Until I Die

TWENTY-EIGHT



VINCENT PHONED THAT NIGHT WHILE I WAS doing my homework. “Guten Tag,” I said. He responded with a flood of German words, pronounced so quickly that even if I spoke German, I doubt I would have understood. “Um, danke? Lederhosen? Sorry. That’s all I can add to that conversation. So, getting off the topic of leather Alpen-wear … did you find Charles?”

“Yes, I did. I’m here in the house with Charles and the kindred he’s staying with.” From behind Vincent, speed metal was pumping so loudly that I could barely hear his voice.

“Why don’t you go outside?” I yelled into the phone.

“I am outside,” he said. “Just a sec.” And I listened as the music got farther and farther away. “Okay. I’m down the block now. Can you hear me?”

I laughed. “Just what kind of German ‘kindred’ have adopted Charles?”

“Well, I can definitely say that it’s a big change from Jean-Baptiste’s house.”

“Is Charles okay?”

“He’s not only okay. He actually seems happy—for a change. Although he feels pretty bad for abandoning Charlotte. He’s just not ready to come back yet. And believe it or not, I actually think this place is good for him.”

“That is great news!”

“Yeah. Now we just have to track down the revenant who gave Charles’s group the information. They don’t really know him that well, so they aren’t sure where to find him. I’ll probably be here another couple of days. And then I was thinking I should go to the south to see Charlotte. Fill her in on how Charles is doing and see how she and Geneviève are getting along.”

My heart plummeted. “So you won’t be back until next week, then.”

“Well, I was actually hoping that you’d come along with me. I thought you’d enjoy seeing Charlotte, and—more selfishly—I’ve been wanting to get away with you. To take you somewhere for once.”

My heart stopped its descent and shot back up, lodging in my throat so I could barely speak. “Us? Go on a trip? To the Côte d’Azur? Really?”

“Do you think your grandparents would be okay with that?”

I tried to compose myself, but my lungs insisted on hyperventilating. “Oh, Vincent, that would be so amazing! And if we’re staying with Charlotte and Geneviève, I know Mamie and Papy won’t mind.”

“Then it’s a plan. I’ll make sure I’m back from Berlin by Friday. If we take a four p.m. train, we’ll be in Nice by ten that night. And we can come back Sunday evening. It only gives us a day and a half there, but I wouldn’t want you to have to skip school.”

My face flushed. What would he say if he knew that I had skipped school—to do something he might not be happy about? And had made Jules my accomplice. Make that when he knows. I’m going to tell him, I thought. I just have to find the right time.



On Thursday, I asked Jules to make a detour at La Maison on the way home from school.

“What—do you miss Vincent so much you’re just going to hang out in his room?” he teased.

“No, I actually borrowed a book from Jean-Baptiste’s library and keep forgetting to return it.” Okay, why was that so easy to say to Jules when I couldn’t to Violette? I wondered.

“Ooh—beware … you risk the wrath of Gaspard, Guardian of the Books. Which, I can assure you, is truly something to fear,” he said, narrowing his eyes and lifting his eyebrows dramatically.

I laughed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded if I had asked. But since I didn’t, I wanted to return it before he notices it’s gone.”

“You are a very conscientious young woman,” Jules quipped, and I play-punched him in the shoulder. He waited for me in the car as I ran into the house, and seeing no one around, I went directly to the library.

The door was open, so I fished the book out of my bag and unwrapped it from the scarf I had used to protect it from stray pens and hairbrushes. I had just pulled the box off the shelf when I heard someone clear his throat. Whipping around, I scanned the room to see Arthur sitting in a corner—pen and notebook balanced on his knee and a pile of open books scattered around him.

“Hello, Kate,” he said.

“Uh, hi, Arthur,” I replied, slipping the book into the box and replacing it on the shelf as quickly as I could. As if I went fast, he wouldn’t notice. Silly me.

“What’ve you got there?” he asked.

“Oh, just a book I found the other day,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted, while knowing full well that I was the worst actress in the world. I was practically radiating guilt vibes.

“About what?”

Suddenly my mood switched and I thought, What business is it of his, anyway? “It was about werewolves. No, wait … maybe it was vampires. I wouldn’t know. I’m just a clueless human, and it’s so easy for me to get all of you monsters mixed up.”

He stood and took a step toward me. “Kate, I apologize for humiliating you in front of everyone. I really didn’t”—he hesitated, weighing his words—“want to. But it is true that there is information that humans shouldn’t possess. Things we discuss in our meetings. Even the books in this library. Not because you don’t deserve to. But because it could put you in danger.”

Furious, I held my hand up in a “talk to it” gesture. “Don’t even get started, Arthur, because I don’t want to hear it.” I fingered the signum under the fabric of my shirt, as if drawing strength from the fact that at least one revenant—the only one who really mattered to me—thought of me as kindred. And then the dam burst.

“You might be from a time when humans were looked down on by beings like yourself. A time when men were the only ones considered smart enough to educate”—I gestured toward his pile of books—“and girls like Violette had to have protectors. But this is the twenty-first century. And I’ve got this”—I pulled out the signum and held it up for him to see—“that says I’m kindred. And I’ve got this”—I pointed at my head—“that says I’m as smart as you. And I have this”—I held up my middle finger—“that says go to hell, you immortal bigot.”

And with that I spun around and stomped out the door, filing the expression on Arthur’s face in a mental folder labeled “Kate’s Proudest Moments.”



Friday afternoon Vincent and I arrived at the Gare de Lyon to find pure chaos. The railroad employees were on one of their frequent strikes, and only one out of three trains was scheduled to leave. We checked the departures board to find our train.

“Canceled,” read Vincent. Seeing my face fall, he squeezed my hand. “Don’t give up yet. Let’s see when the next train is.” He worked his way down the list, mouthing the names of the destinations silently to himself until he found it: “Paris–Nice: tomorrow morning, getting in at two in the afternoon.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “We won’t even be there for twenty-four hours … that is, if there even is a train back when we need it.” I looked from the board to him. “How long does it take to drive?”

“Eight and a half hours if we don’t stop and if there’s no traffic. On a Friday night we wouldn’t make it in less than ten. So driving’s not an option.” He thought for a moment and then pulled out his phone and began texting. “I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s find a taxi.”

A half hour later we were at Le Bourget Airport, boarding a tiny private jet. “It’s Jean-Baptiste’s. We only use it in case of emergencies,” Vincent yelled over the noise of the engine as we walked up the stairs.

“I’m sure! It must cost a fortune each time you go somewhere!” I said, and stepped into the eight-person cabin.

“It’s not actually that,” Vincent said. “It’s justifying the carbon footprint.”

Trust a supernatural whose mission is saving the human race to think green, I mused while looking around myself in spoiled delight.



An hour and a half later we landed in Nice. Charlotte was waiting for us at the arrival gate. As soon as we stepped past airport security, she put an arm around each of us, squeezing us into a sandwich hug.

“I cannot tell you how good it is to see your faces. Much longer without my friends and I would have come to Paris, so thanks for saving me the trip!”

Her eyes shifted from my face to Vincent’s, and she gasped. “Oh my God, Vincent. You look awful!” She raised a finger to trace the bruiselike patches under his eyes. It had been almost three weeks since Vincent had been dormant. He already looked as bad as he did at the end of the last month, and he still had one more week to go.

Though he claimed he was hopeful his experiment was working, I didn’t want it to go on any longer. Next week I would talk to Gwenhaël, and if she had come up with some alternative plan, I would ask Vincent to call off this awful experiment.

“Look at you!” I exclaimed, changing the subject. Her hair had grown out to shoulder length. “I only saw you six weeks ago. How in the world did you grow your hair out so quickly?” I asked, and then laughed, realizing who—or what, rather—I was talking to.

Charlotte giggled. “Geneviève and I haven’t just been on vacation here. And I have a feeling that Vincent and you don’t talk about hair care. When we’re busy saving people, getting all that transferred energy, we have to get a haircut about once a week.”

“Doesn’t your coiffeur catch on?”

“I have four in Paris,” Charlotte responded, “and use them on a rotating basis so no one notices.”

Just one more detail I would never have thought of, I mused, wondering if there would ever be a point where I would stop being amazed and the whole revenant thing would be old hat.

We made our way arm in arm through the small airline terminal and into the early evening darkness outside. It was chilly, but not as cold as in Paris. I took a deep breath. The air had a slightly salty seaside flavor.

Geneviève was waiting for us at the curb in a bright red Austin Mini. She leapt out of the car when she saw us and ran over to squeeze me enthusiastically. “It’s so good to see you!” Leaning in to kiss Vincent, she shuddered. “Vincent, I’ve just got to say it: You look terrible. Let’s get you guys home.” And she hurriedly slid behind the wheel.

Charlotte and I sat in the tiny backseat, while Vincent took the passenger side, his legs folded so tightly that his knees were practically at his chest. Although it was dark, a million tiny lights lit the highly populated coastline between Nice and Villefranchesur-Mer. We drove along the beach before continuing onto a treacherous-looking two-lane road scaling the sheer cliffs that overlooked the sea.

Twenty minutes after we left the airport, we pulled off the main road onto a steep drive and up to a glass-and-wood house perched on the side of a hill. It looked more like a contemporary art museum than a home.

“Here we are!” crowed Charlotte enthusiastically as we winched ourselves out of the tiny car. “And you got here just in time for dinner.”

“Come in, come in,” said Geneviève, waving us through the front door.

I turned to Vincent, who was watching my face carefully. “This is amazing. Thank you,” I murmured, going up on tiptoes to give him a kiss.

“My pleasure,” he said. It was a strange and new feeling seeing him outside of his regular Parisian setting, and I could tell he was thinking the same about me.

The house couldn’t have been more different from Jean-Baptiste’s hôtel particulier. The architecture’s twentieth-century minimalism was echoed by the furniture: the whole effect meant to emphasize the view outside. I walked across the room and pulled aside a sliding glass door to step out onto an enormous wood terrace balanced high above the ground and facing the sea. We were practically overhanging the ocean. The twinkling lights of the town of Villefranche-sur-Mer stretched out beneath us, wrapped around a U-shaped harbor with a battalion of luxury yachts moored offshore.

“I can’t believe you’re living here,” I said to Charlotte, who leaned against the waist-high guardrail beside me. “It’s like you’ve got front-row seats to the most beautiful place on earth!”

“I know!” she replied, looking out toward the sea. “It’s like living in a dream. I shouldn’t complain about being away from home. It’s just that I miss everyone.”

“Well, we’re here to cheer you up,” I said, wrapping my arm comfortingly around her and realizing with a sharp poignancy how much I had missed having her around. Violette was a fun friend to go out with. But we hadn’t connected the way Charlotte and I had. With Violette, friendship was an effort. With Charlotte it was the most natural thing in the world.

We ate dinner in a glass-enclosed dining room adjacent to the terrace, our chairs arranged in a half circle before the spectacular view.

“So, tell me about Charles,” Charlotte said as soon as we sat down.

“He’s doing well, Charlotte.” Vincent’s voice was both comforting and honest. “Apparently, he met someone from Berlin a few years ago at a convocation and decided to look him up.”

“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 kingsize 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.”

“I thought so too.” She sniffed and wiped her tears away. “But I can’t think like that now. I love Geneviève and I love Ambrose, and if they could be happy together, then I would never get in their way.”

Charlotte gave me another squeeze and then left me alone. I didn’t even bother getting undressed. Wondering why life—or death, in Charlotte’s case—couldn’t be easier, I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, and let the sound of the waves lull me into unconsciousness.