Inside the World of Die for Me

by Amy Plum

  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.

  AMBROSE BACKSTORY

  I hesitate, and then say, “Tell me, Charlotte. How did Ambrose get over here? From Mississippi to France?”

  She smiles, and I can tell she knows this story by heart. “World War II. He was in a tank battalion, one of the only all-black divisions of the American army allowed to participate in full combat. JB scooped the pieces of his body off the ground near the German border and brought him to live with us. It was three years after Charles and I died.

  “Ambrose was a war hero,” she continues proudly. “Stories about him circulated for a long time. You can read about him on the internet. The day he died, he fought like a lunatic. When his tank was destroyed, he crawled out and seized a German vehicle. He drove it in front of where his comrades were all cornered and took out almost an entire enemy position with just a machine gun before the Germans shot him. He effectively saved everyone. Except himself. They called him the Wild Man of the 761st.”

  “You know what?” I say, grinning. “Now Ambrose makes total sense to me.”

  She lifts her eyebrows in agreement and pops a melon ball into her mouth.

  There is a knock on the door and Arthur sticks his head in. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. My heart skips a beat and I realize that I’m nervous. The other times I fought, the fight came to us. I’ve never had time to think about it in advance.

  Arthur sees the look on my face and gives me a reassuring wink before pulling the door closed.

  JULES SAYS GOOD-BYE (FINAL BATTLE SCENE)

  I smile back at him. “Are you staying?”

  His grin disappears, replaced by a pained expression. He lets Louis’s body sag to the ground. “Please don’t ask me to.”

  My gaze drops to the teenage corpse. My eyes sting, but it isn’t from my sweat or the choking fumes of the bonfire. I blink back my tears, swallow, and force a smile. “We changed places, you know. Paris for New York.”

  He nods wistfully as we set Louis’s body next to Charlotte’s and stand facing each other. “Life is good in New York,” he says, and taking my hand in his, raises it to his lips. His kiss is petal-soft. He holds my gaze as he lowers my hand and touches my cheek with his fingertips. “But my heart will always be in Paris.”

  With visible effort, he turns from me. Then, yelling, “Vincent, I’ve got your back!” he draws his sword and runs to the aid of his friend.

  DIE FOR HER OUTTAKE

  This is a deleted section from Die for Her, which I cut when I decided to slow down the rate at which Jules fell for Kate . . . this seemed a little too abrupt/early. The scene occurs right after Jules drags Kate away from Vincent’s bed when she finds him dormant and thinks he is dead.

  I think about her all night. This girl who has wormed her way into our lives. How could I not have seen it before: her beauty . . . her bravery? I was so intent on protecting Vincent that I only saw her as an annoyance, not as a woman.

  Vincent spends the night beside her, willing her to be comforted—to sleep—until just after midnight when he reanimates. I’m there when he awakes.

  “Jackass,” he whispers feebly. “You scared her. You hurt her.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I’ve been kicking myself for it all night.” I go work out in the armory, pushing my muscles until they burn as my penance. And when Gaspard calls us all together into Vincent’s room, I walk right up to her and apologize. She magnanimously shrugs it off with dignity. Like a queen.

  During the house meeting, I feel almost proprietary about her. When JB tells her off for intruding into our house, I want to frog-march him out of the room. Which would be treason: JB is my clan leader.

  But I don’t want anyone to hurt Kate like I did the night before. I don’t want anyone to scare her. When Vincent asks me to, I explain my story to her in the easiest way I possibly can. Sparing any shocking details.

  And when she goes to sit next to Vincent on his bed, and I see him passing his calm to her, something visceral moves through me. I want to be the boy this beautiful, strong girl turns to for comfort. I want my hand to be the one she holds. I recognize my jealousy, and I am ashamed.

  Vincent has been my friend for half a century. We’ve died side by side, we’ve planned vacations as well as battle tactics, and we’ve gone to war against the numa together. The two of us have spent more hours walking Paris’s streets than can possibly be counted. We’ve literally spent decades together. And now I want what he has.

  I know Kate’s not a possession, but he’s the one she was willing to face her fear for last night. He’s the one she watches so carefully, with obvious relief that he’s not dead. Her trust in him allows her to believe the unbelievable: that we are immortal.

  I tell myself the feeling will go away—that my jealousy is from having to share my best friend with a human. To watch him be completely consumed with his fascination with her, leaving mere crumbs of personality for me. That my jealousy has nothing to do with the girl herself.

  But every time I look at her, I know my justification is ludicrous. I want her body and soul.

  I worry about hiding my feelings. Surely everyone can see that I burn for her. Surely she can see it. When JB allows her to leave—making her swear to keep our secret—I volunteer to show her out of the house.

  And that’s when I have the revelation: I will be honest. I will say exactly what I think. And everyone, including Kate, will think that I’m kidding. My love of women is so well-established in the minds of my kindred that everyone will believe I’m just being my “normal flirty self.”

  CHAPTER 6

  GASPARD’S EPILOGUE

  IT HAS BEEN FIVE YEARS SINCE THE CHAMPION took her stand against the numa of Paris. And, although there are occasional signs of our enemies, although a few slippery souls still exist, they were dealt a great blow. There is no longer a numa mafia running the Paris crime world. Due to the fact that our Champion can spot a numa aura from miles away, the few that remain in France stay well out of her way and are always moving.

  We discovered, in the years following the rise of our very own Kate, that other Champions arose around the world. That we were truly in the Third Age, an age of peace that will not last forever. But, as Ambrose says, we might as well enjoy it while it does. Yes, we are enjoying it, but we are also using it to dig out the nests of numa that remain. And to focus on those countries where the numa outnumber bardia. Countries of genocide and famine and cruel dictatorship.

  In Kate’s own country, a Champion has risen. Her name is Ava. And she has not only won the hearts of her American kindred but captured the heart of our own kindred, Jules. It seems that she and Kate have more than a few similarities. Jules likes to joke that he “only goes for the best.”

  Why everyone feels they must come to me to confide the affairs of their hearts, I have never understood. But I will tell you—Jules and Ava are very much in love. He describes her as being “fiery” and “kick-ass,” and on the several occasions that they have voyaged to France to visit us, I myself have witnessed her bold and courageous spirit.

  In the year following Kate’s ascension, Jules only visited us once, and I could tell that it was difficult for him to be near her when she was at La Maison. However, once he met Ava, his wounds seemed to have healed. She has swept him off his feet, and I for one am very glad for it. One can tell that Jules cares deeply for Kate, but now they are like brother and sister.

  Exactly three months after the rise of the Champion, Charlotte and Ambrose were married. Charlotte said she was old-fashioned and didn’t believe in long engagements. I think Ambrose was just so happy she said yes that he wanted to “seal the deal,” as he put it, before she could change her mind. As
if she would. Five years later the two of them still act like every day is Christmas. Charles says it’s “nauseating,” but I know he is joking and that he couldn’t be happier for his twin.

  He and his German kindred have stayed close to our Paris clan and visit often—which I enjoy except for the fact that their Seer, Uta, has a penchant for trailing around behind me and asking every historical question under the sun. I tell her that my library is open to her, but she claims it’s more fun to ask me. Kate insists that it’s because I seem frightened of her and that she’s just trying to “wind me up.” I must disagree, although I allow that since she changed her hair color to a shade of fluorescent yellow-green, I find it hard to look her in the eye.

  But on to more important matters. Bran is still amongst us, although he graciously refused our offer to live at La Maison. It turns out that he has two sons who live with their mother in Brittany. He visits them several times each month, having an amicable relationship with his ex-wife. Otherwise, he says he prefers being amongst his relics in his shop at Saint-Ouen. But I estimate that he spends as much time here as he does there.

  Bran and I have been working together to rediscover the Flame-Fingers’ gifts that are particular to revenants. Although it was a long process, he helped Louis fully shift from numa to bardia, and now Louis is one of us, having taken Jules’s room at La Maison. It is a joy to see him so enthusiastic, now that he’s been given a second chance. If anyone is patrolling, he is sure to be walking alongside them, eager to fulfill his newfound purpose.

  Bran is also helping Arthur to resist the urge to sacrifice himself. Arthur is so old that he already finds it easier than the younger members of our clan. But Bran is experimenting with him, healing him regularly. Arthur still sees Georgia, although one never knows whether they are “on” or “off.” Georgia would be welcome to stay with us as well, but insists on having her own apartment near Oberkampf. She tells me it’s to keep Arthur “on his toes.” Again—why do people feel the need to confide these things to me?

  In any case, I suppose the biggest news of all is the events that have taken place in the lives of our leader and our Champion. Two years after Kate joined our kindred, Vincent asked her to marry him. She laughed at him and said she was too young. He laughed right back and said, with the rate at which she dies, she’ll never get any older. She claims to have met him halfway—they exchanged rings before a large number of France’s bardia, at a New Year’s party here at La Maison.

  But there is something else—something bigger—that has happened to all of us.

  I have been privy to a secret of Vincent’s for many years, one that he had not told Jean-Baptiste or the others. It wasn’t a case of Vincent breaking rules or anything—he said he just wanted to keep the secret for himself.

  His old love Hélène had a sister who survived the war and had a family of her own. Her line went on for four generations, and Vincent watched over every one of them. He left anonymous gifts of money when they needed it. He made sure they were comfortable. But the family has dwindled, and just three years ago, the only living member of the family died, leaving behind a baby girl. As the father was unknown, the baby was made a ward of the state. Vincent arranged for an adoption. And she moved in with us.

  Odette is three now. She is named after her great-great-grandmother, Hélène’s sister. Vincent said there is a striking family resemblance between her and her ancestor. But her resemblance to her new family—our kindred—is even greater. Nothing frightens her; she is as courageous as they come. Jeanne’s daughter has been hired to care for her when Kate and Vincent are walking, and Jeanne’s four-year-old granddaughter is her playmate. Kate’s grandparents couldn’t be more delighted: They dine here at least once a week so that they can see their great-granddaughter.

  A child’s laughter is something I never expected to hear in La Maison. Revenants cannot have children. Yet we have been blessed with a child of our own, and she now has a large close-knit family who all adore her.

  The arrival of Odette has helped me overcome my own deep sorrow. There isn’t a day that I don’t miss Jean-Baptiste.

  I stay thirty-eight now, the age at which I first died. I have no reason to let myself grow older, like I had before Jean-Baptiste’s death. I walk with my kindred and die regularly for humans, and carry on. My kindred need me. Odette needs me. As for love, I have known the greatest love I could have ever wished to have had. That is more than most people can say.

  —Gaspard Louis-Marie Tabard

  CHAPTER 7

  INSIDE THE MINDS OF THE CHARACTERS

  THE FOLLOWING ARE A GROUP OF POINT-OF-VIEW

  pieces from several different characters throughout the Die for Me series. Some I was asked to do as extras for books. Others I was asked to do for guest blogs. And the rest I just did for myself: either to clarify a character’s feelings before writing about them, or because I couldn’t quite figure out their motivation until I let them speak to me off the record. I’ve assembled these from various places in print or on the internet, or in the case of a couple, off my hard drive. I hope you enjoy these sneak peeks into the characters’ minds.

  VINCENT’S POINT OF VIEW

  AT THE BEGINNING OF

  DIE FOR ME

  I wrote the following after Die for Me was completed. It is Vincent’s point of view, starting before the beginning of the book’s narrative.

  The first time I saw the girl, it felt like the earth had suddenly slipped one tiny notch on its axis and begun rotating at a slightly different angle. Afterward, my world was off balance, as if it was gradually wobbling away from its stable orbit to spin off in the direction of deep space.

  I couldn’t figure out why this girl had thrown my thoughts into such chaos but figured if I could, my life would be restored to normal. Of course, in my case, the terms “life” and “normal” could only be used tongue-in-cheek. But this was no joke: I had spent decades carefully and methodically protecting my stability—I had to end the emotional vertigo she was causing me. So I began to follow her.

  Following is a regular part of our routine. It’s what we do. That’s why none of the others clued in to that fact that I was up to something. “Hey, there’s that sad girl again,” Ambrose would say as, time after time, we trailed her down to the riverside. She would sit and stare at the churning water until it seemed like it was only the husk of her body that was there, in the middle of Paris, in the dead of winter, dressed only in a light jacket and acting like she couldn’t be touched by the weather. By the world. Because someone—or something—had sucked the life right out of her.

  That’s the only place she ever went. To sit by the Seine. A couple of other times, she ventured out of her building—a mere five-minute walk from our home—and began to head in another direction. For a few blocks, she’d walk hesitantly, as if she were going somewhere on a dare, and then, hunching over like the sky had suddenly dropped down to head level, she raced back into her building, slamming the door behind her. She looked like she was being chased by ghosts. I’ve been on the street for what seems like forever, and I’ve seen a lot of crazies. This girl wasn’t crazy: She was suffering.

  Let me take a step back at this point and clear something up: This wasn’t just a case of falling for someone. This was like taking a nosedive over Niagara Falls. I’ve never felt anything close to it, even though I’ve come into contact with a lot of girls over the decades, many of whom made it clear enough that they were interested. Not meaning to sound stuck-up, but revenants are attractive. It’s part of what we are. Even if some of us aren’t what you’d call “classically handsome” (or “classically beautiful”), when we animate that first time, physical allure becomes part of the package. And, like everything else in “the package,” it’s there for a reason. People look at us and they automatically trust us. With their lives. Which just makes our work all that much easier.

  And by the luck of the draw (actually, by the luck of the genes—my mom was what they used to call “a
stunner”), I came into this existence with a head start, if you count looks as an advantage. I couldn’t care less, except for enjoying the annoyance on Jules’s face whenever I get approached by a casting agent. Not that he’s exactly suffering for dates. But as I said—I couldn’t care less. Only one girl has ever won my heart, and when she died, my heart died with her. Since then, it just hasn’t seemed worth thinking about for all the complications it would cause.

  Until now. Until the girl’s long dark hair, blue-green eyes, and dark shroud of misery became inexplicably etched into my brain, and I was helpless to do anything but follow her. To spend every possible second—or at least as much time as possible without arousing suspicion among my kindred—inside her radius.

  And then, just like that, she disappeared. For months. For four months and thirteen days, to be exact. And during that time, I learned what it meant to be spun for a loop. To spend twenty-four hours a day with my mind wandering, wondering where she could be and what she was doing. And most maddening of all, obsessed over why this—yes, beautiful, but not in an ordinary way—girl had succeeded in doing what no one else had done in over half a century: She had utterly and completely mesmerized me.

  Although I’ve seen eighty-some years pass by, I guess my communication skills got stuck at eighteen when I first died. Or maybe it’s just my pride—I’m so used to being the one in the house who “doesn’t need love” that being indifferent to girls has kind of become a point of honor for me. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t talk to the others about it. I mean, even if I had, they would have been horrified. Because if it ever got to the point where I got to know her, it would be too dangerous. Not only for us, but for her. Pulling someone like her into our world would be about the stupidest—and most selfish—thing I could do.