“You’re right,” Vincent said. “The occasions where we actually die saving someone are rare. Once . . . twice a year at most. Usually we’re just doing things like preventing pretty girls from getting crushed by crumbling buildings.”
“Very suave,” I said, nudging him. “But that’s exactly what I mean. Where’s the reward in that? Is that a compulsion too?”
Vincent looked uncomfortable.
“What? That is a valid question. We’re still talking twenty-first century here,” I said defensively.
“Yeah, but we’re going a bit beyond the original question.” As he studied my stubborn expression, his cell phone rang.
“Whew, saved by the bell,” he said, winking at me as he answered. I heard a high-pitched, panicky voice coming from across the line. “Is Jean-Baptiste with you? Good. Just try to calm down, Charlotte,” he soothed. “I’ll be right there.”
Vincent pulled out his wallet and laid some change on the table. “It’s a family emergency. I have to go help out.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
He shook his head as we stood to leave. “No. There’s been an accident. It might be a bit”—he paused, weighing his words—“messy.”
“Who?”
“Charles.”
“And Charlotte’s there with him?”
Vincent nodded.
“Then I want to go. She sounded upset. I can help her while you take care of . . . whatever it is that you need to do.”
He looked up at the sky, as if waiting for some divine inspiration on how to explain things to me. “This isn’t how it usually goes. Like I was saying—we normally die for someone only once or maybe twice a year. It’s a fluke that Jules and Ambrose both died just as you and I started hanging out.”
We reached the scooter. Vincent unlocked it and put his helmet on.
“This is your life, right? And you promised not to hide things from me. So maybe this is something I should see if I want to know what hanging out with revenants really means.” A little voice inside me was telling me to give it up, to go home, and to stay out of Vincent’s “family’s” business. I ignored it.
He touched my stubbornly clenched jaw with one finger. “Kate, I really don’t want you to come. But if you insist, I’m not going to stop you. I hoped it would be longer before you had to see the worst of it, but you’re right—I shouldn’t shelter you from our reality.”
Pulling my helmet on, I tucked myself in behind him on the scooter. Vincent started the engine and headed toward the river. We drove past the Eiffel Tower and pulled over into a little park in front of Grenelle Bridge. I knew the spot because it’s the end of the line for sightseeing boats before they head back to the center of Paris.
One of those tour boats was pulled over to the riverbank, and in front of it an anxious crowd watched from outside a protective fence of police barriers. Two ambulances and a fire truck were parked on the lawn next to the river, their lights flashing.
Vincent propped the scooter against a tree without bothering to lock it up and, holding my hand, jogged up to the fence to speak with a policeman standing behind it. “I’m family,” he said to the man, who didn’t budge, but glanced inquiringly back at his superior.
“Let him through. He’s my nephew,” came a familiar voice, and Jean-Baptiste strode through a horde of paramedics and pushed the barrier aside to let us pass. Vincent kept his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, making it obvious that I was coming with him.
Now that we had an unobstructed view, I saw three bodies on the riverbank. One was a good distance away from the others. It was a little boy, probably five or six years old, and he was lying on a stretcher, wrapped in a blanket. A woman sat by his head, weeping silently as she rubbed his wet hair with a towel. After a moment, two paramedics flanking his small, shivering form helped him up to a seated position, facing away from the other two bodies, as they asked him and the woman questions. He was obviously okay.
Unlike the body laid out a few yards away. It was a little girl, probably the same age as the boy. Her head lay in a pool of blood. A distraught woman sat next to her, screaming unintelligibly.
Oh no, I thought. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle this. It took all my strength to stay calm and not burst into tears myself. I knew I wouldn’t be any help if I started losing it.
And finally, another ten feet away, was a third body—this one adult. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman because the face was covered in blood. An emergency blanket was draped over the body, which was long past needing it for warmth. They must be hiding something gory, I thought, and then my eyes fixed on the girl kneeling next to him.
Unlike the other survivors, Charlotte wasn’t hysterical. She was crying bitterly, but her body language communicated defeat rather than shock. Her hands were on the top of the blanket, pressing down on her brother’s corpse as if she was trying to keep him from flying up into the air. She looked around when Vincent called her name and, seeing us, stood.