His black hair shone in the late-September sun, and he radiated energy and life. He looked like some kind of perfect mythological creature. He is some kind of perfect mythological creature, I reminded myself. I felt breathless. Though his eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, I saw his lips curve up into a smile when he saw me coming through the gates.
A vintage red Vespa was parked where he stood, and as I crossed the street toward him he held up a matching helmet. After the four-day wait, I felt like throwing my arms around him in relief. But when I got a step away I hesitated, remembering what he had looked like the last time I had seen him.
He had been near death. Lying there almost lifeless on his bed like a scene from an old black-and-white horror film. And now here he was, four days later, every pore of his body oozing health. What was wrong with me? I should be running away from him as fast as I could, not into his arms. Monster, not human, I reminded myself.
He saw me pause, and although he had been leaning in to greet me, he took a step back and waited for me to make the first move.
“Hey. You look a lot more . . . alive,” I said, flashing him a tense smile, while inside me the battle between impulse and caution continued.
He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his expression a cross between sheepish and apologetic. “Yeah. Walking, talking . . .” His voice faded as he watched my expression carefully.
Make up your mind, I thought, prodding myself into action. Reaching out, I took the spare helmet from his hand. “So, the back-from-the-dead thing . . . good party trick,” I said, pulling the helmet on.
Vincent’s expression was one of immediate relief. “Yeah, I’ll have to show you how it works sometime,” he laughed and, swinging one leg over the scooter, held out a hand to me.
I took it hesitantly. It was warm. Soft. Mortal. I settled myself behind him and pushed all lingering doubts back to a far corner of my mind. “Where are we going?” I asked, finally letting myself feel the excitement that had been struggling to break free.
“Just a little ride around town,” he said, as he kick-started the Vespa and zoomed out into the street.
Holding Vincent felt like heaven, and driving through Paris on a vintage Vespa felt like the best adventure I had had in years. We crossed a bridge over the Seine into Paris, and cut across town to drive along the riverbank. The water glimmered in the autumn light.
After a twenty-minute ride, we came to the ?le Saint-Louis, one of two natural islands in the middle of the Seine that are connected to the mainland by bridges, and linked to each other by a footbridge.
Vincent locked the scooter to a gate and then, taking me by the hand, led me down a long flight of stone steps to the water’s edge.
“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you sooner,” he said, walking along the quay with me hand in hand. “I had a job to do for Jean-Baptiste. I came as soon as I could.”
“That’s okay,” I responded, refraining from asking him questions. I preferred to forget about all the weird fantasy-novel events from the previous weekend. I wanted to pretend that we were just a boy and a girl spending an afternoon by the riverside. But I had a nagging feeling that the reverie wouldn’t last for long.
As we approached the tip of the island, the narrow sidewalk opened out into a large cobblestone terrace. “This place is always crowded during the summer, but no one ever thinks to come here the rest of the year. Which leaves it empty for us,” Vincent said as he led me to the north side.
Lowering himself to the edge of the terrace, he spread his coat on the stone and reached his hand up for me to take it. I felt like we were the last two people on earth. This knight in shining armor had swept me away to his little island of peace in the midst of the busy city and wanted to sit with me for a few fairy-tale moments. This can’t be real.
We watched the tiny waves sparkle and flash like mirrors in the sun atop the fast-flowing viridian river. Enormous puffy clouds drifted across a wide expanse of sky that you rarely saw when walking among the city’s buildings. The waves lapped loudly against the base of the wall, their sound mounting to a crashing crescendo when boats motored by. I closed my eyes and let the tranquillity of the place flow through me.
Vincent touched my hand, breaking the spell. His brow was lined with concern as he appeared to search for words. Finally he spoke. “You know what I am, Kate. Or at least you know the basics.”
I nodded, wondering what could possibly come next.
“The thing is . . . I want to get to know you. I have a feeling about you that I haven’t had for a long, long time. But being what I am makes things”—he paused—“complicated.”