“Jules wants me to tell you that it’s a shame you have to fall for someone as boring as myself. He wishes he could take my place and show you how well an older man can treat a lady.” He talked back to the air. “Yeah, right, buddy. What are you, like twenty-seven years older than me? Well, at the moment we’re both nineteen, so back off.”
I did a quick mental calculation. Jules had told me he was born at the end of the nineteenth century. So Vincent must have been born in the 1920s. I smiled as I pocketed that information for later. If Vincent wouldn’t tell me anything, maybe I could figure some of it out for myself.
We got out of the subway near the sprawling Montparnasse Cemetery and walked up a pedestrian-only street that was packed with bars and cafés. We stopped in front of a restaurant that had a crowd of about twenty people standing around outside. “This is it!” Georgia said enthusiastically.
“Georgia, look how many people are waiting. It’ll take forever before we can get a table.”
“Have some faith in your big sis,” she said. “A friend of mine works here. I bet I can get us a table right away.”
“Go ahead. We’ll wait for you out here,” I said, leading Vincent and Ambrose across the street and out of the crowd. We leaned up against a closed shop front and watched as Georgia worked her way through the swarm of people.
“Your description of her was right on the nose.” Vincent smiled as he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder affectionately.
“My sister, the phenomenon,” I said, enjoying the hug.
Ambrose stood on the other side of me, watching the crowd and nodding to some rhythm in his head, when suddenly he stopped and looked hard at Vincent. “Vin, Jules said he sees the Man in the neighborhood. Just a few blocks away.”
“Does he know we’re here?” Vincent asked.
Ambrose shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
Vincent pulled his arm away and said, “Kate, we’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“But Georgia!” I said, looking toward the glass door. I could see my sister inside, chatting with the hostess.
“I’ll get her,” said Vincent, and began pushing his way through the crowd.
Just then, two men who had been walking past bumped hard into Ambrose, pushing him violently against the wall. He groaned and tried to grab for them, but the men dodged him and walked quickly away as he slumped to the ground.
“Hey! Stop!” I shouted at them, as they turned a corner. “Someone stop them!” I yelled at the crowd of people across the street. People turned and looked in the direction I was pointing, but the men had disappeared from view. The whole thing had happened so quickly that no one had even noticed.
“Vincent!” I called over the crowd. Vincent turned and, seeing my alarm, began to work his way back to me.
“Ambrose, are you okay?” I said, squatting down next to him. “Did that guy . . . ,” I began, but stopped, seeing that his shirt was ripped from his neck to his chest and drenched in blood. He wasn’t moving.
Oh, please help him not be dead, I thought.
I had seen more violence in the last year than I had in my entire life. I asked, not for the first time, Why me? Teenage girls aren’t supposed to be on such familiar terms with mortality, I reasoned bitterly, while a feeling of panic rose from the pit of my stomach. I knelt next to his motionless form. “Ambrose, can you hear me?”
Someone began walking over to us from the crowd. “Hey, is he okay?”
Just then Ambrose shuddered and, leaning forward on both hands, began lifting himself off the ground. As he rose, he closed his jacket, effectively hiding the blood on his shirt, although there was already a pretty big puddle on the ground. “Oh my God, Ambrose, what happened?” I asked. I put out an arm to support him, and he leaned heavily on me.
“Not Ambrose. It’s Jules.” The words came from Ambrose’s lips, but his eyes stared blindly ahead.
“What?” I asked, confused.
Vincent finally reached us. “It’s Ambrose,” I said. “He got stabbed or shot or something. And he’s delirious. He just told me he was Jules.”
“We have to get him out of here before they come back with reinforcements for his body,” Vincent said to me in a low voice, and then said more loudly, “He’s fine, he’s fine . . . thanks!” to the small group of people who were now coming to our aid. He grasped one of Ambrose’s arms and draped it around his shoulder.
“But what about Georgia?” I gasped.
“Whoever did this saw you standing with Ambrose. It’s too dangerous for you here.”
“I can’t leave my sister,” I said, turning to make my way through the crowd to get her.
Vincent grabbed my arm and pulled me back to him. “She was inside the restaurant when they attacked. She’s safe. Come with me!” he commanded, and I took Ambrose’s other arm and pulled it across my back. He was walking, but seemed very weak. We got to the end of the block, and Vincent hailed a taxi and maneuvered us inside before slamming the door. I peered down the street as we pulled away. No sign of Georgia.
“Is he okay?” asked the driver, looking in his rearview mirror and checking out the massive man slumped over in his backseat.