Die for Me

I let myself melt into his embrace for a few seconds, and then pulled back and assumed the most serious expression I could muster. “I’m not committing to anything, Vincent. Just to the next date.”

 

 

All of a sudden I felt that the old me—the pre-car-wreck Brooklyn me—was outside looking in at the new me, the me that not even a year ago had been forced to instantly grow up. The me who had been battle-scarred by tragedy. I was amazed to witness myself sitting next to this breathtaking guy and speaking those cautious words to him. How on earth had I morphed so quickly into this levelheaded person? How could I be sitting there, stoically laying down conditions for something that I wanted more than anything I’d ever had?

 

Self-preservation. Those two words came to my mind, and I knew what I was doing was right. My whole being had been torn to shreds when I lost my parents. I didn’t want to open myself up to falling for Vincent and risk losing him, too. Deep down I knew I had barely survived my parents’ “disappearance.” I might not survive another.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

 

“LET’S WALK,” VINCENT SAID AND, HELPING ME to my feet, held his arm out for me to hold. We strolled as we watched boats plow past us through the dark green water, leaving frothy wakes behind them and sending large, rolling waves clapping against the stones under our feet.

 

“So how did you . . . die? I mean the first time,” I asked.

 

Vincent cleared his throat. “Can I wait until later to tell you my story?” he asked, sounding uncomfortable. “I don’t want to completely weird you out by talking about who I used to be before having the chance to show you who I am now.” He shot me an awkward smile.

 

“Does that mean I don’t have to tell you about my past either?” I lobbed back.

 

“No,” he groaned. “Especially since I’ve barely started to figure you out.” He paused. “Just please, don’t ask me yet. Any other question, just not that.”

 

“Okay, how about . . . why do you have a photo of me next to your bed?” I prodded.

 

“Did that creep you out?” he said, laughing.

 

“Yeah, kind of,” I admitted. “Although I saw it about a second after I found you dead on your bed, so the creep factor was already pretty high.”

 

“Well, Charlotte and I had to fight over that one,” he said. “Did you notice the photos on my walls?”

 

“Yes. On Charlotte’s, too. She said they were people she had saved.”

 

He nodded. “They’re our ‘rescues.’ And after we saved you, we both laid claim to your picture.”

 

“How’s that?” I asked, confused.

 

“Well, you know that day at the café when you almost became a bit of Paris history?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Charlotte waved you over, which is why you moved in time to avoid the falling stone. But I’m the one who told her it was about to happen.”

 

“You were there?” I asked, stopping in my tracks and staring up at him.

 

“Yes . . . in spirit. Not in body,” Vincent said as he pulled me along with him.

 

“In spirit? I thought you said you aren’t ghosts.”

 

Vincent put his hand on mine, and I began to feel like I had been hit with a mini dose of tranquilizers.

 

“Stop it with the ‘calming touch’ thing. Just explain. I can handle it.” Vincent left his hand on mine, but the warm fuzzy feeling went away. He smiled guiltily, like he had been caught cheating on an exam.

 

Without patting myself too much on the back, I felt I was handling things pretty well. Besides learning that the guy I liked was immortal, I thought I was taking the supernatural how-things-work lessons in stride. I hadn’t freaked out. Much. Okay, except when I saw Jules get killed. And found the obituary photos. And came across Vincent “dead” in his bed. All of which were totally understandable freak-out occasions, I reassured myself.

 

Vincent was talking, so I tried to focus. “I’ll come back to the spirit thing. But what I was saying about me being with Charlotte and Charles—that’s kind of our modus operandi as revenants. We usually travel in threes when we’re ‘walking.’ That’s what we call it when we’re . . . um . . . on patrol. That way if something happens . . .”

 

“Like it did to Jules in the Métro?”

 

“Exactly. Then the others will alert Jean-Baptiste, who will make sure we get the body.”

 

“And how does he do that? Does he have connections at the city morgue?”

 

I said it jokingly, but Vincent smiled and nodded. “And the police, among other organizations.”

 

“Handy,” I said, trying not to look surprised.

 

“Very,” he agreed. “They probably think Jean-Baptiste is some kind of gangster or necrophiliac, but the amount of money he pays for the services he needs seems to make people forget their questions.”

 

I was quiet, thinking about how complicated the whole undead-lifesaving business must be. And here I had unwittingly crashed their carefully planned party. No wonder I wasn’t on Jean-Baptiste’s invite A-list.

 

“Charlotte explained about how when we’re dormant our bodies are dead but our minds are still active.”