I Should Die

FORTY-ONE



AS WE DRIVE INTO PARIS, THE SKY CHANGES FROM cotton candy pink to cantaloupe. Thin red beams appear amid the white lights of the city that begin to flicker on as twilight approaches. They look like lasers pointed into the clouds, and I wonder if the carnival has returned to the Tuileries Gardens.

We turn a corner and the Seine appears, and upon seeing it, my heartbeat steadies like it does every time I see the river. It is a blue flag of continuity for me, symbolizing the continuous flow of time in an ageless city. Comforted, I take Vincent’s hand in mine and close my eyes until we arrive at La Maison.

The gates swing open, and I see three figures seated on the side of the fountain. They stand as we drive into the courtyard, and I leap from the car into their arms.

“Oh, Katya,” says Mamie, pulling me to her and wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Princesse,” Papy says, encircling the two of us in a hug.

“Are you okay?” Mamie asks, her eyes searching my face.

“I’m fine, Mamie. I just had a fight with a couple of numa. But I won,” I say, attempting a smile.

“We were so worried, Kate,” Papy interjects, and something catches in his throat. With a stiffness that sounds unnatural for him, he says, “Nothing matters except the fact that you are here now.” It sounds like something he has practiced. Like he’s trying to convince himself as he says the words.

I see his distress. He is hugging me—the old Kate—while recoiling from the idea of hugging the new me. The undead me. I don’t blame him. Hopefully we’ll both be able to get used to it with time. If we have the time, I think, remembering that we are going into war and nothing is certain.

Georgia stands quietly until my grandparents let me go. Her eyes are swollen and red, and it looks like she hasn’t slept in days. “Kate,” she murmurs. After seeing my mournful Papy, it breaks my heart to see my sister like this.

“You don’t look any different,” she says, hesitantly touching my cheeks with her fingertips. “And you won’t ever look any different from this, even when I’m old. Even when I’m dead.” She smiles mournfully. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I should be cheering, ‘Huzzah, death!’” She rotates her finger in a halfhearted celebratory circle. “You’re immortal now, for God’s sake.”

“Not if Violette has anything to do with it,” I respond.

She studies me for a moment, and then I see a little spark of life flash behind her pale green eyes. “She obviously hasn’t seen our sword fighting skills,” she says, smiling with effort. “We’re just going to have to give her hell.” And taking my hand, she leads me into the house.

Vincent follows us, walking beside my grandparents. Jeanne waits inside the foyer. She brushes tears away, gives me a silent hug, and then motions toward the sitting room. “Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard are waiting for you,” she says, and then, glancing toward Vincent, adds, “They will be leaving right afterward.”

My grandmother and grandfather pause, unsure if they’re invited to join the meeting, but I can tell they don’t want to leave my side. “Come with me,” I say. Jean-Baptiste rises to his feet as we enter, and it is strange to see him acting like a guest in his own home.

Hello, Kate, says Gaspard.

“Hi,” I respond out loud, for the benefit of the others.

Even if I couldn’t see it ahead of time, I knew you’d win against those brutes, he says with pride.

“Thanks to your training,” I say, “and Charlotte showing up at the right moment with a well-aimed arrow.”

Jean-Baptiste gives me the bises and then puts his hands on my shoulders as he inspects me. “You look the same. Eyes, cheekbones, lips, hair . . . ,” he says, balking a bit when his gaze reaches my straggly mud-blood-and-river-water coiffure. “None have been altered. Becoming one of us hasn’t changed you a bit. Incredible.”

“Why would Kate change?” says Vincent, grinning. “I was ready to follow her to the ends of the earth when she was human. She doesn’t need anything extra to convince humanity to lay their lives in her hands.”

Now that the conversation is turning supernatural, I glance back at my grandparents to gauge their reaction. Papy is staring longingly at the door, and Mamie is fidgeting and looking extremely uncomfortable. Georgia raises an eyebrow at me. I can tell that she too feels this conversation isn’t making anything easier for my family.

“So,” the older revenant says, “our very own Kate is the Champion. When I saw the light you gave off from inside that houseboat, I knew something special was happening. Imagine my astonishment that it was you, my dear. Under my nose this whole time, when I had believed that Vincent was the chosen one.” He peers closer at me and touches my cheek.

“It all makes sense in hindsight,” he continues. “At least now I can forgive myself for letting you into the house the day you discovered Vincent dormant. Being persuaded by a teenage girl is one thing. But being persuaded by the Champion . . . well, I can handle that.”

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment and not a dis, Jean-Baptiste,” I say, smiling.

“That makes one thing I can forgive myself for,” he admits, a shadow falling across his features. “My kindred have much more to pardon. Which is my cue to go. Shall we, Gaspard?”

“We never asked you to leave,” Vincent says, blocking the door.

“I know that,” Jean-Baptiste replies. He grabs his cane out of an umbrella stand and taps Vincent’s leg gently with it. Vincent pauses and then steps aside. JB walks past us into the foyer and stops under the elephantine chandelier.

“But I should not be here”—the bardia’s former leader continues—“in the middle of a black and white war, diluting the good side with my grayness. The fact that my intentions were good doesn’t excuse the sin I committed to win my kindred’s protection. And in the end, it did no good. Gaspard and I must go. Au revoir,” he says, and steps out the door.

This feels wrong. Vincent doesn’t want them to leave, and neither do I. “Wait,” I call. Jean-Baptiste hesitates. “I want you to stay,” I say. He turns and peers at me. “I don’t agree that it would be better for your kindred that you go,” I continue. “You’ve been their leader for centuries, and now they”—I hesitate and then, taking Vincent’s hand, continue—“we are facing a great danger. Stay and help us.”

“My dear, haven’t you been listening to me?” Jean-Baptiste says sadly. With one finger, he adjusts the ascot at his neck, as if it’s suddenly tightened. “With what I have done, it is better that I not lead my kindred into battle.”

“You don’t have to lead them,” Vincent interjects, letting go of my hand and stepping toward JB. “You named me leader and I accepted the role. But just because you aren’t leading doesn’t mean you can’t stay and stand with us against Violette. I want you to stay. We want you to stay.”

The stiffness in Jean-Baptiste’s pose loosens a little, and sighing, he walks over and places his hand on Vincent’s arm. “My boy, I will consider. Give me an hour or two to think about things.”

Vincent nods solemnly, and Jean-Baptiste turns and walks out the door.

À bientôt, Gaspard says to me.

“I hope to see you soon,” I respond. Vincent closes the door, and I turn to face my family. My sister wrinkles her nose. “What, Georgia?” I ask.

“I don’t want to ruin the gravity of the moment, or anything, but . . .” She pauses and glances at my grandparents, bracing herself for their disapproval. “If you don’t take a shower stat I just may puke. Eau de zombie is not a good scent for you.” I try not to laugh and kind of hiccup instead, and finally Georgia starts to smile.

Papy shakes his head. And suddenly in the place of my strong, capable grandfather stands a tired old man. He gives me a hug, patting me on the back, and then withdraws. “I love you, Kate, and I am indescribably relieved that you are not gone forever. But I can’t talk about what has happened to you—or what will be happening. You’ll just have to excuse me. Give me time.”

“Let’s go to the library, Papy,” Georgia says, and putting an arm around his shoulders, she leads him up the stairs.

Mamie waits until they’ve disappeared before she speaks. Tenderly touching my face as if reassuring herself that I’m actually here, she says, “All I want to do right now is take you home and lock the doors and stay inside for the next few weeks protecting you from the world. But I realize that that isn’t our reality anymore. We can’t even go home. In fact, from what Bran tells us, you will be the one protecting us.”

“Mamie, I promise I won’t do anything unnecessarily . . .”

“Shh, Katya. Stop right there.” She gives me a sad look. “Like your Papy, I don’t want to think about it either. The idea of your being in danger is one I can’t face. But you need to know that we support you and love you just the same as we did before. We’ll figure out the details later.”

She gives my cheek a firm kiss before releasing me. “Jeanne has promised me tea,” she says simply, and heads through the door into the back hallway.

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks, now that we’re alone. He is being overly careful, waiting for me to make a move. Watching to see what I want.

I hold out my hand and pull him out of the wide-open foyer into the privacy of the sitting room and close the door behind us.

He strokes my matted hair with his fingers and looks me up and down. “Charlotte’s assembling everyone for a meeting, and you and I both need to be there. Not that I don’t think you look beautiful caked in mud,” he says, smiling, “but . . . before you see everyone you might want to take that shower your sister suggested.”

“Eau de zombie?” I ask with a smile.

“You actually smell fine,” he says, grinning. “Eau de river water’s more like it.”

“Do I have time for a shower?” I ask, pulling him closer until his face is inches from mine.

“A little,” he responds.

“How much time?” I ask.

He swallows. “Enough for a shower. Not enough to do what you’re thinking about,” he responds hoarsely.

“Ten minutes,” I say. “Let’s just take ten minutes.”

He glances at my lips and presses his eyes shut. When he opens them, his expression is one of longing. “Kate, I don’t want ten minutes. Ten minutes isn’t enough. I want days. If we start something now, I’m not going to want to stop. They’ll have to drag me out of your bed to go to war.”

“A kiss, then?” Before I can finish asking, his lips are pressed to mine. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him like I’ve been longing to.

I lose sense of myself. I lose track of time. All that exists are me and Vincent and the experience of loving each other.

Eyes closed, forfeiting vision to increase sense of touch. Eyes open, staring into wells of blue flecked with gold. Eyes closed, the pressure of his mouth against mine consuming me. Eyes open, watching his lids narrow with desire. Eyes closed, feeling his body hard against mine. Knowing that time is not ours today, and wondering if it ever will be.



As my bathtub fills with hot water, I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself as I wander the circumference of the bedroom Vincent has appointed for me. I peer at the collection of precious objects and admire the paintings until I start seeing a pattern.

A painting of the Pont des Arts. A tiny red wooden rowboat set on a bookshelf next to a crystal Eiffel Tower. A pair of antique opera glasses. A vintage postcard from Villefranche-sur-Mer. A matchbook from the restaurant where we ate brunch in New York.

I near a small cubist painting hanging near the window, about the size of a hardcover book. I lean in to admire the tiny refracted scene of a glass sitting on a café table, and when I see the signature, I inhale so sharply that it sends me into a coughing fit: Vincent hung a Picasso in my bedroom.

And then I reach the antique footed bathtub and notice for the first time that there is an enormous vase stuffed with branches of white flowers standing on the floor beside it. And my brain suddenly registers the delicious perfume I’ve been smelling ever since I walked into the room: It is lilac.