I stared at him for a moment, and then glanced at the statues next to us—the tragic lovers lying side by side. Vincent turned to see what I was looking at, and comprehension dawned on his face. He closed his eyes as if to block out the image.
“I had to leave the funeral, Vincent. I couldn’t take it,” I began to explain. But the sorrow and the rain and cold and fright all seemed to gang up on me at once, and my words stuck in my throat.
“I understand,” he said, putting his arm around me and pulling me away from the tomb. He turned me to face him. “It’s freezing and you’re drenched. Let’s get out of here.”
I couldn’t help but peer over my shoulder as we left. There was no trace of the cloaked man—he was long gone—but now that Vincent had mentioned numa, it made me wonder why I had had such a strong reaction to the man’s appearance. Could a numa have been following me through the graveyard?
It didn’t matter now, I decided, and would only freak Vincent out if I said something about it. I put it out of my mind, and pulled my boyfriend closer.
SIX
BEFORE MEETING VINCENT, MY DAYS ALL SEEMED to speed by like one of those passage-of-time visual metaphors in movies that show pages falling off a calendar. But lately, every day seemed significant: The first time Vincent met my grandparents. The first movie date (Holy Grail. They all stared at us as if the park was a circus and we were its freak-show headliners, and a few laughed out loud. Vincent said, “I hope you don’t mind spectators,” and then leaned forward and took my face in his hands, kissing me.
“I think I can deal.” I grinned, and then shivered as he let me go.
“We’ll make it a speed-picnic,” he promised, unwinding his scarf and double-wrapping it above my own.
We munched on croissants that were baked exactly how I love them: crunchy on the outside, light as air inside, with an inner core of doughiness. The café au lait was hot enough to warm my insides, and I sipped the supersweet freshly squeezed orange juice while Vincent caught me up on the news of how Charles and Charlotte were settling in the south. “We were talking about a road trip to take them more boxes, but JB claims he needs me here,” Vincent complained, popping the end of his croissant into his mouth.
“Sucks being JB’s second.”
“Oh, so you know about that?” he asked, amused. “Have my kindred been talking about me behind my back?”
“Yeah, Jules said something about it the other day. Right before he told me you were some sort of champion. Which I’ve actually been dying to ask you about.” I eagerly leaned forward on my elbows, watching as Vincent’s expression turned to one of dismay.
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Here we go again,” he moaned.
“What’s that mean?” I asked, intrigued by his reaction.
He leaned back until he was lying down on the blanket and addressed the winter gray sky above us. “There’s this ancient prophecy written by a revenant back in the Roman era. It said that one of us would arise to lead our kind against the numa and conquer them.”
“And what does that have to do with you?” I asked.
Vincent stared at the sky for another second, and then rolled onto his side to face me. “Jean-Baptiste has gotten it into his head that I’m the Champion.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Probably because I was able to hold out for so long without dying. In that way, I apparently am stronger than others my ‘age.’ But it’s all so vague. Although everyone’s heard of the prophecy, no one knows exactly what it means.”
“You sound pretty sure it’s not you,” I said, feeling a twinge of relief. Dating a revenant was a big enough step without having to wonder if he was the supreme commander of the revenants.
“I think that it’s all a load of crap, and that it doesn’t matter anyway. What’s going to happen will happen, whether or not anyone knows about it ahead of time. What bugs me is that Jean-Baptiste has actually told people his opinion. And there’s nothing more intimidating than everyone watching you like a hawk, waiting for the moment you transform into the undead Messiah.”
I laughed, and Vincent reached for me, wearing that slow smile I couldn’t refuse. I kissed him—a long, warm meeting of our cold lips—and then, leaning back, I asked with as much seriousness as I could muster, “So if you’re the revenants’ Champion, and I saved you from Lucien, does that make me the Champion’s Champion?”
Vincent shook his head in despair.
“No, really,” I continued, unable to suppress a teasing grin, “I want a cool name too. Maybe you could start calling me the Vanquisher. Although I think I’d need a luchador mask to go with it.”