Mamie sighed. “I hate to say this, but I don’t blame your Papy for banning you from seeing Vincent.”
My shoulders slumped, but Mamie held up her palm, cautioning me to wait. “You just told me your story. Please let me respond. I’m trying to think of how to put this without hurting your feelings.”
“What?” I asked, as a knot of self-protectiveness formed in my chest.
I watched a series of emotions cross my grandmother’s face: pity, indecision, and finally indignation. But then she glanced at my wet, swollen face and her bubble of anger popped.
“Oh, Katya,” she sighed. “Even if Vincent and his kind are the good guys, it’s like telling me you’re dating Superman. Who wants their granddaughter to be Lois Lane—constantly threatened by her boyfriend’s evil enemies? Instead of falling for a hero, I can’t help but wish you loved a normal boy. A nice safe student, perhaps.” She looked askance at Georgia. “Even a boy in a rock band would be easier to accept.” My sister suddenly found her fingernails of the utmost interest.
Giving me a final squeeze, my grandmother rose slowly and walked to the door. Pausing in the doorway, she folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes for a moment as if trying to mentally erase everything she had heard in the last half hour. Then, opening them again and seeing Georgia and me sitting there, she sighed.
“First of all, I will call your school in the morning and tell them that the two of you won’t be coming in tomorrow. That will give you time to figure out how to deal with what has happened and”—she glanced at Georgia—“to heal.
“Secondly, Katya, I believe your insane tale, even though I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. Your Papy and I will do our best to be understanding, even if we don’t approve. From now on, Vincent and his kindred are an open subject in this house. No more hiding things from us. We are on your side and want to help you make smart, well-informed decisions whether you’re talking about bad grades or the undead.”
Her nose wrinkled upon the last word. Although she was trying to be matter-of-fact, I knew it was hard for her to get those words out of her mouth. “Okay, Mamie,” I promised.
“I’m here for you, darling. This family is familiar with grief. You can always come to me for comfort and know I will understand.”
I nodded at my grandmother, and satisfied, she turned to leave. A second later we heard her bedroom door open and shut with a slam. Her voice was audible even through the closed door. “Yes, I can see that you’re asleep, Antoine. But you had better wake yourself up, because we have some talking to do.”
Georgia and I looked at each other, and even through my tears, I couldn’t help but smile.
FOUR
MY SLEEP WAS SO LIGHT I HEARD EACH CREAK OF our ancient building and every car that drove by on the rue du Bac. And even when my mind slipped off into a nostalgia-steeped dream about Brooklyn and my parents, I was halfway listening for Vincent’s voice. When I awoke, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all, but the clock read eleven a.m. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, unable—no, unwilling—to move.
It seemed like the events of the previous day had happened in another lifetime to another girl. But barely twenty-four hours ago my sister and I had faced off with Violette on top of Montmartre. This time yesterday we had discovered her plan to wield her position as leader of the numa to overthrow France’s revenants, using Vincent to accomplish her goal.
She had misled him into following the Dark Way. He had spent a couple of months absorbing the malevolent energy of the numa he killed so that he could withstand the urge to die. For me. It had weakened him to the point that Violette could have easily captured and killed him, if he hadn’t preempted her move by charging headfirst into our skirmish and plunging to his death off a precipice. Death for Vincent wasn’t permanent. But having his body incinerated was.
A compartment inside my heart that had gradually, over the last nine months, become a huge Vincent-shaped space was suddenly and violently empty. And the rest of my heart’s contents—my love for my parents, my sister, my grandparents, my passions for art and books and film—stood cautiously aside, refusing to crowd their way into the hollow space left by my love’s disappearance. How could anything—or anyone—replace him?
I was done crying. I could feel it. And as I lay there, I felt a fiery determination begin to fill the void. A resolve to make sure that what was left of Vincent—his “wandering soul,” as Gaspard had called it—would be safe.
I sat up cautiously, wincing as I felt a dual pain in the middle and upper part of my chest: grief and my cracked collarbone, both compliments of Violette. Reaching for my cell phone, I saw I had received a text from Ambrose not even a half hour ago. I eagerly clicked to see it, but my heart fell when I saw the content.
Just checking in. No news. Jules still at castle trying to see Vin. Hang in there, K-L.