwaythey’reheading,Ioffer.BythetimeIreturn,Ambroseisonthe

ground,andKatecrouchesbesidehimtryingtogethimtorespond.

Iseeapairofnumawithadrawnknifeheadingawayfromthescene,towardLucien.Afewminutes

and they’ll be back with reinforcements. I get closer to Ambrose and see he is dead. There’s no way
Vincentwillbeabletolifthimtogethimoutofhere,soIdotheonlythingIcanthinkof:Ipossesshim.

Talkaboutheavy.Ambroseweighsaton.Luckilyhehasthemusclestogoalongwiththebulk.ButI

feellikeI’mwearingoneofthosefakesumocostumes—stuckinsideafatsuit.KateandVincenthelpme
getAmbrose’sbodyintoataxi.

Andthat’swhenithitsmehowspecialsheis.She’sbraveenoughtostaywithVincent,evenknowing

whatheis.Butacceptingoneofthemorebizarredetailsofourexistencewithjustawrinklednoseand
notafull-onfreak-out—now,that’simpressive.It’sbeenalongtimesincethere’sbeenanadditiontoour
clan,sonewblood,eventhoughit’shuman,isabreathoffreshair.I’mlookingforwardtogettingtoknow
this unique specimen of girlhood better. If she weren’t Vincent’s girlfriend . . . But I’m not going to go
there.

But something happens to prevent us from spending time with her. Charles saves a kid who falls off a
boat.Getshimselfmangledinthepropeller.AndKatedecidesthatwatchinghimcomehomeinpiecesis
unbearable.Itremindshertoomuchofherparents.ShetellsVincentthatifthatiswhatbeingabardiais
allabout,shecan’tstickaroundtowitnesshisownviolentdeaths.

Shebreaksupwithhim.He,ofcourse,isdevastated.Stopseating.Startsactinglikehisoldselfpre-

Kate: robotic, emotionless. He tries to build a wall around his heart, but the hollow look in his eyes
speaksthetruth.Hisheartisn’teventheretoprotect.It’swithKate,andshe’sgone.

Sheleavesanemptyholebehindher.Therewasthisfeelingofoptimismandjoyinthehousewhen

shewasaroundthat’snowturnedintoavoid.LikeVincent,Ifeelhollow.Sad.Andasthedayspass,I
begintorealizeI’vegrowntocareforKate.Notasmybestfriend’sgirlfriend,butassomeoneinandof
herself.AndIrealizeImissher.

EIGHT

IDON’TKNOWWHAT’SWRONGWITHME.IT’S

Vincentwho’slosthisgirlfriend,notme.ButIfeelasenseof

lossallthesame.It’snotlikeKatehasbeenaroundallthatlong,butthetimesthatIdidseeherreallyleft
amarkonme.

Outofsight,outofmind,Itellmyself.AndthenIdothethingthatmakesthemostsense—Icalla

girl. Nothing like a beautiful woman to wrap your arms around to chase the blues away. But even an
eveningwithlovelyPortugueseCarliendsupwithmewalkinghomeafterwardandlyingaroundstaringat
theceiling,feelingstrangelyunsettleduntilmorning.

Vincentispunishinghimself.Hebarelyeats.Whetherintrainingor,onacoupleofoccasions,facing

numa,hefightslikeamadman.Hedoesn’tallowhimselftolookupwheneverwepassherhouse.Once
Charlotte,volant,toldhimthatshesawKateafewblocksawaycomingtowardus,andheturnedaround
andheadedtheoppositedirection.

One night we’re walking around Belleville, doing surveillance in Geneviève’s neighborhood, and I

askhimhowhe’sdoing.Thinkinghemightneedtotalkaboutit.Heturnstomewithemptyeyesandsays,
“Youwererightbefore.ItwasstupidofmetoeventrytobewithKate.Theonlythingthatmakesmefeel
anybetterisknowingthatshe’sbetteroffwithoutme.She’llmeetsomehumanguyandfallforhimand
leadahappy,normallife.It’swhatshedeserves.”Thewordspassthroughhislips,butit’slikeaspecter
speaking.Vincentisnolongerthere.

IthankthegodsthatI’veneverfallenforsomeonethewayhehasforKate.ButthoughIapplaudmy

good sense in managing my love life, something in me feels almost jealous of the deepness of feeling
Vincenthasforher.BesidesthefierceloyaltyIfeelforVincentandmykindred,I’veneverfeltthatmuch
emotionforanyone.Andsecretly,I’mgladKate’snolongeraroundbecausesomethinginmefearsthatI,
too,wouldhavebecomemoreattached.

I don’t know what to do for my friend, so I just make sure I’m as present as possible. Not like he

noticesthatI,oranyoneelse,isaround.ButIwanttobethereincaseheeverdecidesheneedsme.

TheonlythingthatbreaksthefogofsadnesshangingoverLaMaisonisCharles’serraticbehavior.He

disappearsforlongperiodsoftime,andevenhistwindoesn’tknowwhathe’supto.

SoCharlotteandItrailhimanddiscoverthathe’sstalkingahuman.Forhourseveryday,following

aroundthiswomanwhoturnsouttobethemotherofthechildwhodiedintheboataccident.Theonehe
couldn’tsave.Hewatcheswhereshegoes,andslipsintoherbuildingtoleaveanonymousflowersand
giftsinfrontofherdoor.

Hissenseofguiltoutweighshisself-control,andthoughCharlotte,Ambrose,andIeachspeaktohim

individually—tryingtotalksomesenseintohim—he’sslidingdownaslipperyslopeandabouttohurtle
face-firstintodanger.

Thelast straw forCharlotte is whenCharles attends the child’sfuneral. She tellsJB. After JB puts

himonprobation,Charlesflipsout.Heyellsateveryonethathe’shadenough—hewantsout.Andthenhe
takesoff.Wesearchforhimthenextfewdays,butwecan’tlocatehim,evenwiththehelpoftherestof
Paris’skindred.

It’s about then that Charlotte overhears Kate’s sister and grandmother at a café and discovers that

Kate’sapparentlytakingthebreakupashardasVincentis,andherfamilyisworried.

Shesitsacrossfrommeonmygreencouchinmystudio,sippingcarefullyatthesteamingmugoftea

I’vemadeforher.“GeorgiaevenmentionedreturningtoNewYork,”shesumsup.

Whydoesmyheartskipabeatwhenshesaysthat?Kateawholeoceanaway?That’lljustaboutkill

Vincent, I think. And then I realize that it’s not just concern for my friend that I’m feeling. I don’t want

Katetogo.Iwanthertocomebacktous,evenifitmeansthatshe’llalwaysbeatadistancefromme
—friends,nomorethanthat,Iremindmyself.ButIdocareabouther.Ieven...Ipushthenextthought
asideandsay,“We’vegottotellVincent.”

“Well, that’s what I initially thought. But what can he actually do about it?” she says, concern

furrowingherforehead.

“He’sgottodosomething,”Ireply.“Theonlyreasonhe’snotfightingtokeepheristhathehasthis

misguidedviewthatshe’sbetteroffwithouthim.Whichmay,infact,betrue.Buthehasarighttoknow
thatshe’ssufferingasmuchasheis.”

Weleavemystudioandzigzagdownalabyrinthofcobblestonestreets,pastmedievalwoodenbeam-

and-plaster buildings that are so old that they’re leaning. Charlotte slips her arm through mine and we
walkcompanionablytowardtheriver.

“Wheredoyouthinkhecouldbe?”Charlotteasksmeaftermomentsofsilence.Iknowautomatically

whoshe’sreferringto.

“IthinkCharlesishere.InParis.Hidingout.Needingsometimetohimself.”
Charlottenods.“IwishhehadnevermetMadeleine,”shemutters.“Buthehasn’tfalleninlovesince

her,andit’sbeensixtyyears.Iknowit’sstupidtothinkthere’sonlyonerightboyorgirloutthereforeach
ofus,butdoesn’titseem...”Shetrailsoff,leavingherquestionunasked.

“YoustillloveAmbrose,”Isay,knowingtheanswer.
Charlotte bites her lip. Her emerald-green eyes match the topiary labyrinths in the Hôtel de Sens’s

garden.Aswepass,Charlottelooksoutoverthemedievalpalace’smanicuredhedges,andsighs.

“Have you ever been in love, Jules? I mean, I know you haven’t since I met you. But was there

someonebefore?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. And as I say it, Kate’s face comes to mind—her beautiful rose-petal

pale skin and deep-as-lakes aquamarine eyes. I push the image from my mind and reach over to ruffle
Charlotte’scroppedblondhair,thenputmyarmaroundhershoulderforasidehug.“No,Char,I’venever
beeninlove.”

Vincent opens his bedroom door, and Charlotte pauses before carefully wrapping her arms around his
neckandgivinghimasupportivehug.“Vincent,youcan’tholeupinyourroomlikethis.Youhavetoeat.
Youlookawful.”

She’sright.Vincent’sfaceisdrawn.Helookshaggard.Inthelasttwoweekshehaslostweight,and

therearedarkcirclesunderhiseyes.

“Vincent, we have something to tell you,” Charlotte says, and recounts the conversation she

overheard.

Thechange in Vincentis immediate. It’slike touching a litmatch to apool of kerosene—life flares

backupinhimandhebecomesamanwithamission.“Sheneedsme,”isallhesays,andthat’sit.He
goestoGaspardandasksforhelp,urginghimtodigupeverypossiblerecordedincidentofhuman-bardia
relationshipsfromtheolderrevenant’sextensivearchives.Vincent’sdeterminedtofindasolution.Away
to make things work. Since Kate can’t stand to see him die, they decide to explore the most obvious
solution:Vincentmustfindawaytoresistdying.

“WhatcanIdotohelp?”IaskVincent.
“Helpmemakesureshe’ssafe,”hereplies.IhaveatalkwithAmbroseandCharlotte,andweagree

thatwhoeverisoutwalkingwillpassbyhergrandparents’building,ormakesurethey’reneartheruedu
BacMétrostopwhensheleavesandcomesbackfromschool.Andeverynightaroundtenthirty,Vincent
leaveswhateverhe’sdoingandgoestostandacrossthestreet,watchingherwindowfromgroundlevel
untilsheturnsoffherlightandheknowssheis—foronemorenight—safeandsoundinbed.

It’snotlikeshe’sindanger.Vincentjustwantsanynewsofherwecangive.Andtheonlynewswe

can give him is that she’s changed back into Sad Girl. I hate to see her like this, robotically going to
school and back with an empty look. I want to see the spark return to her eyes. Watch the happy glow
returntohercheeks.

It’sobvioushowmuchshemissesVincent.AndIknowshe’llonlybehappyagainifhefindssome

way to get them back together. I find myself wishing that I could work that magic for her. That I could
bringthesmilebacktoherface.ButIslapatthosethoughtsasiftheyweremosquitoes.WhatamIdoing,
caringsomuchaboutmybestfriend’slove?Idenymyfeelingsforherbecausetheyshouldn’texist.

I begin spending more time alone, drawing and painting. Disconnecting my thoughts, and letting my

paintbrushexpresswhatI’mfeeling.OnenightI’minmybedroomworkingonasketchofawomanwho
looksremarkablylikeKatewhenVincentcomesbustlingthroughmydoorinapanic.Iflipthepaperover
andlaymypencilonit.

“ShejustsawmewithGenevièveand...Jules,youshouldhaveseenherface,”hegasps.
“Who,Kate?”Iask.
“Whoelse? Yes, Kate!” He takes a breath and starts again. “I was having coffee at La Palette with

Geneviève, asking her about what she and Philippe did to make their revenant-human marriage work.
TalkingaboutitmadeGenupset,soIwascomfortingher.Itwastotallyinnocent—youknowhowIfeel
about...”

“Youfeellikeherbrother.Goon,”Iencouragehim.Hethrowshimselfdownonmycouchandcovers

hiseyeswithhispalms.“Katesawus.Andfromthelookonherface...Jules,shemustthinkthatGen
andIaretogether.”

Ipause.“Isthatabadthing?”
Vincentdropshishands.“Yes,that’sabadthing,Jules.Averybadthing.She’shurt.IhurtKate.”
“Okay.”Ishrug,notknowingwhathewantsfromme.
“Jules,youhavetotalktoherforme.YouhavetoletherknowthatI’mtryingtofindasolution.And

thatnothing’sgoingonwithGeneviève.”

No, I think. You can’t ask me to do that. The last two weeks have been hard enough, watching her

fromafar.ThelastthingIneedistocomeface-to-facewithher.ToremindmeofhowmuchIcareforher.
“Andyoucan’tdothatyourselfbecause...”Iprod.

“I’mnotsureshe’lleventalktomenow,”hesays.Hepresseshisfingerstohistemples.“Youshould

haveseenherface.”

Vincent is a study in pain. I can’t refuse my friend, however conflicted I feel. One look at the

desolationonVincent’sfaceandIagree.

“I’llfindhertomorrow,”Ipromise.

NINE

THE PARK IN FRONT OF KATE’S BUILDING IS

silentonweekendmornings.Everyone must be sleeping in, I

think.Foranhourit’sonlythepigeons,apairofravens,andmeenjoyingthespectrumofautumncolors,
ofthechangingleavesintheearlySaturday-morningchill.Afterawhilethewarm,yeastysmellscoming
from the bakery across the street draw me from my hideaway, and I take a break to buy a pain au
chocolat,savoringtheflakypastryasthechocolatebakedinsidemeltsinmymouth.

IwaitanotherhourbeforeIseehercomeoutthefrontdoor,andthenfollowherto—surprise,surprise

—theCaféSainte-Lucie.Thecaféownergreetsherandgivesheratableinthefrontwindow.Toavoid
all semblance of stalkerhood, I wander around the neighborhood for a half hour before returning to the
café.Iwalksilentlyuptohertableandslipintotheseatfacingher.She’ssocaughtupinTheCatcherin
theRyethatshedoesn’tevennotice.Iwaituntilsheturnsapageandglancesaroundtheroom,andwhen
hergazefinallylandsonmeshejumps.

Myheartturnsaflipinmychest.NowthatI’mlookingintothoseincredibleblue-greeneyes,Ifindit

difficulttoresisttouchingherhand.Isortthroughmyvariousmasks,selectawrysmile,andaffixittomy
face.“So,MissAmerica,”Isay,“youthoughtyoucouldpulladisappearingactandjustabandonallof
us?Nosuchluck.”

Icantellfromherexpressionthatsheishappy—relieved,even—toseeme,andmypulsespeedsup

abouttennotches.Irunmyhandthroughmyhairandtrytocalmmyself.Ifeelalmostnervous.Whatthe
helliswrongwithme?

“What’sthedealwithyoudeadguys?”sheteases.“Areyoufollowingmeorwhat?Lastnightitwas

Charles,andnowyou!”

Wait,what?“YousawCharles?”Iask,astonished.
“Yeah, he was at a club I went to near Oberkampf,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she sees my

surprise.

“Whichclub?”Iask.
“Honestly,Idon’tevenknowwhatitwascalled.Therewasn’tasignoranything.Georgiadragged

mealongwithherandherfriends.”

I have a bad feeling at the pit of my stomach knowing that Charles is still in Paris but avoiding his

kindred.“Didhesayanythingtoyou?”Iask.

“No,IwasjustleavingwhenIsawhimstandingoutside.Why?”
Shelookspuzzled.IdecidetoturntheconversationbacktothereasonI’mthere.“So...whenare

youcomingback?”Iask.

Herfacefalls.“Ican’t,Jules.”
“Youcan’twhat?”Iprod.I’mnotlettingheroffthehook.
“Ican’tcomeback.Ican’tletmyselfbewithVincent.”
“Howaboutbeingwithme,then?”ThewordsareoutofmymouthbeforeIcanstopthem.Where’d

that thought come from? I chastise myself, and cover up by winking suggestively, and she laughs. I
decidetopushitasfarasIcan.TakeadvantageoftheholeI’vedugmyselfinto.

Taking her hand, I lace my fingers through hers. “Can’t blame me for trying,” I say, and watch her

cheeksflarescarletasmyheartbeataccelerates.Herskinissoft.Warm.AndIamtouchingherforthefirst
time—ourfirstconnection—anditfeelslikethenerveendingsinmyfingertipsareshootingoffsparks.

“You’reincorrigible,”shechides,butshedoesn’tpullaway.
“Andyou’reblushing,”Irespond.Icontinueflirtingforafewmoments,enjoyingherreactionsbefore

forcingmyselftocomearoundtothepointI’mtheretomake.ItellherthatVincentispiningawayforher.

She looks down briefly, breaking eye contact. And then looking back up at me with eyes glistening

withrepressedtears,shesays,“I’msorry.Iwantedtogiveitachance,butafterseeingCharlescarried
homeinabodybag...”

I remove my hand quickly, and stare back at her, emotionless. I am no longer flirty Jules; I am

Vincent’sambassador.Imustpersuadehertogivehimanotherchance.Avoiceinsidemyheadwhispers,
Areyoudoingthisforhim?Orforyou?

“I can’t let myself fall for Vincent if it means having a constant reminder of death,” she continues.

“I’vehadenoughofthattodealwithinthelastyear.”

“I’msorryaboutyourparents.”Iturnmyplacematover,fishapenciloutofmypocket,andbeginto

sketchher.ThatwayIdon’thavetolookather.Tobeundonebythosewarm,trustingeyes.

But with a few lines, I’ve transferred her beauty into a two-dimensional version of my dream girl.

KatehasallofthegraceanddignityofBotticelli’sVenus,andthatishowIdepicther.Myfingersloosen
on the pencil, letting the image flow from my mind to the paper, and I look up to check her real face
againsttheoneI’vegivenher,andforthesecondthatmyeyeslingeronherown,Ifeelastabtomyheart
andknowIamlost.

I’m falling for Kate. How could I? My best friend is in love with her. And she with him. You must

neverletthemknow—thewordssizzlethroughmymind,andIfeellikeIambleedinginternally.

Katedragsmebacktothehereandnow.“IsawVincentyesterdaysharingaverytendermomentwith

agorgeousblonde.”

I ignore her words and continue drawing. I can’t look her in the eyes right away. She will see it.

She’llknowhowIfeel.“Vincewantedmetocheckonyou,”Isayfinally.“Hedoesn’tdareapproachyou
himself.Hesayshedoesn’twanttocauseyouanymoreagony.AfterseeingyousprintoutofLaPalette
yesterday,hewasafraidthatyoumighthavedrawnthewrongconclusion.Whichyouobviouslydid.”

Idaretoglanceupandseeaflashofangerinhereyes.“Jules,IsawwhatIsaw.Howmuchmore

obviouscouldithavebeen?”

Partofmewantstoshrugitoff.ToletherbelievethatVincentandGenevièveareacouple.Sheisata

weakpoint—woundedandconfused.Fromdecadesofexperience,Iknowthatthisistheperfecttimeto
makeamove—rightafteragirl’sbeenhurtbysomeoneelse.Ispendthenextfewmonthsbuildingtheir
confidencebackup,showingthemagoodtime.

Andthen,beforetheycancompletelyfallforme,Icomeupwithsomethingthatwillmakethemwant

tobreakup.Iplantaseedofdoubt,makethemthinkthatit’stheirideathatwestopseeingeachother.Iact
sad,butletthemgotheirownway,andwebothendupwithasmileonourface,andourheartsalittle
warmerthanbefore.

Kateisrightthere,readytobescoopedupandloved.AndI’msotempted.Sheisbeautiful:notjust

herface—herentirebeingislovely.IseewhyVincentisdrawntoher.IfindmyselfimaginingthatI’m
holdingher,anditmakesmefeeldirty.IfIfollowmydesire,IwillbetraythepersonIamclosesttointhe
world.Mybestfriend.Mybrother.AndalthoughImeltalittlemoreeachtimeIglanceupather,Ifixher
gazeinmineandtellherwhatVincentwantsmeto.“Genevièveiskindred.She’sanoldfriendwho’slike
asistertous.Vincent’sinlove,butnotwithher.”

Kate draws a sharp breath, and I look back down at my sketch, breaking her magnetic hold on me.

“He’stryingtofigurethingsout,”Icontinue.“Tofindawayaroundthesituation.Heaskedmetotellyou
that.”

IstudythedrawingI’vemadeofKate,andthentearthesketchofftheplacematandhandittoher.
“Ilookbeautiful,”shesaysinastonishment.
“Youarebeautiful,”Isay,andleaningforward,allowmyselftokissherforehead.Herwarm,baby-

softskin.Getoutofherenow,beforeyoudosomethingfoolish,myconsciencetellsme,andIstandand
bookitoutofthecafé.Ibreatheinthecoldwinterair,andmythoughtsareimmediatelycalmed.

Don’tlookback,Ithink,andwalkfaster.Idon’tknowwhat’swrongwithme.Icannotbefallingfor

Kate,nomatterhowIfeltinthecafé.NomatterhowI’mfeelingrightnow.Ican’tletmyself.

Vincent’swaitingformeinthefronthallwhenIgethome.“Whatdidshesay?”heasks,justasJean-

Baptistewalksoutofthesittingroom.

“Samething,”Isay.“Shecan’tbeartoseeyou.”Vincentnodsgrimly,asifheknewthatwouldbeher

answer. He glances over at JB, who has stopped next to us and is unabashedly listening in on our
conversation.“ButIgaveheryourmessageanyway,”Isay.IturntoJB.“Ihaveimportantnews—Kate
sawCharles.”

“What?Where?”asksJean-Baptiste,suddenlyonalert.
“She saw him last night at a club near Oberkampf. Said he was standing outside. She couldn’t

rememberthenameoftheclub.Butatleastweknowhe’sstillaliveandstillfreetocomebackhome...
ifhewantsto.”

“Didyouaskwhohewastherewith?”JBasks.
Ishakemyhead.
“Weneedtogetmoreinformationfromher.”HelookssolemnlyatVincent.“Youlookhorrible,”he

states.

Vincentshrugs,andturning,headstowardhisroom.
JB crosses his arms and watches Vincent leave. “I think it’s time that I pay Kate’s grandparents a

visit.”

TEN

“

WHY DO THESE SMELL LIKE AN OUTHOUSE

?”

ask, holding up an old, crinkled parchment covered with

scrawlinginLatin.Gaspard,Vincent,andIareinthelibrarycombingthrougholddocumentsthatsmell
liketheywereleftoutintherainandthenshutupinanairtightbox.

“Because they were not properly cared for before they came into my possession,” Gaspard replies

curtly.“Justlookforthewords‘tenebrisvia.’Youdon’thavetotrytoreadthewholething.”He’smore
onedgethanusual,probablybecausehe’sgottwolibraryneophyteshandlinghispricelessdocuments.

Just then JB barges through the door, and Gaspard practically leaps out of his chair in surprise. JB

calmlywalksover,picksupthepaperthatGasparddropped,andhandsittohim,thenlooksatVincent
with a concerned expression. “I had a conversation with your young lady friend and her grandmother,
Vincent.AndIhavecometothedecisionthat,asafamily,theyaretrustworthyandcanbetakenintoour
confidenceifnecessary.”

Vincent stands, walks over to the elder revenant, and leaning down, wraps his arms around him,

givinghimahugthatisheartfelt,butobviouslysomethingJBisn’tusedto.HepatsVincentuncomfortably
onthebackandsays,“There,there.Ididitforallofus,notjustforyou.”

“Iknow,”Vincentsays,hisvoicechokedwithemotion.“Butthankyou.Itmeanssomuchtome.”
“Ofcourse,”JBsays,extricatinghimselffromVincent’sarms.
“Howisshe?”Vincentaskshim.
“Asfeistyasever,”JBsays,lookingbemused.“Shegavemearealtellingoff.”
AlthoughGaspardlooksshocked,Ican’thelpahugesmilefromspreadingacrossmyface.Ofcourse

shegavehimatellingoff.IcanonlyimagineJBgivingherattitude,andhergivingitrightback.That’smy
Kate! I think with pride, and then do a quick auto-correct. She’s not mine. She loves Vincent. And
rememberingthatmakesmefeellikesomeonedumpedcoldwateroverme.Ihavetostopthinkingabout
her.

Butthat’skindofhardwhenVincentenlistsmetocomealongwithhimthatnightonhisdailylights-

out-in-Kate’s-roomroutine.“You’remybestfriend,”hepleads.“Ineedyoursupport.”

“Vincent,Isupportyou.Ijustdon’tfeellikegoingoutandstandingaroundinthepouringrain.”But

onelookathisdrawnfaceandthedarkcirclesunderhiseyes,andIgrabmycoat.“Let’sgo.”

ItneverseemstoreallypourwhenitrainsinParis.Youusuallygetalightsprinklewithanoccasional

shower.Buttonightit’scomingdowninbuckets.WestandoutsideKate’sbuilding,Vincentstaringupat
her window, taking the rain full in the face, and me fitting as much of myself as possible inside the
doorway,butstillgettingsoaked.

“Oh my God, Jules,” Vincent calls. His voice is barely audible in the downpour. “She’s at the

window.She’slookingatthesky—outatthestorm.”Andthenhe’sstrucksilent.Hestaresintentlyupfor
afulltenseconds,andthenslowlylowershisfaceuntiloureyesmeet.“Jules,shelookedmyway,”he
says.

“That’sgreat.Canwegonow?”Isay,wrappingmyarmsaroundmyself.UnlessI’mswimmingorin

theshower,Ihategettingwet.

“No,Imeanshereallysawme.AndIthinkshe’scomingdown!”hesays.
“Which is my cue to leave. Good luck, mon ami,” I say, dashing out into the rain and clapping my

handtohisshoulderbeforeturningtogo.Butsomethinginsideofmedoesthislittleleap,andinsteadof
leaving,Iwalktothecornerandwaittoseeifsheactuallycomes.

And then there she is, face radiant as she runs out the door, drops her umbrella, and throws herself

intoVincent’sarms.HepicksherupoffthegroundandclaspshersotightlyI’msurprisedshecanbreathe.

SuddenlyI’mimaginingmyselfinVincent’splace,holdingherwarmbodytome,nuzzlingmyfacein

herhair.Andajoltofemotionknocksmebackastep.Onelookattheirjoyandmyheartfeelslikeit’s
beingpulledapart.WhyamIsoconflicted?IloveVincentlikeabrother.Beingwithoutthegirlheloves
hasmadehimphysicallyill.Sowhydoestheirreunionhurtsomuch?

Thatnight,KatestaysatLaMaison.SpendsthenightinVincent’sroom.Sleepsinhisarms.
Andsomethinghappenstomethathasneverhappenedbefore.Ifeeltheacidburnofjealousyandit

overwhelmsme.Ileavethehouse,jogthehalf-hourtrektomystudio,andlosemyselfinmypainting.

Shewantstobewithhim,notwithme.ShethinksI’majoke.Aflirt.Ofcourse—that’swhatI’veled

hertobelieve.Butshedoesn’tseethroughit,likesomethinginmehopedshewould.

Myfeelingsforherarelaughable.Ineffectual.Nevermeanttobe.SowhyamIcursedwiththem?Why

can’tIforgetabouther?Ihavesacrificedmyveryexistencetothewhimsanddesiresoffate.Iamfate’s
slave,andyetitismockingme.

IlookindespairatthemessI’vemadeonthecanvas,andsitontheground,myheadinmyhands.I

mustgetcontrolofmyself.Ifthingscontinueastheyhavestarted,thisgirlisgoingtobeapartofmylife.
Apartofourclan’slife.AndIhavetolearntodealwithitwithoutshowingmyfeelings.Ihavetoget
overher.Itakemyphoneoutofmypocketandcallthefirstnumberthatcomesup:Evelynn.

“Hello, bella. I know it’s been a long time, but would you happen to have a pot of tea for a poor,

lonelyartist?”

IgototheonlythingthatIknowwillmakemefeelbetter.Anotherwoman’sembrace.

ELEVEN

“

CHARLES WAS WITH LUCIEN

!”

VINCENT SAYS AS

he bursts into the kitchen, where JB and Gaspard are

having a rare dinner with the rest of us instead of eating alone. Jeanne laid out the good china for the
occasion, and left us with a feast of cochondelait, an entire roasted suckling pig that would normally
feedadozenpeople,butwithAmbroseeatingforsix,willonlylastthenight.

EveryonestopseatingandstaresatVincent.“Whatdidyousay?”JBasksinastrainedvoice.“Ijust

camefromdinnerwithKate’sfamily.AndshesawCharleswithLucientheothernight.Theyweretalking
outsideofthenightclub.”

Charlotteraisesherhandstohermouth,andmoans,“Ohno.”Iscootoverandputmyarmaroundher.

But I know what she’s thinking: Charles has finally done it. He’s asked the numa to destroy him. I’m
overwhelmedbothbysadnessthatCharles’sdepressionhasledhimthisfar,andangeratthethoughtofa
numabladeseveringhisneck.

“But there’s not only that,” Vincent says. “Kate’s sister is apparently seeing Lucien. As in,

romantically.”

“What?”Ambroseroars,banginghisknifehandleonthetable.
“Of course, she doesn’t know who he is. Or what he is,” Vincent says. “And he has obviously

discoveredourlinkwithKate’sfamily.”

Charlottestartscrying,andIpullherintowardmesothatshe’ssobbingintomychest.Myeyesmeet

JB’s.

“I’morderinganimmediategeneralalert,”hesays,wipinghismouthwithalinennapkinandrising

fromhischair.“We’llhavetheentiretyofourPariskindredoutonthestreetlookingforhim.Ipromise,
Charlotte.We’llfindyourbrother.”

ButwefindnotraceofCharlesorthenuma,andtwodayslaterLuciencallswithanultimatum.He

haskilledCharlesandlefthisbodyintheCatacombs.Ifwedon’tcomegetitthatnight,hewillwaituntil
Charlesisvolantanddestroyhisbody,damningCharlestoeternaldisembodiment.

We know it’s a trap. But we go anyway. And although we manage to kill a few numa and rescue

Charles’sbody,Lucienusesthesetuptoactuponanevenmorediabolicalscheme.HeusesKate’ssister
togetintoLaMaison,anddragsthegirlstowhereVincent’sbodyliesdormantandempty—hisspiritis
volantattheCatacombswithus.

What Lucien doesn’t plan on is Kate. Kate, who overcomes her fear and horror to fight him. Kate,

wholetsVincentpossessherinordertocombinehisstrengthwithhers,andkillthenumachief.Bythe
timeAmbroseandIgetthere,LucienisheadlessandabouttobecharbroiledinVincent’sownfireplace.

Kateisadoptedintothehouse.ShehasfinallywonnotonlyJB’sfullapproval,buthiswelcome,and

whatIbothhopeanddreadmostcomestrue.MyfearthatKatewillbeharmedbythenumaisreplacedby
thefearofhowIwillreactseeingKatepracticallyeveryday.

TWELVE

“

SHE’S A NATURAL

,”

GASPARD SAYS AS WE WATCH

Kate float through the double doors into the ballroom

wearing a floor-length, pewter-colored gown that makes her look like a princess from JB’s time. And
man,doestheeighteenthcenturysuitherwell.

“Anaturalwhat?”Iaskhim,unabletotearmyeyesfromher.
“Fighting,”hereplies.“Shestartedtrainingwithmejustweeksago,andshe’salreadygotallofthe

basicsdown.Ishowheramovetwice,andshehasitmastered.Therhythmofthefightisinherblood.”

“Doesn’tsurprisemeonebit,”Isay,andsetoutacrosstheballroomtowardher,drawntoherlikea

beetoaflowerinfullbloom.AmbroseisplayingLouisArmstrong,andcouplesfloodtothemiddleofthe
roomtotakeadvantageofthedanceablebeat.

Kateissolostinthescene,shedoesn’tevenseemeapproach.I’veattendedJean-Baptiste’sballsfor

years, and I still find them breathtaking. This year he’s done the room up in silver and white, and the
entire space is illuminated by candles—candelabras gleaming on the side tables and the chandelier
prismsglowinglikediamonds.

I stand just behind her without her noticing, and our proximity makes my pulse work overtime.

“How’syourdancecardlook?”Imurmurfromjustbehindher.

She jumps, and seeing me, breaks into a wide grin. “Double-check your century, Jules. No dance

cards.”

Isweepheroutontothefloorand,foldingherinmyarmsundertheglowofthechandeliers,Iallow

myselfcompletefreedom.Iholdnothingback,knowingthatshewon’ttakemeseriously.“Kate,mydear,
the candlelight does suit you so.” She blushes and I savor my reward, brushing her cheek with my
fingertip. Her skin is petal soft, and shock waves from the illicit touch course through my body. She
glancesupatme,questioning,butIgiveheranoverblownwinkandshejustlaughs.

Itakeherhandinmineandplacemyotherhandonherback,andpullhertomeuntilourbodiestouch.

IfeelmorealivethanIeverhave—likemyselftimesten.WithKateinmyarmsIfeellikeabetterperson.
Capableofanything.

She is close enough that I feel her breath on my neck, and closing my eyes, I let my lips brush the

crownofherhead.Herhairsmellslikecoconut,andsuddenlythat’smyfavoritescent.Isqueezeherand
shelaughsandlooksupatme.“Jules,youincorrigiblerake,”shescolds,andthengivesmeasmilethat
makesmefeelwe’reinzerogravity.Floatinginchesabovethefloor.Weightlessandtimeless,andIwish
thissongwouldlastforever.

Iknowhowineffectualmyactionsare,butIdothemonpurpose—topunishmyself.Ideservethepain

thatclosenesstoherbrings.Iwanttoholdherlikethiseveryday.Iwanttobethefocusofherradiant
smile. I let myself pretend for the duration of the song, and when it is over I touch her face again and
imaginethatwearetogether.

My ploy—speaking only the truth—works so well that even after pressing her to me, holding her

close, whispering flattery in her ear, Vincent only smiles at me and Geneviève makes an off-the-cuff
remarktoKatethatI’mharmless.

It’s with a feeling of despair that I return her to his arms. I want him to be angry. I want him to

challengeme.BecausethenthetruthwillbeoutandIwon’thavetohidemyfeelings.Buthetrustsmetoo
muchtosuspectme.AndIlovehimtoomuchtohurthim.

Jean-Baptiste calls a house meeting in the library a few days later. Charles and Charlotte departed on
NewYear’sDayforthesouthofFrance,andVioletteandArthurhavealreadyarrivedtoreplacethem.

ButtheyhavegonetocomfortGenevièveafterthedeathofherhusband,soweareonlyfive:Gaspardsits
fidgetingbyJB’sside,andVincent,Ambrose,andIwarmourselvesbythefire.

Jean-Baptistetakesasipofwine,setshisglassonanendtable,andaddressesus.“AsIhavealready

mentioned,Iamconvincedthatthenumahaveanewleader.Violettehassourcesamonghercontactswho
willtrytodiscoverhisidentity.Butinthemeantime,IwanttoaddressaplanthatGaspardandVincent
havedevised,whichmayallowVincenttoresistdying.

“As you all know, we have a cease-fire with the numa that prevents us from attacking each other

unlessprovoked.However,GaspardandVincent’sproposalwouldnecessitatetheunprovokedkillingof
numa. I am strongly considering calling off the cease-fire since Lucien already broke it by personally
attackinguswithinourownwalls.”

“Yee-haw,”whoopsAmbrose,whojumpstohisfeetinanticipation.“Areyoutakingvolunteers?”
“Calm,please,Ambrose,”JBsays.“Ihaven’tyetmadeadefinitivedecision.ButIwouldaskVincent

totellyouwhatisinvolved.”

Vincentpullshischairinfrontofthefireandleanstowardus,elbowsonhisknees,andhandsclasped

tightlytogether.

“Theplanwe’vecomeupwithcouldprovedangerous,andIwanttoaskyouforyourhelp,”hesays.

“Afewweeksago,GaspardandIfoundtheinformationwewerelookingfor,aboutsomethingcalled‘the
DarkWay.’Itinvolveskillingnumatoabsorbtheirpower.”

“That’snothingnew,”Ambrosesays.“Thepowerrushwhenyouwhackoneofthosebastardsishalf

thefunofdoingit.”

“Thatiscorrect,”interjectsGaspard,“buttheDarkWayisasystemizedkillingofourenemies.Itwill

potentiallygiveVincentthestrengthnecessarytoresistdeathsothathemayfulfillapromisehemadeto
Kate.Itwasn’tevenapossibilitybefore,whatwiththecease-fire.”

Ihaveabadfeelingaboutthis.IunderstandthatVincentwillgotoanylengthtoallayKate’sfears.I

would too if I were him, I think, and feeling a pinprick of jealousy, push that thought aside. Vincent’s
askingformyhelp,butthisseemsdangerousonsomanylevels.“Ifyouonlyhaveafewoldexamples,
howdoyouknowit’sgoingtowork?”Iask.“Imean,ifitdoesn’t,itmeanswe’veinfuriatedthenumaand
riskedprecipitatingaretaliatoryattack.”

“ViolettehasverifiedtheauthenticityoftheDarkWaystories,”Gaspardsays.“She’sconvinceditcan

work. In addition, her sources warned her last night about possible increased numa activity in Paris
startingtoday. Even thoughVincent will bestaging an offensive strikeon our enemies,we will need to
consider a defensive strategy to protect those coming to and going from La Maison—not only us, but
Jeanne,Kate,andanydeliverypeople.”

“I’mreadytostart,”Vincentsays,andhisdecisivetoneleavesnoquestionabouthisdeterminationto

makethisDarkWaywork.“CanIdependonthethreeofyoutohelpme?”

“Youknowyoucancountmeinifithasanythingtodowithzombieslaying,”Ambrosesays,rubbing

hishandstogetherexpectantly.

“Yourwishismycommand,”Isay.
“Great.Thanks.Butpleasedon’tbreatheawordofittoKate.IwanttomakesureitworksbeforeI

tellherwhatI’mdoing.”

“Youmeanshewouldfreakoutifsheknewwhatyouweredoing,”Istate.Vincentrunshishandover

hisheadworriedly,andnods.

“Mylipsaresealed,”promisesAmbrose.
Vincentthanksusandproceedsdirectlytostrategy.“Okay,Violette’ssourceisawareofagroupof

numaoperatingoutoftheQuartierdel’Horloge.Ambrosecancomewithme.We’regoingtoscopeitout
andfindoutifwecanprovokeaconfrontationwithoutalertinghumans.

“Gaspard,Kateisscheduledforfighttrainingwithyouthismorning.Canyouproceedwiththatasif

nothinghaschanged?”Gaspardnods.“AndJules,JBaskedoneofustoaccompanyJeannetoandfrom
herapartmenttoday.CouldyoudothesameforKate?”

Inod.Vincentleansforwardandclaspsmyarm.“I’mtrustingyouwithherlife,Jules,”hesaysina

lowvoice.“Youknowhowmuchshemeanstome.”

Ditto,Ithink,butallIdoisnod.

THIRTEEN

THENEXTWEEKISASTUDYINMASSACRE.

The first day out with Ambrose, Vincent kills two numa. The next night Vincent gets home around

midnightfromtakingKatetotheopera,andchangesfromtuxedointofightinggearwithinminutes.We’re
bending the rules a bit, the three of us walking without a volant spirit. But Vincent wants to keep the
“experiment”assecretiveaspossibleuntilheknowsit’sgoingtowork,andwillonlyinvolvemembers
ofLaMaison.

We head straight for Pigalle, where a number of bars and strip clubs are owned by numa or their

underlings.Usually—unlesswe’resavingahuman—weavoidnumahangouts.AsAmbrosesays,it’stoo
temptingtoputsomesteelthroughthem,andupuntilnow,riddingParisofnumahasnotbeenourgoal.
Justaswedon’texpecttoseenumaringingourdoorbellatLaMaison,theywon’tanticipateatagteamof
bardiainvadingtheirterritory.Whichmakesthemeasytargets.

Apparently the word hasn’t gotten around numa circles about the two guys Vincent finished off

yesterday,becausewewalkintoLeBoudoirNightclubaroundclosingtimeandthere’sanumastanding
right in the entranceway. He’s huge enough to be a bouncer at one of Paris’s trendiest clubs, but the
bespokesuitgiveshimawayastheclub’sowner.Ourhandsalltouchtheswordhiltsunderourcoats—as
ifweneedtheintroduction.Heknowswhatweare.Gapingatthethreeofuslikewe’retherisenghosts
ofhumanshe’skilled,heturnsandrunstothebackofthebar,lockinghimselfintheoffice.

“Excuseus,ladies,”Ambrosesaystothetwoscantilycladdancerswhositonbarstools,smoking.It

smells like cigarettes and spiced rum, and the lights are so dim that it takes a few seconds for me to
realizethatthebarisempty.

“You’renotlikelytohavemuchmorebusinessatthistimeonaSundaynight,”Isayandhandthem

each a hundred-euro bill. “Is that enough to make you get your coats and go home?” They grin widely,
disappearintoabackroom,andinunderaminutearescampering,fullyclothed,outthefrontdoor.Ilock
itbehindthem.

“Youwannacomeoutorshouldwecomein?”Ambroseyellsattheofficedoor.Helooksaroundat

Vinceandmeandshrugs.

“Kickit in,” saysVincent as wedraw our swords. Butbefore Ambrose canmove, the numa comes

out,swingingabattle-axthesizeofaheadstone.

Ambrose whistles as he jumps aside. “Now that is an ax!” he says, leaning back to avoid the

swingingblade.

Vincentdoesn’tneedmyhelp,butIadvanceandletthegianttakeaswipeatme.Hisassetishisbulk,

andthecommensuratepowerhecanputbehindhisswings.LuckilyI’malotfasterthanheis,orIwould
havelostanarm.

Iswingmysword,andhehowlsasmybladeslicesthroughhistorso.Heliftshisaxinbothhands,

readytostrike,whenVincentlungesforwardandstabshimthroughthechest.

Thenumalookssurprisedasthesteelpenetrateshisribcage,andwhenitmeetshisheart,hedropshis

weaponandfallstohisknees.Grabbingthebladewithbothhands,heattemptstopullitout,butsuddenly
slumpssideways,lyingproneinthegrowingpoolofblood.

“Niceform,guys,”callsAmbrosefromwherehe’sretrievingthebattle-ax.Herunshisfingeralong

itsedge,testingitssharpness.“Goodthinghedidn’tgetyoufirst;thisthing’saGradeAkillingmachine,”
hesays.“Andnowit’smine,allmine,”hecoos,likeit’sababyinsteadofadeadlyweapon.

Vincentdropshissword,andhishandsballintofistsasheabsorbstheenergyofthenuma.Heglances

atme,andIcanseetheeffectit’shavingonhim—thedarkgleamoftheeyesandtheevil-lookingscowl
asthepowerhitshimandsinksintohisbeing.Afterasecondhelookslikeanormalbardiaagain,butone

who’sdownedafewcratesofRedBull.“Ha!”helaughs,andgrabsmyarmalittletoofirmly.“Thisis
goingtowork,Jules.Icanjustfeelit.”

“Ah,okay,”Isay,wonderingifthisDarkWayplanisreallythebestidea.It’snotlikeVincent’sgoing

togoallraving-numaonus,buttheimmediateeffectsofabsorbingthedarkpowerafewdaysinarow
are a bit frightening, to say the least. “How many of these guys do you have to kill?” I ask, extricating
myselffromhisgrasp.

“Just have to keep it up for a few months, one every few days,” he responds. “At least, that’s what

VioletteandGaspardcalculated.”

He claps his hands together expectantly, and then pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Gaspard. Ambulance

neededatLeBoudoir,boulevarddeClichy.One-waytriptothecrematorium.”Hehangsupandlooksat
Ambroseandmewithawildlookinhiseyes.Basedonmynuma-killingexperience,it’lltakeanhouror
so for the buzz to die. “Montmartre’s just a few blocks away,” he says. “Who feels like running some
stairs?”

FOURTEEN

THENEXTWEEKWHENIAWAKEFROMDORMANCY

,Kateisthefirstthingonmymind.Theregularbodyguard

dutythatVincenthasaskedmetodowhilehenuma-slayshasmadeitimpossibleformetoachievemy
goal of forgetting my feelings for her. I have the overwhelming urge to see her. To go to her house. To
followherasshegoesaboutherdailyactivities.

Iactuallydiditonce.Isatinherroom,watchingherlieonherbeddoinghomework.Chewingonthe

end of the pencil as she considered what she read. Wrote notes in a messy script that was completely
illegible,atleasttome.Atonepointshelayonherbackandwatchedtheceiling,andanexpressionof
purehappinesscrossedherfeatures.Likeshehadabeautifulsecret.AndIknewthatshewasthinkingof
him.Ifeltdirtyandsulliedforspyingonthisintimatemomentandleftimmediately.Inevervisitedher
volantafterthat.

FIFTEEN

“

VINCE, LOOKS LIKE THAT ZOMBIE HIT YOU AS

hardasyouhithim,”Isay,pointingtothefist-sizedpurple

patch under his ribs. Vincent looks down, pressing on the bruise, and recoils in pain. “Holy crap, that
hurts,”hesays,suckingairsharplybetweenhisteeth.“That’sweird:Idon’trememberhimtouchingmeat
all.Imusthaverunintosomethingwhenwecamebackupthestairsfromthesewers.”

After two weeks of numa slaying, Vincent is looking considerably worse for the wear. Violette

confirmseverythingisontrack,though.Shesaysthingshavetogetbadbeforetheygetbetter.

So I nod, and hold my tongue. I’m encouraged when Vincent reanimates looking like his old self.

AlthoughIhaveabadfeelingaboutthiswholeDarkWaything,whoamItogoupagainstGaspardand
Violette’sbrainiacdreamteam?

ButI’mbeginningtolosemywillingnesstohelphimreachhisgoal.ThemoreKate’sinourlives,the

moreIfindmyselffallingforher.ThemoreIseeher,themoreIwantheraround.It’saviciouscycle,and
it’smakingmecrazy.I’vebegunstayingawayfromLaMaisonandspendingmoretimeinmystudio,just
toavoidourpathscrossinganymorethannecessary.

IshowerandslipintosomeoldjeansandaT-shirt.“Whereareyouoffto?”Vincentasks,rubbinga

towelacrosshiswethair.

“Studio,”Isay.
“You’vebeenspendingalotoftimethere,”hecomments,throwinghiswettoweloverachair.“You

planninganexhibitionorsomething?”

“No,”Isay,andfollowhimupstairstothebackhallway.“JustaspecialprojectI’mworkingon.”
“You’ll have to tell me when it’s ready for the viewing public,” he says, and clapping me on the

shoulder,disappearsintohisbedroom.

Throwingmycoaton,Iheadoutthedoor,throughthegate,andtowardtheriver.Thisisoneproject

thatwillneverbereadyfortheviewingpublic.Orforanyofmykindred,forthatmatter.

Twenty minutes later, I walk into my studio and flip the light switch on. The room brightens as the

tracklightingwarmsup,illuminatingdozensoffemaleforms.Theirposesarealldifferentbutthefaceis
thesame.Paintedfrommemoryinsceneaftersceneisthefresh-facedbeauty.Kate.

It’s the bargain I’ve made with myself. If I can’t caress her body with my hands, I paint it with my

brushes.Usemyfingerstotraceherlines.

Ishuckoffmycoatandgodirectlytothecanvasonmyeasel.Squeezeoutthepaintsontomypalette.

Andcarefully...tenderly...takingmytimewitheverybrushstroke,Isketchthecurveofherneck,apply
the crimson of her lips, form her face into a two-dimensional tribute to her beauty. Mix my oils to the
exactshadeofherskin,andspreaditonthecanvaswithmytrowel.

Sheismyinspiration.Mymuse.Myobsession.

SIXTEEN

AWEEKLATER,GEORGIAROPESUSALLINTO

goingtoherboyfriend’sconcert.SinceArthurandVioletteare

alongfortheride,Iconsidermyselfoffdutyandbringadate.Giulianna.Italian.Bellissima.Felineeyes
andfelineattitude.She’sagirlwho’susedtobeingspoiled.Andsheisthereforonereason.Tokeepmy
mindoffofKate.

WestartoutatLeMeurice,wherewiththechampagneandvintagewine,Idropenougheurostopay

therentforherstudioapartmentforamonth.Sowhenwewanderintothebohemianchicoftheconcert
location,hersmileturnsdownward.“Whatisthisdive?”sheasks,peeringaroundattheredwallsand
leopard-skinstagecurtains.

“We’remeetingfriendshere,stayingforaconcert,andthenwe’llbeoff,”Iassureher,andthenchoke

onmydrinkasIseeKatecrosstheroomtowardus.She’swearingboots,skinnyblackjeans,andawine-
colored silk top. And she’s stunning in a way that Giulianna will never be; her natural smile lights her
facemoreeffectivelythantheluxury-brandmakeupandexpensivefacialsmydatesplurgesonwithher
father’smoney.

I introduce the two girls. Kate leans over and whispers, “She’s gorgeous!” And I respond with the

truth:“Shehasnothingonyou,ofcourse,Kates.It’sjustthatyou’resovery...taken.”Shegivesmethat
what-a-flirtlook,andIshrug.Ispeakthetruthandnothingbutthetruth.Andyet...

Thebandisgood,butIdon’tevennotice.MyeyesaretrainedonKateallnight.Asshedanceswith

hersisterinfrontofthestage,IfeellikeIcoulddothis—watchKatemove,spin,throwherhandsupin
theair,andbouncearound—fortherestofeternity.WhenshestopstothrowherarmsaroundVincentand
kisshislips,mystomachplunges.Shewillneverloveyou,Iberatemyself,andturntowardthebarsoI
don’thavetosee.

Giulianna’sreadytogothesecondtheconcert’sover.Wetakeourtime,walkingarminarmthrough

thelamplitstreetsuntilwereachherbuildingontherueSaint-Honoré.Sheinvitesmein,andIaccept.

Theairinherstudioisheavywithperfume.Giuliannadrapeshercoatoverachairandturnstoface

me. I lift her chin with my fingertips and touch my lips to hers. She’s soft and warm. I pull her closer,
feelingmypulseaccelerateasshepressesherchestagainstmine.Sherunsonehandthroughmyhairand
tracescirclesbehindmyearwithherfingertips.Ourkissdeepens.

Giuliannastartsfumblingwiththebuttonsonmyshirt,andinsecondsI’vetornitoffandamholding

herinmybarearmsandwe’restumblingtowardherbed,unabletostopkissingevenwhilewe’repulling
eachotherdowntolieatopthescatteredpillows.

Iknowwhat’scomingnext.IlookatGiulianna’sexpertlymade-upface,sinkintohercatlikebeauty,

andthenclosemyeyesandI’mkissingKate.Idon’teventrytostopitanymore—thishappenseverytime.
Witheverygirl.

InthebeginningIfoughtit.Itfeltwrong.NowIjustletitcome,letKatetaketheplaceofEvelynn,

Olivia,Quintana,Giulianna.Andalthougheachofthesegirlshassomethingspecialaboutherthatdraws
meininitially—somethingthatmakesmelaughorsmileorlustafter—noneofthemevencomescloseto
her.WithKateinmylife,seeingheronanalmostdailybasis,nootherwomanwillevermeasureup.

My phone rings in my jacket pocket. I ignore it for a second, and then, rolling over to lie beside

Giulianna,Ianswer.“Yourtimingsucks,Vince,”Isay,unabletodisguisemyheavybreathing.

Vincent’stoneisurgent.“Jules,wewerejustattackedbythreenumaoutsidetheclub.Killedthemall,

butArthur’sinjured,andIjuststuckKateandGeorgiainataxi.Canyoumeetthemattheirhouse?Make
suretheygetsafelyinside?”

I’mstandingupandthrowingmyshirtbackonwithinasplitsecond.WithKate’ssafetyinquestion,I

havenochoice.Imovequicklytowardthedoor.“I’msorry,Ihavetogo,”IsaytoGiulianna.

“No, don’t,” she says, pacing across the studio floor toward me. The disappointed pout on her lips

almostmakesmeregretmyhastydeparture.Ipullherwithmetothedoorwayandletmyselfout,pausing
onthedoorstep.

“Sorry.Emergency,”Isay,andleandowntogiveheronelastkiss.“I’llcallyoutomorrow,Kate.”
Shecrossesherarmsandshootsmeapissed-offfrown.“It’sGiulianna,”shesays,andslamsthedoor

inmyface.

SEVENTEEN

VINCENT’S “EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITIES”

continue,withArthur,Gaspard,Ambrose,andmetakingturns

ashisnuma-slayingwingmen.Andfinally,afterreducingtheirnumbersbymorethanadozen,thenuma
react.Butnotinthewayweexpect.

One afternoon Geneviève calls, saying that while she was out, someone broke the lock, forced her

door,andturnedtheplaceupsidedown.Gencan’tfindanythingmissing,butJBandVincentaregoingto
checkitout.

ThefirstthingVincentworriesaboutisKate.“Ifthisisthebeginningofthenuma’sdefensivestrike,

theycouldgoafterher.SinceLucienwentoutwithGeorgia,they’reallawareKate’smygirlfriend.”

“Whywouldtheybetargetingyou?”Iask.“Nooneknowsyou’redoingthekillings.Youneverleave

asurvivor.”

“I’mnumaenemynumbertwo,afterJB,andhisbelovedisimmortal.Trustme:Kate’saneasytarget.

CouldyoupleasepickherupatschoolandstaywithheruntilI’mback?”

Ican’targuewithhimonthat.AndIdon’treallywantto.He’sasking,andI’mnotgoingtosaynoto

spendingtimewithKate.Anideastrikesme,andasIpulltheBMWoutofLaMaison’sdrive,Imakea
pitstopfirstandpassbymystudiotodoalittlerearranging.

IttakesabitofcajolingbeforeKateagreestositforaportrait,butintheendshesaysyes.Wepark

thecarandclimbthestairstomystudio,whereanhourearlierIstowedalloftheKatepicturesinthe
ancientbathtub,pullingtheshowercurtainclosedtohideallevidence.Ihavereplacedtheblankspotson
thewallswithothercanvases,andsmiletomyselfasIseetheblissonKate’sfaceasshewalksintoa
roomfullofpaintedformandcolor.

Iclosethedoorbehindherandturnonthespotlighting.“Theselandscapesaregoingtobeinagroup

exhibitionnextmonth,”Istartsaying,whenacrashcomesfromtheadjoiningroom.Igrabaswordfrom
theumbrellastandbythedoorandchargetowardthenoise.

“What are you doing here?” I yell to a sandy-haired numa who is crouching beside my desk. As he

flingshimselfuponme,Iplungemysteelintohistorso.I’veaimedtoolowforhisheart,unfortunately.
ButbeforeIhavethechancetostrikeagain,hemakesabreakforitandtakesarunningleap,shatteringmy
windowashecrashesthrough.

Katerunstothejaggedopeningandlooksdown.
“Didhe...”Ibegin,tryingtocatchmybreath.
“Helandedonhisfeetandranoff,”shesays.“Hewasholdinghisside,whereyoustabbedhim,when

heranaway.”

“What was a numa doing in my studio?” I wonder aloud, and then see that my desk has been gone

through,andbooksandpapersarestrewnacrossthefloor.Katebendsdownandpicksupasetoflock-
picking tools from among the glass shards. Whatever the numa were searching for at Geneviève’s, they
didn’tfind.Andmystudiowasthenextplacetheythoughtthey’dlook.

I call Vincent and tell him what happened. As I hand Kate the phone and hear his frantic voice, I

suddenlyrealize:Justonestrikebythenumaandshecouldbedead.Ifhehadhadtimetopullhisown
weapon,thatmighthavebeentheendofKate.Icouldhavelosther.Permanently.

Shehangsupthephone,andI’macrosstheroominasecond,grabbingherbytheshoulders.“Kate,

you’refine?Youdidn’tgetcutanywhere?”Iask,squeezinghertomeinmyrelief.

We stand in the middle of the pile of shattered glass. Kate is in my arms, and her heartbeat patters

rapidlyagainstmychest.Andthings,foronce,feelright.ThisiswhereI’msupposedtobe.Withthisgirl
inmyarms.Idon’twanttoletgo,butIloosenmygripandshepullsbackfromme.“Jules?”shesays,a
questioninhervoice.Hasshereadmythoughts?

Idropmyarms,butdon’tmove.Weareinchesapart.Ibreatheinherscent—shesmellslikealmonds

and lemongrass—and feel her warm breath on my lips as she looks up at me. And I realize that one
secondmoreandmysecretwillbeexposed.Iwillkissher.

Iturnabruptly,strideoutofmystudioanddownthestairs,andstepintothecoldFebruaryairtowait

forVincenttoarrive.

EIGHTEEN

THE NEXT DAY VINCENT LEAVES FOR BERLIN TO

track down Charles, and I am once again tapped to guard

Kate.Butinsteadoflettingmedropheroffatschool,shetalksmeintotakinghertoSaint-Ouen,tothis
crazyrelicshopthatlookslikeit’sbeenopensincethesaintsthemselveswerewalkingtheearth.

Kate insists on going in alone. I tell her she’s got fifteen minutes, so after almost a half hour of no

Kate,I’malarmedenoughtobargein,sworddrawn.TheonlypersonIseeisascarecrowofaman,who
cowersandpleadsinnocence.

Kateburststhroughabackdoor,yellingformetostop,andthenproceedstointroducemetoamother-

and-sonteamofhealerswhoclaimtohavelinkstorevenants.Asin,allrevenants—we’retalkingboth
numaandbardia.

I’msomadatKatethatIcanbarelyspeak.Notonlyhassheputherselfinharm’swaybygettinginto

contactwiththesedodgypeople,butshemademebreakmypledgetoVincenttokeepheroutofdanger.
Shecouldhavebeenhurt—couldstillbehurt—becauseofthis.Whoknowswhatthesehealers’tiesareto
thenuma?

Afterhavingayellingmatchwithherinthecar,shestilldoesn’tunderstandwhyI’msoupset.AndI

almostsayit.Icouldblameitonheightenedemotion,butthetruthisI’mtiredofhidingmyfeelings.

“Kate,Icareaboutyou.Youdon’tevenknowhow—”
There’salookinhereyethatstopsme.It’sascaredlook,likeshe’safraidI’mgoingtotipthescales

andthrowthiswholecarefullybalancedequilibriumoutofkilter.Sheknows,Ithink.

Iputmyhandonhers.Thelookdisappearsoffherface,andsuddenlyshe’sbacktogood-buddymode.

And if she does know what I was going to say, she’s stuffed the knowledge back down so far that
everything’ssafeagain.

Imakeherswearshewon’tputherselfindangeragain,andthenIdriveaway,onlyashellofaman.

Anemptyhusk.

NINETEEN

THENEXTWEEKALLHELLBREAKSLOOSE.IGO

dormant,onlytoawakevolanttofindLaMaisoninchaos.

Vincent got a tip in Berlin that someone among our ranks is working with the numa, and a surprise

visitbysomenumatoKate’sgrandfather’sgalleryconfirmsthereisaleak.AssoonasI’mvolant,Jean-
BaptisteandVincenthavemeaccompanythem.WequestionParis’sbardiaallnightlong,butbymorning
we’vegottennofurtherindiscoveringtheleak.JBfinallycallstheinquisitionoffandtellseveryoneto
regroupathome.

OnmywaybacktoLaMaison,InoticeKateandGeorgiaattheendofourstreet,hidingandwatching

ourfrontgate.Islowdowntoinvestigate,onlytoseethemtakeoffonascooterafterViolette,whohas
calledataxi.Thatinitselfdoesn’tseemstrange—Vican’tdrive—butthenwhenIseeArthurtailingher
onamotorcycle,withthehumansistersfollowinghim,Iknowsomething’sgoingon.

IstayalongsideKateandGeorgiauntiltheyparkatthebaseofMontmartreandfollowArthurupthe

stairs. I’ve lost track of Violette by now, but decide to alert Vincent to the fact that his girlfriend’s
skippingschoolandplayingsecretagentwithhersister.

Thoughtyoumightwanttoknowthatyou’regirlfriend’sgoneAWOLandisfollowingArthurand

VioletteuptoMontmartre,IsaywhenIfindhiminthecourtyardofLaMaison.

Vincentclapsahandtohisforeheadandmoans,“Do.Not.Tell.Me.That.”
What’sup?Iask.
“Kate’sgotitinhermindthatArthur’stheinformationleak,andknowingher,she’ssetouttoprove

hertheory.Ican’tbelievethis.”Heroarsoffangrilyononeofthemotorcycles.

Assoonashe’sgone,Ambrosepullsupinthe4x4.WhenIinformhimofthesituationheburstsout

laughing.“Man,Vinmustbeangry!YouthinkIoughttogolendahand?Helphimcartthetruantsbackto
school?”

Onlyifyouwanttogetinvolvedinadomesticdispute,Irespond.We’llprobablybeabletohear

themyellingitoutfromhere.

Iaccompanyhimtothekitchen,wherehebeginsdiggingintoamonster-sizedbreakfastandupdates

meonthebardiahequestionedintheParissuburbs.Heisn’tevenhalfwaydonewithhismealwhenhis
phonerings.“Katie-Lou?YoustillatMontmartre?”hesaysbeforeshehastimetospeak.“HasVingotten
thereyet?”

I move to the space next to Ambrose’s head so I can listen, and hear Kate speaking frantically.

“Ambrose,Vincent’sgone.Violetteandanumakilledhimandtookhisbody.They’vegothim,Ambrose!”

ForasecondIdon’tunderstandwhatshe’stalkingabout.AndthensuddenlyIdo,andIfeelsickwith

horror.Violettebetrayedus.Sheistheleak.Theoneworkingwiththenuma.AndIthinkofhowmuchshe
knowsandhowmuchpowersheactuallyholds;Iamawashwithpanic.

Ambrose orders Kate to get back to La Maison with Arthur and her sister. He hangs up and says,

“Jules.Youcangettherefastest—you’vegottago.Violette’sinawhitedeliveryvanwithVincent’sbody.
LeftthebaseofSacré-Coeurtwominutesago.Ifyoucanfindthem,tailthemuntilyouseewherethey’re
heading.I’llmobilizeeveryone,andwe’llbereadytogoassoonasyoureturntous.

I fly faster than I ever have before, spurred on by my panic. I arrive at Montmartre in barely three

minutes, but I’m already too late. The delivery van is nowhere to be seen. I frantically search the
neighborhoodforanysignofthem,butfindnothing.Notevenalead.Andfinally,Ihavetogiveupand
headhometogivethemthenews.

Iaminastateofdisbeliefandshock.Howcouldthishavehappened?WhywouldViolettehavekilled

Vincent?Andheractingwiththehelpofnuma?It’salltoohardtobelieve.

AtLaMaison,JBsplitsthePariskindredintosearchparties,dispatchingustocombthestreetsfor

signsofViolette—oranynuma,forthatmatter.

GaspardandIheadsouth,andreturnhourslaterwithdevastatingnews.AnumawefoundinDenfert

confessedhehadbeentoldthatViolettetookVincent’sbodyoutofthecity,andwasheadedsouth.She
couldbeanywherebynow.

AftergivingourreporttoJB,IgotofindKate.Imustmakesureshe’swithsomeonewhocancarefor

her.Ihavetoencourageher.Totellherthere’sstillhope,whileknowingthatthathopeisveryslight.I
feeldevastated.Ican’timaginehowsheishandlingit.

I find her in the courtyard, sitting on the angel fountain talking to Ambrose. She’s been crying, but

hasn’tgivenuphope.Iwanttotakeherinmyarms.Toconsoleherandtobeconsoledbyher.

“Whatdoyouthinkshe’lldo?”sheasksAmbrose.
“Katie-Lou,regardingViolette,Idon’tknowwhattothinkanymore.”
“Ifsheburnshisbodytoday...”Kateprods.
“He’llbegone,”Ambroserespondstruthfully.
Themournfullookonherfacetouchesmetothecore.ShelovesVincentbodyandsoul.Heishertrue

love.Shewillneverfeelformewhatshedoesforhim.ButIwillneverstoplovingher.AndIhaveto
learntolivewiththat.

KissKatesforme,IaskAmbrose.Tellhertohavecourage;we’llfindVince.
Heputshismassivearmaroundher,pullshertowardhim,andplantsafirmkissonhercheek.“That’s

fromJules.Hesaystotellyou,‘Courage,Kates.We’llfindyourman.’”

Ileave.Ican’tbearseeingthepaininhereyesandnotbeingabletotouchher.Toconsoleher.Ijoin

JB, Gaspard, and Arthur in the library, where they are strategizing—coming up with a plan to fit every
eventuality.

We wait all evening, but there is no word. Violette hasn’t attempted to contact us. Spirits are

beginningtofallwhen,justaftermidnight,ithappens.

I’m coming down the stairs with Gaspard and Arthur when Kate bursts through the front door. Her

eyesarewild,andshe’spantinglikeshe’sbeenrunningmiles.

She tells us that Vincent just came to her volant to say good-bye. He told her his body was in

Violette’s Loire Valley castle being prepared for the fire. Then he was cut off midsentence as his body
wasimmolated.

Kate’sfaceisastudyofshock.Hertruelove’sbodyhasbeendestroyed,andwedon’tknowwhat’s

happenedtohisspirit.Andyet,sheisstillstrong.Mostwouldhavecrumbledinthefaceofsuchnews,
butsheranallthewaybacktous.ToVincent’skindred.Iaminaweofherbravery.

As Gaspard leads Kate to the meeting room, I know what my old friend would want. The years of

finishing each other’s sentences—the decades of speechless communication—allow his voice to come
throughasloudlyasifhewereherespeakingitintomyear.

Kateismyresponsibilitynow.Imustguardherwithmylife.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MY GRATITUDE TO MY EDITORS, CHRISTOPHER

HernandezandTaraWeikum,forpromptingmetoaddmore

colortoJules’sportrait.Andmanythankstomyreaders,who,whengivenseveralchoicesforrevenant
points-of-view,choseJules’sstorytobewritten.Hegiveseachandeveryoneofyouslow,sexybises.

EXCERPTFROMIFISHOULDDIE

ReadonforalookatIFISHOULDDIE,thefinalbookintheDieforMeseries.

ONE

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT I SAT ON A BRIDGE SPANNING

theSeine,watchingabouquetofcrushedwhitelilies

floattowardthespotlitEiffelTower.IstrainedtolistenforthewordsIthoughtI’djustheard.Thewords
of a dead boy—of my boyfriend’s ghost. I could have sworn he spoke to me a second ago. Which was
impossible.

Buttheretheywereagain—hiswordsappearingoncemoreinmymind,thetwosyllablescuttingme

assharplyasawhipcrack.

Monange.
Myhearthammered.“Vincent?Isthatreallyyou?”Iaskedwithatremblingvoice.
Kate,canyouhearme?
“Vincent,you’revolant.Violettehasn’tdestroyedyou!”Ileapttomyfeetandspunaround,searching

anxiouslyforaglimpseofhim,thoughIknewtherewouldbenothingtosee.IstoodaloneonthePontdes
Arts.Thesurfaceofthewaterrippledandmovedbeneathmelikethebackofagreat,darkserpent—the
twinkling lights on the riverbanks reflected in its writhing smoothness. I shivered and pulled my coat
tighteraroundmyself.

No.Shehasn’tdestroyedmycorpse...yet.
“OhmyGod,Vincent,Iwassureshehaddoneit.”Iwipedatearfrommycheekbeforeafloodof

othersfollowed.Justmomentsearlier,Ihadgivenupallhopeofeverhearingfromhimagain.Ihadbeen
positivethathewasgoneforever,hisbodyburnedbyhisenemy.Butherehewas.Ididn’tunderstand.I
chokedbacktears.

Kate.Breathe,Vincentinsisted.
Iexhaledslowly.“Ican’tbelieveyou’rehere,talkingtome.Whereareyou?Wheredidshetakeyour

body?”

I’mlyingdormantinViolette’scastleintheLoireValley.Ionlybecameconsciousafewminutes

ago. As soon as I figured out what she was doing, I came to you. Vincent’s words sounded bleak.
Hopeless.

MyhandsshookasIwhippedmyphoneoutofmypocket.“Tellmeexactlywhereyouare.I’mcalling

Ambrose—he’llgetagrouptogetherandwe’llberightthere.”

It’stoolateforarescue,Kate.Violettehasbeenwaitingformymindtoawake,andnowthatI’m

volant, she will burn my body. When I left, some of her henchmen were stoking a fire while she
performed some kind of ancient ritual she claimed would bind my spirit to her once I’m reduced to
ashes.Ionlyhaveafewminutes,andIwanttospendthemwithyou.

“It’snevertoolate,”Iinsisted.“WecouldtrytostopwhateveritisthatViolette’sdoing.I’msureyour

kindred could come up with some kind of distraction. We have to try.” Why was Vincent giving up so
easily?

Kate.Stop,hepleaded.Pleasedon’twastethelittletimeIhavetryingtocallAmbrosewhenthere

isnowaythatyoucanreachmeintime.Thereisnoway,believeme.

Theforceinhisvoicemademehesitate,butIkeptstaringatmyphoneasalumpformedinmythroat.

IfIcouldn’tdoanything,itmeantthatallwaslost.Myinitialshockwasbeingovertakenbyanicyshawl
ofrealization:TheboyIlovedwasminutesawayfrombeingburnedonapyre.“No!”Icried,willingthe
horrortogoaway.

Vincentwassilent,allowingthetruthtosinkin.Iwaslosingmylove—forever.IfVincent’sbodywas

destroyed,Iwouldnevertouchhimagain.Neverfeelhismouthagainstmine.Neverholdhiminmyarms.

But he won’t be completely gone. Will he? I had to make sure. My voice came out in a strangled

croak.“Atleastyou’revolant,right?IfViolettehadburnedyoubeforeyourmindawoke,youwouldbe
goneforever—bodyandspirit.”

I wish she had. Vincent’s words were bitter. She said she needed my spirit present in order to

performthepowertransfer.AfewsecondspassedbeforeIheardhisvoiceagain.IthinkI’dratherbe
nonexistentthanhelpViolettebecomepowerfulenoughtodestroymykindred.

I didn’t agree. Vincent still existed, even if his body didn’t. The boy I loved so desperately hadn’t

completelydisappeared.That’ssomething,Ithought,feelingaglimmerofhope.AndthenIremembered,I
willneverseehim.Orfeelhisskinagainstmineaswetouchhands.Lips.Neveragain.Andthehope
disappeared.

Furyfoughtdespairinsideme.“Whydidithavetobeyou?”Iasked.“Whyareyoutheonewiththe

powershe’sreadytokillfor?”

Ifitwasn’tme,itwouldbesomeoneelse.
“I wish it were someone else,” I said selfishly. “I want you to live.” But I knew Vincent wouldn’t

agree.Hiswholeexistencewasaboutsacrificinghimselfforothers.Hewouldgivehimselfinaheartbeat
tosaveoneofhiskindred.

IlookedoutovertheripplingwaterandimaginedVincentmaterializingbeforeme.Thesoftblackof

hishair.Thesapphireflashofhisdarkeyes.Histall,solidframe.Vincent’sphantomhungsuspendedover
thewavesforamoment,glimmeringtransparentlyinthemoonlight,beforedissolvingbackintomymind’s
eye.

Idon’twanttowatchherburnmybody.
Therewasfearinhisvoice.Vincenthadexperiencedmanyviolentdeaths,butthis end was final. I

wantedtotakehishand.Iwantedtotouchhim.Comforthim.ButallIhadwerewords.“Thendon’tgo
back.Stayherewithmeuntiltheend.”Itriedtosoundbrave,butIwastrembling.

“Iloveyou.”Ispokethewords,whilesilentlyurgingmyselfnottocry.ThelastthingVincentneeded

rightnowwastoseememournhim.

Youaremylife,Kate.Ihavebeenfightingmydestinytobewithyou,andafterallthatstruggleI

findmyselfpowerless;Ican’tstopViolette.

Ididn’trespond.BecauseifIdid,Iwouldscream.Myheartfeltlikeitwasbeingwrenchedfrommy

chestasVincentwasbeingseparatedfrommeforeternity.TheboywhoIhadgivensomuchtolove—
who I had gone against my sense of self-preservation to be with—was being taken away from me by a
megalomaniac adolescent, and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it. I couldn’t hold it back: I
begancryingagain.Butnotfromsadness.Mytearsweretearsofimpotentfury.

WillyoupassamessageontoJean-Baptisteandtheothersforme?
“Ofcourse,”Igasped,tryingtospeakaroundtheboulderofhatredlodgedinmythroat.
Remind them that since I didn’t offer myself voluntarily to Violette, she will not receive my full

power.That’stheonlyrayofhopeIcansee.

Apologize to JB for me. For my disbelief, he continued. I wish I had figured out what all of this

meantwhileIstillhadachance.

“Yes.I’lltellthem.”Mybreathmadelittlepuffsofcloudinthefrigidair.Irubbedmyhandsbriskly

on my arms. Leaping down off the end of the bridge, I strode swiftly in the direction of La Maison,
knowingthatVincent’sspiritwouldaccompanyme.Evenifitwastoolatetosavehim,Ihadtotellthe
otherswhatwasgoingon.

Kate,IwantyoutoknowthatIawokethefirsttimeIsawyou.
Ihadmanagedtopullmyselftogetherinordertocarryoutthemonumentaltaskofputtingonefootin

frontoftheother,butadeclarationoflovefromtheboyIwasabouttolosewastoomuchforme.Tears
blurredmyvisionashecontinued.

Somethinginsidemethathadbeenstillandsilentsincemyfirstdeathallofasuddensparkedand

begantoliveagain.Iknewtherewassomethingdifferentaboutyou,andIhadtofindoutwhatitwas.

“When was the first time you saw me?” I asked, trying to distract myself—to keep myself from

breakingdownrightthenandthereontheriverbank.“AreyoutalkingabouttheCaféSainte-Lucie?”

No.Helaughed.Ihadseenyouaroundourneighborhood—longbeforethecafé.Wekeptcrossing

pathsforweeksbeforeyouactuallynoticedme.AndIcouldn’thelpwonderingwhoyouwereandwhy
you were so tortured—so mournful. I kept hoping your sister or your grandparents would say your
name.Wejustcalledyouthesadgirl.

“Whois‘we’?”Iasked,mypaceslowing.
Ambrose,Jules,andme.
“Then they must have recognized me that first day in the café,” I said, surprised by this new

perspectiveonourstory.

His silence was an affirmation. You’ve intrigued me from the very beginning. And you still do.

You’re different. I wanted to spend the rest of your life discovering who you were. But now . . . His
wordsdissolvedandthenreappearedwithreneweddetermination.

Kate,IpromiseIwillfindawaytogetawayfromVioletteandcomebacktoyou.Evenifit’stoo

lateforus,IwantyoutoknowIwillalwaysbenear.I’llalwaysbewatchingoutforyou.

Stunned, I froze mid-step. “What do you mean, ‘too late for us’?” I asked, feeling like I had been

punchedinthegut.

Kate,inafewminutesmybodywillnolongerexist.Fromnowon,theonlythingIcandoforyouis

trytokeepyousafe.Ahumanandarevenant—thatwasadifficultenoughchallenge.Butahumanand
aghost?Monamour,Iwouldneverwishthatfor...

Andthatwasit.ThosewerethelastwordsVincentspoketomebeforehewasgone,leavingmealone

onariverbankwithnothingbutthewhistlingofthewinterwind.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

PhotobyBillBraine

AMY PLUM spent her childhood in Birmingham, Alabama, her twenties in Chicago and Paris, and
severalmoreyearsinLondon,NewYork,andtheLoireValley.NowshelivesinParisandswearsshe’ll
nevermoveagain.

DIEFORME

and

UNTILIDIE

arethefirsttwonovelsinatrilogyaboutrevenants.Youcan

visitAmyonlineatwww.amyplumbooks.com.

Visit

www.AuthorTracker.com

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