“Yes,” he replied before I could say the words. “But it wasn’t enough. I had to go after every other murderous villain I could find, and even when the worst of the occupiers and collaborators were gone, it wasn’t enough.”
It was hard to think about Vincent destroying people, either human or revenant. Although now that I had seen how well he fought, I knew that he and his kindred were probably capable of taking out an army. But what kind of person could spend more than half a century thinking only of vengeance?
The cool, dangerous edge that had both attracted and alarmed me when we met—it had a basis. Now I knew what it was. I envisioned his face contorted with fury, and shuddered at the thought.
“What is it, Kate?” Vincent said. “Would you prefer that I took her photo down?” I realized that I was still staring at the picture of Hélène.
“No!” I said, turning around to face him. “No, Vincent. She’s a part of your past. I don’t feel intimidated by the fact that you still think of her.”
As the words left my lips, I realized that I was lying. I did feel intimidated by this beautiful woman. Vincent’s only love. Even though the hairstyle and clothes placed her securely seventy years in the past, he had guarded her memory so closely that it had influenced everything he had done—and not done—since she died.
“It’s been a long time, Kate. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, but usually it feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. Hélène is gone, and I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that you have no competition, from her or anyone else.”
He looked like he had more to say but couldn’t decide how to say it. I didn’t push him. Getting off the topic of ex-loves was fine with me. I took him by the hand and led him away. And though we left the photos behind, my sense of unease remained.
“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room. I turned my attention to the bookshelves, which were lined with books in several languages, all mixed together. Most of the English ones I recognized. We have a similar taste in reading material, I thought, smiling.
Spotting a row of fat photo albums on a lower shelf, I pulled one out and opened it. 1974–78 was handwritten on the inside cover, and I giggled as I began flipping through, seeing photos of Vincent wearing distinctly hippyish clothes and long hair with sideburns. Even though there was something ridiculous about the styles, he was just as handsome then as he was today. Nothing had changed but his accessories.
I turned a page and saw Ambrose and Jules standing together with competing enormous Afros. On another page, Charlotte was wearing Twiggy-style makeup and a micro-minidress, posed next to a Charles who looked like a teenage Jim Morrison: scraggly hair, shirtless, with rows of beaded necklaces. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud at that one.
“What’s so funny?” Vincent asked, closing the door behind him. He set a bottle of water and a couple of glasses on the table and turned to me. “Aha, you’ve found my secret stash of blackmail photos.”
“Show me some more, these are priceless,” I said, bending over to slot the album back into its space.
I stood back up to find him standing inches away from me. “I don’t know, Kate. Swallowing my pride enough to show you photos of me looking like a clown through most of the twentieth century might just cost you something.”
“How much?” I breathed, transfixed by his sudden nearness. I unconsciously moistened my lips.
“Hmm. Let’s see,” he whispered, as he raised his hands to my waist and held me firmly. His fingers kneaded the small of my back, making my knees dissolve.
“It might cost you just a few kisses here. . . .”
He leaned his head down to the side of my neck and held his mouth an inch away from my ear, exhaling warm breath onto my skin. I felt goose bumps rise all over my body as he slowly leaned forward and pressed his lips to the side of my neck.
I shuddered, and sighed instinctively as he began working his way with soft kisses downward, then moved slowly forward to my throat. When he got to the place between my collarbones, he paused and said, “Or maybe here . . . ,” and I felt him carefully touch the tip of his tongue to the soft skin in its hollow.
I moaned and reached my arms around his neck. He pulled me closer and, maintaining his torturously slow pace, began kissing up the front of my neck in little steps, until he reached my chin. My head fell back, and he cupped it with one hand, supporting me as his lips worked the short way from my chin to my mouth.