Until I Die

TWENTY-TWO



I PEEK ED INTO GEORGI A’S ROOM THE NEXT MORNing. She was sitting propped up in bed, flipping through a music magazine. Her hair was sticking straight out, and her regular peaches-and-cream complexion was verging on kiwi-and-stale-milk.

“There you are,” she said as I plopped down on the end of her bed. “You’re usually up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yeah, well, fighting monsters in a dark alleyway at midnight seems to have taken a bit out of me,” I said, my shoulder muscles burning as I cautiously tested them. “How are you feeling?”

“Like warmed-over crap,” she said. “I have absolutely no energy and was hoping you’d come in so I could hit you up for breakfast in bed.”

“Is that right?” I exclaimed, laughing. “Well, I guess I can accommodate, seeing you were two inches from being taken out by an evil zombie last night.”

“And rescued by a good zombie?” She smiled.

“If you want to get technical, yeah,” I said with a grin, and then got up and walked to the door. “Jules warned me that you’d probably be in shock and should rest. I would spend some quality time in the bathtub if I were you. It’s my personal choice for posttraumatic stress. But first, I’ll get us breakfast.”

I returned five minutes later with a tray for both of us, and sat on the floor with my back against Georgia’s dresser while I ate a bowl of cereal. She munched pensively on her toast for a few minutes and then said, “So tell me more about this Arthur guy.”

I set my bowl on the ground. “Oh no, Georgia. Please do not tell me you’re crushing on Arthur just because he saved your life last night.”

“I didn’t say I was crushing on him. I’m simply interested in who he is. Will you allow that, Miss Protector-of-the-Undead?”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t really know much about him. He and Violette knew each other in life—she was one of Anne of Brittany’s ladies-in-waiting, supposedly, and he was one of her dad’s counselors … at least that’s what Charlotte said. Which would mean they’re aristocrats.”

“Oh believe me, it shows.” Georgia smirked.

“They both died around 1500, so he’s really ancient. And they’ve been living in isolation in this Loire Valley castle for a really long time.”

“What’s he like?”

“Honestly, Georgia, I don’t know,” I conceded. “After he said that humans shouldn’t be allowed in revenant meetings—right in front of me—I haven’t really felt like getting to know him. The chip on my shoulder’s pretty much superglued there.”

Georgia smiled. “Are he and Violette … together?”

“I thought they were. She acts really possessive of him. But Vincent said it’s platonic. Platonic but codependent. Sounds like a healthy relationship.”

“He looked really hot in that T-shirt last night,” Georgia mused, taking a sip of coffee.

“Georgia!” I shouted. “You have a boyfriend. And plus, you’ve said it before yourself: You don’t do dead guys. You’re not even allowed in their house!”

“I’m not doing anything,” she said. “Especially not today.” She leaned back against her headboard, looking a little weaker than before.

“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s five hundred, for God’s sake! Plus he has this love-hate relationship with humans. There’s no way he’d look twice at you.”

Oh no, I thought. That was totally the wrong thing to say to my sister. She was going to see him as a challenge now. I changed the subject fast. “Anyway, what’s wrong with good old Sebastien?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” she said, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. Her expression suddenly changed to alarm. “Nothing except … oh my God, Kate. I ditched him last night and never called! Quick—bring me my phone. It’s in my bag.”

I picked up the breakfast tray as she was babbling some ridiculous explanation of why she hadn’t shown last night to Sebastien’s voice mail. At least she was still concerned enough about him to make an effort, I reassured myself. The interest in Arthur was just one of those hero-worship infatuations. Knowing Georgia, she’d forget about it by lunchtime.



Vincent and I sat side by side, peering at the over-the-top gore of Géricault’s famous painting The Raft of the Medusa. He had convinced me to take him to the Louvre, even though it was a weekend and packed with people. “I want you to teach me about art so I can understand why you’re so affected by it,” he had said. Which was so romantic that before it was even out of his mouth, I was pulling him down the street in the direction of the museum.

We sat in one of my favorite rooms—one that contained melodramatic historical paintings on canvases as big as king-size beds. The sensational scene before us seemed oddly appropriate as a backdrop for a discussion about undead superpowers.

“So what’s the story with this energy transfer thing?” I asked.

“Energy transfer?” Vincent repeated, confused, his eyes glued to the scene before us. He seemed to be studying it in a problem-solving way. The decomposing bodies didn’t seem to bother him—I could tell he was just juggling the geometry of the live humans in his mind to strategize how many he could save in one go.

“Yeah. Jules mentioned it last night. He said something like Georgia would be weak because Arthur would have her energy. What’s that mean?”

Vincent tore his gaze from the painting. “Well, you know why we die for people?”

“Besides out of the kindness of your nonbeating hearts?” I joked. Vincent took my hand and held it to his chest. “Okay, your beating undead heart,” I corrected myself, reluctantly pulling my hand away. “If you die saving someone, you reanimate at the age you lost your human life. It’s a compulsion meant to preserve your immortality, right?”

“Right,” Vincent said. “But you know we only die occasionally—maybe once a year in times of peace. Most of our ‘saves’ don’t necessarily involve dying. Did you ever think about why we would spend our immortal lives watching over you if there wasn’t a solid enticement? Whatever you’ve heard about superheroes, none of them are out saving the human race just because they’re really nice guys.”

I immediately thought of Violette. Of her and Arthur holding out until their sixties until they died for someone, and then only doing it because Jean-Baptiste needed them. They didn’t seem to love their job, to say the least.

Vincent turned his body toward me and linked his fingers through mine. “Imagine that everyone has this kind of life energy inside.”

I nodded, picturing all the tourists walking around the room with a glowing cloud inside them.

“So you know how, when someone’s been in a near-death situation, they sometimes suffer post-traumatic shock? Well, try to picture it as that energy, or life force, being temporarily sucked out of them.”

Remembering my own brush with death the previous year, I said, “After I barely escaped being crushed by the side of the café, I was pretty weak and shaky for a couple of days.”

“Exactly,” Vincent said. “So if a revenant is responsible for the rescue, the energy or strength that has been figuratively ‘sucked out’ of the would-be victim is literally infused into the revenant for the hours or days that it takes the human to recover.”

I thought about it for a minute, and then stared at him in surprise. “So when you and Charlotte rescued me, you guys got my energy? And same for Arthur with Georgia?”

Vincent nodded.

“And what about the girl who almost got run over by the truck the other day? I saw her afterward, sitting in shock by the side of the road.”

“Which is why I was able to stand up and walk away from the accident scene,” he confirmed. “That transfer of energy makes us physically stronger. Our muscles, hair, nails, everything goes into overdrive. It’s a rush—like a hit of power for us.” He watched for my reaction.

“So, basically what you’re saying is that I’m going out with a druggie zombie with a death wish. Who used me for my energy. Well”—I gave him as serious a look as I could muster—“I guess I could do worse.”

Vincent’s laugh turned several heads, and we stood to leave before we drew any more attention to ourselves.

“So Arthur’s going to be okay?” I asked as we passed the gigantic tableau showing Napoleon’s coronation.

“Yep, thanks to Georgia loaning him her strength, among other reasons”—and at this, Vincent turned his eyes from mine in an incredibly suspicious gesture—“he’s actually not in any pain and has his full strength.”

What was that about? I thought, my curiosity piqued. But I had to drop the thought to refocus on what he was saying.

“But his wound won’t heal completely until he’s dormant. And since it’s pretty serious, he’ll probably be laid up in bed a whole day after he awakes.”

“Why?”

“The more severely wounded you are before dormancy, the longer it takes you to recover,” he stated, shrugging as if it were mere logic. “If a severed limb is reconnected during dormancy, we could need another day or two of recovery after awaking. Regenerating body parts lays us up for weeks.”

Eww. Although I wanted to know everything about the revenants, sometimes the details Vincent gave me fell into the TMI category. Like now. I tried not to visualize what he had just said, and thought instead about the repercussions. As we walked out of the museum and headed toward the bridge crossing the Seine to our neighborhood, I mulled it over.

The revenant-human relationship was symbiotic—to say the least. Humans relied on revenants (however unknowingly) as we would on doctors or emergency workers: to save our lives. Revenants needed humans not only to keep them existent, but to ease the emotional and physical pain imposed by their particular lifestyle. Or deathstyle, rather, I thought in a flash of morbidity.

Without revenants, humans would still exist … many would just die a lot earlier. Without humans, revenants would cease to exist. Not to mention that they started out human in the first place.

The system had been working for a long time. Problems only arose when something out of the ordinary happened. Like a human and a revenant falling in love. And, once again, my mind returned to our plight. If I was going to see the guérisseur—that is, if I ever showed up when she happened to be there—I needed to know what to ask. Since Vincent was in an explaining mood, I decided to dig a bit deeper.

“So, how does it work? Can a revenant ever die—of natural causes—and just … stop existing?”

“Strictly speaking, it’s possible,” he said. “But no one can withstand the temptation to sacrifice themselves at the end.”

“Wait, I thought the older you get, the less you suffer,” I said, confused.

“Up to a point, and then when the time for a regular human death approaches, it’s like the pendulum suddenly swings back and the suffering is greater than ever.” I shivered, and noticing, Vincent put his arm around me and pulled me close as we continued to walk.

“Gaspard told me once about this Italian revenant he knew—Lorenzo something. The guy was centuries old and barely felt the pull of dying anymore. At one point, all the deaths and rescues he had experienced in his existence got to be too much and he decided to sequester himself. He went and lived like a hermit in this isolated hilltop retreat. And it wasn’t until decades later that he had a message brought to his kindred that he needed help.

“They came and got him—he was in his eighties by then—and had to help him find someone to save. He said that his physical and mental suffering had come on like a tidal wave—within the space of a few days. The craving to sacrifice himself for someone was too great to let him just lie down and die, which was all he wanted.”

We were both silent for a long time as the implications for our own story sank in.

Whether or not Vincent or I found a way to keep him from suffering, we couldn’t avoid one of several tragic endings. And if he managed to live as long as I did, someday he would get to that point that no revenant could pass—at eighty years old, or whenever. He would sacrifice his life for someone else’s and wake up three days later at eighteen. I would die and he would remain immortal. There was no getting around it.

Sensing my hopelessness, Vincent pulled me to the side of the bridge. We stood hand in hand, watching the water surge forward in tiny, quickly moving whirlpools. The perfect metaphor for the unstoppable flow of time.