“Hey, I remember that guy. Charles was fascinated by him. He was kind of . . . punk. Blue hair and lots of piercings.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, they all look like that in that particular clan.”
“Charles, too?” Charlotte’s eyes were wide.
He laughed. “It actually kind of suits him.”
“What!” Charlotte gasped. “Did you get a picture?”
“No, I was kind of too busy carrying out a mission for Jean-Baptiste to photograph Charles’s hair.”
“We don’t care about his hair,” Geneviève said, laughing. “Tell us how he is. What he’s doing there. When he’s coming back.”
“See, this is why I think he’s in exactly the right place.” Vincent leaned forward, speaking eagerly. “That particular clan in Berlin is made up of young revenants, who at some point all became disillusioned with our mission. Bitter about our fate. The place is like an undead Alcoholics Anonymous. They have meetings all the time where they talk about their feelings.
“And their leader is really motivational. Always going on about how revenants fit into the whole cycle of life. That we’re angels of mercy, allowing humans who haven’t lived out their destiny to survive until they can. So when Charles and his kindred walk, it’s like they’re truly on a mission. They’re so psyched about it . . . it’s really amazing to see.”
Charlotte was closing her eyes as she listened, imagining it. When Vincent finished, she gave a rueful smile. “I can’t even tell you how good it is to hear you say that. It’s been awful not knowing where he was or what he was doing,” she said. “He never really recovered from his depression after the whole thing with Lucien, and I was afraid that he was going to do the same thing again: find some numa to destroy him. But I figured he had intentionally gone somewhere far away this time, where it wouldn’t put the rest of us in danger.”
Geneviève spoke up. “Maybe our little group is too tight for him in Paris. He didn’t have room to grow—to find himself. It is pretty intense living with the same people for decades.”
“You’re right,” said Charlotte. “Being on his own is obviously what he needs right now. But . . . do you think he’ll come back?”
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Vincent said.
There was a minute’s thoughtful silence, and then I asked, “How are you, Geneviève?”
“I’m taking it one day at a time,” she responded, her eyes losing their sparkle. “Charlotte does a good job distracting me. It would have been hellish to have stayed in Philippe’s and my house in Paris. The new scene is good for me, and we’re close to Nice, where a group of around a dozen of our kind have been living for a while.”
“Anyone interesting in the group?” I teased Charlotte.
She shook her head. “Interesting friend-wise, but no one special. My feelings haven’t changed.” She glanced quickly at Vincent, who looked away as if to give us some privacy.
We talked into the night until I could barely keep my eyes open. “Sorry, I’m beat. I know you guys will be up all night but I, for one, need a bed.”
“I picked out your bedroom,” Charlotte said. “I’ll show you where it is.”
“I’ll come check on you later,” Vincent said with a sexy wink as I rose to follow Charlotte out of the room.
“Wow,” was all I could say as I put my bag down next to a king-size bed facing a floor-to-ceiling window with a harbor view.
“Nice, no?” Charlotte grinned.
“This is perfect, Charlotte. Thank you so much,” I said, hugging her. “I really do miss you.”
“And I miss you,” she said. “All of you.” She looked out the window at the sea, and her sadness was tangible.
“Does he ever call?”
Charlotte took a deep breath, and then said, “Ambrose calls all the time. Just not for me.”
“What?” I exclaimed, and then it dawned on me. “No!”
“Yes. I mean, it’s innocent. So far. Geneviève just thinks he’s being nice. Caring. But he confessed it to me. He said he’d been in love with her for decades. Ambrose thought that when Philippe died he might have a chance at winning her heart. He asked me not to say anything. He doesn’t want to rush her, because he knows it will take time for her to get over her husband’s death. He’s just so in love that he wants to know how she’s doing all the time.”
“Oh my God, Charlotte. That’s just awful.”
“Awful for me. But maybe not awful for them. Who knows? Maybe Geneviève will fall for Ambrose someday.”
I took her in my arms again, and as I hugged her, she started crying. “Oh, Kate,” she whispered. “I wanted him to choose me.”
“So did I, Charlotte. I’ve been hoping for that this whole time. It’s really not fair. You would be perfect together.”