“So what did they say?” I asked, approaching the bed. Vincent was whiter and weaker-looking than before, but smiled consolingly.
“It’s okay. I’ve promised to take full responsibility for you.”
Though I didn’t know what that meant, I felt torn between thinking I didn’t need a babysitter on the one hand, and rather liking the idea of being Vincent’s ward on the other.
“You can go home now,” he continued, “but as Jean-Baptiste said before, you can’t talk about us to anybody. Not that they would believe you anyway, but we try to stay as under the radar as possible.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“You’ve heard of vampires?” he asked, smiling mysteriously.
I nodded.
“You’ve heard of werewolves?”
“Of course.”
“Had you ever heard of us?”
I shook my head.
“That’s called ‘staying under the radar,’ dear Kate. It’s what we’re good at.”
“Gotcha.” I took his outstretched hand.
“Can I see you again in a few days?” he asked.
I nodded, suddenly uncertain when I thought of what the future could hold. Pausing at the door, I called, “Take care,” and then immediately felt stupid. He was immortal. He didn’t have to take care. “I mean rest up,” I corrected myself.
He smiled, amused by my confusion, and saluted me.
“Milady.” Jules stepped forward, bowing like a doorman in a Merchant-Ivory film, and placed my hand on his arm. “Shall we?” I couldn’t help but laugh. He was going all out to make up for upsetting me.
Back in the grand foyer, I picked up my book bag. As I stepped outside, he touched my arm and said, “Listen. I’m sorry I was rude before today, you know . . . in my studio and at the museum. I swear it was nothing personal. I was just trying to protect Vincent and you . . . and all of us. Now that it’s too late for that, well, please accept my apology.”
“I totally understand,” I told him. “What else could you do?”
“Whew—she forgave me,” he said, hand on heart, his playfulness obviously returning. “So. You sure you’ll be okay?” he asked me, stepping closer with a look that struck me as more than just friendly concern for my well-being. He saw me read his face and smiled flirtatiously, lifting an eyebrow as if asking a question.
“I’ll be fine, really. Thank you,” I responded, blushing, and stepped over the threshold onto the cobblestones.
“Vince’ll come see you as soon as he can,” he said, thrusting his hands into his jean pockets and nodding good-bye.
I waved back at him and walked slowly out of the courtyard into the street beyond, feeling as if I were in a dream.
Chapter Fifteen
THE WEEKEND WENT BY IN A BLUR, WITH MY body doing one thing and my mind back in the house on rue de Grenelle.
I didn’t know when to expect word from Vincent. On Monday morning, as Georgia and I left for school, I spotted an envelope taped to our building’s front door with my name printed on it in a beautiful, old-fashioned cursive. I opened it, and from inside pulled a piece of thick white card, on which was written in sweeping script, “Soon. V.”
“Who’s V?” asked Georgia, with eyebrows raised.
“Oh, just this guy.”
“What guy?” she asked, stopping dead in her tracks and grabbing my arm. “The criminal?”
“Yes,” I laughed, breaking away from her grasp and pulling her along toward the Métro. “Except that he’s not a criminal. He’s . . .” He’s a revenant, a kind of undead-guardian-angel type of monster that runs around saving human lives. “He just hangs out with some iffy people.”
“Hmm . . . I think I should meet him.”
“No way, Georgia. I don’t even know if I’m going to keep seeing him. All I need is for you to interfere and complicate things before I actually decide I like him.”
“Oh, you like him all right.”
“Okay, I like him. I mean whether I’m going to keep seeing him.”
She looked at me skeptically.
“I can’t explain it, Georgia. Just let’s not talk about it. I promise to let you know if anything happens.”
We walked in silence for about two seconds before she said, “Don’t worry. I won’t try to steal him from you.”
I hit her with my book bag as we ran down the stairs to the Métro.
Vincent had said he wanted to see me “in a few days,” but we were on day four, and I had begun wondering when, if ever, I would see him again. Maybe he had changed his mind about me once he had gotten stronger. Or maybe Jean-Baptiste had changed it for him. I just thought about his note and hoped he would show.
After the last bell rang on Tuesday, I walked through the school’s front gates and headed toward the bus stop. My pace slowed as I spotted a familiar figure standing across the street. It was Vincent.