EVEN THOUGH VINCENT HAD TOLD ME HE WOULD pick me up later in the evening, I went straight to his place after school. He scooped me up into his arms when he saw me, and then put me down, worriedly running a hand through his hair. “I have to take care of a ton of boring stuff before tonight,” he said apologetically.
“I know. I brought homework.” I gave him a peck on the lips as I walked past him into the grand foyer. I had been here a hundred times already, and each time it made me feel like I was walking into a palace. Which is basically what it was. Vincent held my hand as we walked down the long hallway to his room, and crouched down in front of the chimney to build up the fire as I settled on his couch.
Truth be told, I loved watching Vincent get ready for dormancy. It made me feel more in control, like I was preparing for these hallucinatory three days myself. There wasn’t anything I could do to help, so at least I could observe.
It was easy to forget what he was as he finished answering emails and checked all the online bills and bank balances he handled for the kindred. He looked like an industrious, hardworking teenager—the rare kind who knows what he wants for the future and is doing everything he can to get it.
That illusion was burst when he put a bottle of water and bag of dried fruits and nuts next to our photo on his bedside table. And I was reminded that this was his future—exactly what he was doing right now—for the rest of eternity.
I watched him finalize his predormancy setup. Although Jeanne always made sure there was a tray full of food and drink awaiting each revenant when he or she awoke, Vincent had this primal fear that some catastrophe might happen and she and the others wouldn’t be there to leave this critical nourishment. By now I knew how important it was: Without something to eat and drink, the awakening revenant would expire. Meaning Vincent would go from a temporary death to a permanent one.
“So, mon ange, do we go ahead with our plans, or would you rather do something different tonight?” Vincent said, nuzzling my ear as I pretended to read my chemistry textbook.
This was my fifth month to experience Vincent’s dormancy. The first time I hadn’t known what he was, and finding Vincent apparently dead nearly scared me enough to send me to my own early grave. But on the bright side, it also led to my discovery of what the revenants actually were.
The second month was when we discovered that we were able to communicate while he was volant. And after that, we had fallen into a routine. We spent the night before his dormancy doing a pizza-and-movie night in the private cinema in their basement, after which Vincent would walk me home and we would say good-bye. I wouldn’t visit the next day—he didn’t like me seeing him dead when he couldn’t communicate with me. But during the following two days, with Vincent able to travel outside his body and talk with me, we spent every moment together that he wasn’t on walking duty with his kindred.
In the beginning I wouldn’t let him come to my house while volant. But now I was fine with it. As long as he let me know he was there, the idea didn’t creep me out. On the contrary, I loved going to sleep with him whispering in my head. What could be more romantic than hearing your boyfriend murmur beautiful words to you as you’re dozing off?
I swore I had better dreams when he was there. I was positive he was putting lovely ideas into my head all night long, but when I mentioned it to him, he said he would never take advantage of a lady while she was unconscious. His playful grin, when he said that, was anything but convincing.
“Movie night, definitely,” I said.
Vincent nodded, his face looking more strained than usual. Although he would fall into dormancy during the night, he began to feel weak a few hours before. But this month he looked worse than weak. He looked downright awful.
The dark circles under his eyes now looked like bruises. His skin was wan and drawn, and he seemed as exhausted as if he had just run a marathon. “Vincent, I know I promised not to dig for details on your ‘experiment,’ but if whatever you’re doing is supposed to make you stronger, it doesn’t look like it’s working very well. In fact, I would say it’s having the opposite effect.”
“Yeah, I know. Everyone’s freaking out about how bad I look. But, as I said, things are supposed to get worse before they get better.”
“Well, there’s ‘worse,’ and then there’s . . . a black eye.” I ran my finger lightly across the bruising.
“In three days I’ll be like new again, so don’t worry,” Vincent said, looking like he was having a hard time taking his own advice.