Something else had occurred to me. “Why would she go through the trouble of taking Vincent’s body hours away if she’s just going to destroy it?”
“Well, now,” he replied pedantically, “she didn’t tell me that, and I didn’t ask. But in her negotiations with Lucien, she assured him that she held the secret to some sort of mystical transfer of the Champion’s power to the one who destroys him. Whether that means destroying him today to ensure his permanent riddance, or finishing him off tomorrow and keeping his ghost as a pet, I couldn’t really say. She’s the expert on all things Champion. Which, of course, is why we welcomed her with open arms.
“And now that my commission is complete, I will leave you. I’m sure you will want to go back and inform the others. Oh, and please tell them that a rescue attempt would be useless. If Vincent’s not gone now, he will be before they can get to him.” He wrapped his coat snugly about him and strode off into the night.
Stifling the desire to run after him and attack him from behind (he was right—I couldn’t take him), I slid down to sit with my back against the guardrail. Nestling my head against my bent knees, I closed my eyes. A church bell chimed twelve. My thoughts were battling over hope that Violette was lying . . . and utter hopelessness that she wasn’t. Over despair that I would never see Vincent again . . . and determination that I would do anything it took to keep that from happening. I knew I should call Ambrose immediately to pass along Nicolas’s message, but the thought of taking my phone out of my pocket seemed too monumental of a task.
I felt the signum cold against my skin and, raising my head, traced the outline of the pendant through my shirt. My attention was caught by something white floating beneath me on the surface of the water. The crushed lilies had floated under the bridge and were making their way toward the spotlit Eiffel Tower.
And suddenly I knew. She had done it. Violette had destroyed Vincent. After more than eighty years of walking the earth, his spirit had now left it. If we’d lived in separate worlds before, now we were in separate universes. The finality struck me like an anvil.
The smile that lit his face whenever he first caught a glimpse of me. His hand clutching mine as we walked the city streets. The look in his eyes before we kissed. Those experiences were now trapped in the past. And the future that I had imagined with him now drifted into oblivion like those mangled flowers.
I had lost him.
And as the weight of that realization snapped the last remaining threads of hope in my heart, I heard it.
Two words spoken clearly inside my head: Mon ange.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK WOULD NOT BE HERE, RESTING IN your hands or playing on your audio book or appearing on your e-reader if it weren’t for the following people. I owe them all my deepest gratitude.
My super-agent Stacey Glick of Dystel & Goderich, whose continued advice and hand-holding have provided me with a much-needed stabilizing force. Thank you, Stacey.
My editor, Tara Weikum, and assistant editor, Melissa Miller, who helped me tame all of my wild ideas into ones that actually worked. The patience you’ve shown and insight you’ve given have shaped this book into something exponentially better than it would have been. I am eternally grateful.
Copyeditors Valerie Shea and Melinda Weigel worked with both this book and Die for Me, polishing the rough edges, pointing out my mistakes, and patiently correcting my embarrassingly bad punctuation, especially the dreaded commas and em dashes. Merci!
My crack team of beta readers were of invaluable assistance, including the indefatigable Claudia, my beloved Kimberly Kay, book-smart Olivia, and Buffy-quoting Katia and Kylie Mac. And my friend Josie Angelini lent a hand, both as reader and tireless cheerleader. Mes remerciements sincères à vous tous!
Mark Ecob and Johanna Basford made the covers of Die for Me and Until I Die the works of breathtaking beauty that they are. My publicist Caroline Sun has energetically promoted the books, along with the marketing team of Christina Colangelo and Megan Sugrue. And I am in awe of the enthusiasm and support given me by my UK Little, Brown/Atom book family, including editor Sam Smith, editorial assistant Kate Agar, and publicist Rose Tremlett.
Several friends lent me and my manuscript their homes during the times I needed to run away. Much thanks to Lisa in New York, Laila and Terry in Paris, Nicolas and Paul in Saintes, and Jean-Pierre and Christiane just down the road.