by Amy Plum
She set my coffee on the table with a pitcher of milk and sat down next to me. “So. What can I tell you about Vincent?” she mused. “Well, I was sixteen when I started helping my mother here, doing the laundry and ironing. That would be about”—she did the math in her head—“thirty-nine years ago.” She leaned back in her chair, squinting her eyes as if trying to see back that far. “Vincent was the same as he is today. Plus or minus a year. And they all follow the fashions of the time, of course, so as to not stand out. So his hair was a bit longer the first time I saw him. Oh, I thought he was so handsome.”
She leaned toward me with a twinkle in her eye. “Still do. Even though he’s a mere teenager and I’m now a grandmother of four.” She sat back, smiling to herself.
“Anyway, there were more revenants then. They were scattered all over Paris in buildings that Jean-Baptiste’s family owned. Now, of course, since there aren’t many revenants left here in Paris, he rents out the places. Makes an absolute fortune off his real estate.”
She sighed and paused for a moment. “Anyway, I’ve known Vincent since the 1970s and he’s always been a . . . tortured kind of boy. I’m guessing he’s told you about Hélène by now?”
I nodded, and she continued. “Well, following her death—and his own death, of course—he kind of closed down emotionally. After Jean-Baptiste found him, he took on the role of foot soldier. According to what I’ve heard, nothing was too dangerous for Vincent. He literally threw himself in harm’s way. As if saving hundreds of strangers would make up for the one person he wasn’t able to save. And it’s continued like that. He’s been like this avenging robot. A beautiful robot, mind you, but still . . .”
She blinked and looked pointedly at me. “A few months ago he came home with a spark of life in his eyes. I couldn’t even imagine what had happened. And it was you.” Jeanne leaned forward and brushed my cheek with the edge of her hand, smiling.
“You beautiful girl. You’ve given new life to my Vincent. He might be strong of spirit, but he’s a tender soul. And you’ve touched him. For as long as I’ve known him, his only motivation has been vengeance and loyalty, which may be why he’s one of the few survivors. But now he has . . .” She paused, thinking twice about what she was going to say, and settled for, “You.”
Her smile was compassionate. “This won’t be an easy relationship for you, dear Kate. But persevere. He’s worth it.”
Jeanne tucked her apron into the handle of the oven, kissed me, and began to gather her things. “I’ll walk you out,” I told her, all of a sudden realizing that I was going to be in that huge house with no one but a 150-year-old revenant and my boyfriend’s dead body to keep me company.
“Are you going to be okay?” asked Jeanne.
“Yes,” I lied. “No problem.” We approached the granite fountain in the middle of the courtyard, and I sat down on its edge, waving good-bye as Jeanne bustled out through the front gate. It closed silently behind her. I gazed up at the statue in the fountain of the angel holding the woman.
The first time I had seen it, I had no idea what Vincent was. I had never heard of a revenant—either the murderous kind or the kind that spent their existence saving mankind. Even then, the fountain had already seemed truly creepy to me.
Now, when I looked at the ethereal beauty of the two connected figures—the handsome angel, with his hard, darkened features focused on the woman cradled in his outstretched arms, who was all softness and light—I couldn’t miss the symbolism. The angel was a revenant, but was he good or evil? And was the woman in his arms sleeping or dead? I stepped closer.
The angel’s expression seemed desperate. Obsessed, even. But also tender. As if he was looking to the woman to save him, and not vice versa. And all of a sudden, Vincent’s name for me popped into my mind: mon ange. My angel. I shivered, but not from the cold.
Jeanne had said that meeting me had transformed Vincent. I had given him “new life.” But was he looking to me to save his soul?
I looked at the woman. A noble strength radiated from her features, and the light of the moon reflected off her skin onto the angel’s face. He seemed blinded by the light. I had seen the angel’s expression before: Its face was like Vincent’s when he looked at me.
I was overcome by a rush of emotions: amazement that Vincent had found in me what he was looking for; fear of his expectations; concern that I wasn’t strong enough to carry that burden. Those were all there. But even stronger was the desire to give him what he wanted. To be there for him. My destiny might include helping Vincent to see that there could be more to his existence than vengeance. There could be love.
* * *
I almost ran back to Vincent’s room, pulling myself up on his bed until I was lying next to him. His cold features held no expression; his exquisite body was nothing but an empty shell.
I tried to imagine him as Jeanne had described . . . a violent, vengeful soldier. And though the picture that instinctively came to mind was the eyes-half-closed sexy smile he always gave me, I was able to imagine him as a furious avenger. There was something dangerous about him, as there was about all the revenants.
Just knowing that a fatal accident could be right around the corner must make humans more cautious, a trait that Vincent and his fellow revenants didn’t possess. Their lack of fear of injury, or even death, gave them a reckless confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying.
I traced his features with my finger and thought about the first time I had seen him like this. His dead body had repelled me then, but now I felt a growing certainty that I could handle whatever was given me. To be with Vincent I would have to be strong. Courageous.
I heard my phone’s text-message ring tone and jumped down off the bed to grab it. It was from Georgia:
Left party. I need to talk to you asap.
Me: Are you okay?
Georgia: No.
Me: Where are you?
Georgia: Outside Vincent’s house.
Me: What??? How did you know I was here?
Georgia: You told me.
Me: No, I didn’t.
Georgia: I need to see you. What’s the digicode?
Why was she doing this? And what could I do? She obviously needed me, but I couldn’t just give her the code.
Me: Can’t give it out. Will come outside to talk.
The doorbell rang. I ran down the hallway to the front door and pressed the button on the videocam screen. The camera light went on, and looking up into the lens was my sister.
“Georgia!” I yelled into the microphone. “What are you doing here?”
When she heard my voice, she cried out, “Oh my God, Kate, I’m so, so sorry!”
“What happened?” I asked, panic rising in my voice as I saw the fear and anguish on her face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wailed, raising her trembling hands to her mouth in terror.
“For what, Georgia? Tell me!” I yelled.
“For bringing me here,” said a low voice, and Lucien stepped into the picture and put a knife to Georgia’s throat.
“Open the gate or I’ll kill her.” The evil words affected me as much as if Lucien were standing next to me instead of across a courtyard behind a locked gate.
“I’m sorry, Katie,” Georgia cried softly.
I lifted my finger to the button with a key symbol under it.
Gaspard began running down the stairs behind me. “Don’t!” he cried.
“But he’ll kill my sister!”
“I’ll give you three seconds before I slit her throat,” came Lucien’s voice over the speakerphone. “Three . . .”
“I only have my swordstick . . . wait till I can get to the armory,” yelled Gaspard, reaching the bottom of the staircase and hurtling toward me.
“Two . . .”
I looked back at Gaspard in desperation as I pushed the button. The gate unlocked.
“Lock the door behind me, Gaspard, and don’t let him in. You have to protect Vincent!” I called. A
nd then I leaped outside, slamming the door behind me, and turned to face the devil.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
LUCIEN STOOD IN THE COURTYARD BEFORE ME, holding the knife to Georgia’s back.
“Good evening, Kate,” he said in a cold, even voice. His expression was murderous, and his enormous frame seemed twice as big now that he was looming over me. How Georgia could ever have seen anything seductive in this terrifying monster was beyond me.
“Now be a good girl and take me inside.”
“I can’t,” I said. “It’s locked. I can’t do a thing for you now, so you can let Georgia go.” I felt like I had won this round, but had no idea what would come next.
“Gaspard, I know you’re in there,” yelled Lucien. “Now come out or you’ll have the blood of two humans on your hands.”
Before he could finish, the door opened and Gaspard walked out, holding the cane-sword before him.
“No, don’t, Gaspard!” I yelled. What is he doing? I thought wildly. He had to stay locked in the house, protecting Vincent. My sister was my responsibility alone.
Gaspard ignored me. Advancing, he said evenly, “Lucien, you vile leech. What brings your putrid corpse to our humble doorstep this fine evening?” He had recaptured the noble air he wore the day I saw him sparring with Vincent. The twitchy, stuttering poet had transformed into the formidable fighter.
Lucien stepped toward him, and I grabbed Georgia’s arm and pulled her away. “Let’s make a run for it,” I whispered, keeping an eye on the men.
“You seem to be sorely lacking in weaponry tonight, you sad excuse for an immortal,” Lucien growled.
“Mine seems a blade of equal merit to the bread knife you carry, you loathsome maggot,” Gaspard said, and lunged at Lucien with the sword, making a clean slice across the giant’s cheek.
Although a small trickle of blood ran from it, Lucien didn’t even flinch. “Equal, perhaps, you farcical lifeguard-Lazarus, but that’s why I brought backup.” And he pulled a gun from under his coat and shot Gaspard point-blank between the eyes.
The older revenant staggered backward a couple of steps as his forehead absorbed the bullet. Then in slow motion it spit it back out and the bullet fell, clinking as it bounced against the pavement. Lucien used the couple of seconds that Gaspard was stunned to leap on him and push him to the ground.
I took Georgia’s hand and began running with her toward the gate. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot you both,” Lucien said, pointing the gun in our direction as he straddled Gaspard’s struggling body. We froze. “Now walk back here. You’re coming with me.” He watched, motionless, as we approached. “Closer,” he commanded. Once we were within arm’s reach, he replaced the gun in its holster.
Then, taking his massive knife, he swung it high in the air before bringing it down like a machete on Gaspard’s neck. Georgia and I screamed as one, an earsplitting shriek, and we grabbed each other, tearfully hiding in each other’s arms from the horror.
“A bit squeamish, are we, ladies? Well, there’s more to come. Now inside, both of you,” he said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the blade before holding it out toward us.
I couldn’t bear to look back at Gaspard as I walked obediently into the foyer. Lucien glanced quickly around. “Nice pad they’ve got here.” His eyes flashed back to me with a piercing glare. “Now show me where he is.”
“Who?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Who do you think? Lover-boy,” he sneered, stepping closer to me and pushing Georgia between us.
“He’s—he’s not here,” I stammered.
“Aww, that’s sweet. Trying to protect your zombie boyfriend. But I know you’re lying, Kate. Charles told me he was dormant. And my colleague just told me that Jean-Baptiste and company, including Vincent’s ghost, all showed up at my little get-together in the Catacombs. So let’s just drop the games and get to business.”
“I won’t take you to him,” I said, stepping backward to avoid Georgia, who he had pushed up against me.
“Oh yes, you will,” Lucien said calmly, holding up the knife. Its blade sparkled in the light of the chandelier.
Georgia cried out, “Don’t tell him, Kate. He said he was going to kill him.”
“Bitch,” Lucien growled and, grabbing Georgia by the hair, pulled her head back and held the knife to her throat.
I shook my head and whispered, “I would rather die than take you to Vincent.” But seeing the panic in Georgia’s eyes, I felt something slip inside me.
“Fine,” said Lucien. “I was hoping to take Georgia safely along with me after paying you a visit, but I’m perfectly willing to accommodate a change in plans.” The knife flashed as he drew it across Georgia’s white neck. She screamed, but he didn’t let go of her hair.
“Georgia!” I cried, horrified, as I saw drops of blood ooze out of the cut he had made.
“The longer you wait, the deeper I’ll slice,” he said. “That didn’t hurt now, darling, did it?” he asked, leering at Georgia and giving her a peck on the cheek.
Her eyes spun wildly toward me, and I yelled, “Okay, okay. Just stop and I’ll take you to him.” Lucien nodded, waiting, but placed the knife firmly next to Georgia’s straining neck.
My mind sped in a dozen different directions, grasping for ways to lead him astray. I could take him upstairs, or into one of the other rooms, but what would that do besides enrage him further?
“Move it!” Lucien demanded, and I headed through the door to the servants’ hallway, my mind still searching for a way to buy time. I walked as slowly as I could, but couldn’t come up with a plan that wouldn’t end up with my sister’s throat being slit, or more likely, both of us being killed. There was nothing I could do but plead silently with Vincent to come back, knowing that that was impossible: He was halfway across town helping his kindred.
I led them through the door into Vincent’s room, and stepped aside to let Lucien pass. He released Georgia and paced quickly over to the bed, laughing as he approached it. “Ah, Vincent. You’re looking better than ever,” he said. “Love seems to suit you. Too bad it couldn’t last.” Glancing around the room, he fixed his eyes on the fireplace.
“Sit,” he said to us, motioning with the knife to the couch. He began piling wood and kindling into the hearth and put a match to it.
With her face in her hands, my sister began weeping and lowered her head to my shoulder. “Kate, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
“Shh. It doesn’t matter now. Are you okay?” I whispered. “Let me see your neck.”
She lifted her head, and I touched the knife wound. It wasn’t much more than a scratch. “It’s not that bad,” I said, wiping a drop of blood away with my finger.
“Who cares about my cut?” she whispered. “We’re never going to get out of here alive. We just saw him murder someone. What’s wrong with Vincent, anyway? Why isn’t he moving?”
“He’s kind of . . . in a coma,” I responded.
“What happened?” she asked, horrified.
“Georgia,” I said, looking at her steadily, “Lucien didn’t say anything when he brought you here? You don’t know . . . what they are?”
She shook her head, confused.
There was no way I could avoid telling her. And seeing as we might not live through the evening, I didn’t see the sense in hiding what should have been obvious by now. “Georgia, they’re not human . . . Vincent and Lucien.”
“What are they, then?”
“It’s complicated,” I began, and then, seeing tears of confusion begin to well up in her eyes, I took a breath and said, “They’re called revenants. They’re undead.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter, Georgia,” I insisted, grabbing her hands roughly and forcing her to look me in the eyes. I spoke the words slowly, as much for my benefit as for hers: “I don’t care what Vincent is. We can’t let Lucien destroy him.”
Her eyes searched m
y face. For once I didn’t regret being an open book. The bewilderment and fear left Georgia’s face and were replaced by a look of pure determination. My sister had always been there for me, and she was here for me now. However insane the words coming out of my mouth sounded, she didn’t doubt me for a second.
“What can we do?” she whispered. I shook my head and watched Lucien use a poker to move the logs around. The flames caught and shot up, exploding into a substantial blaze as the smell of wood fire flooded the room.
“He’s going to try to burn Vincent’s body,” I whispered back. “We can’t let him.”
As if validating everything I had told her, Lucien turned. “It’s such a pity to have to dispose of my old foe’s body before giving him a chance to see me kill his girlfriend with his own eyes. It would be fitting vengeance for shooting my wife while I watched.”
“Your going out with Georgia wasn’t a coincidence, was it?” I asked, the realization suddenly shaking me.
“Of course not! There are no coincidences,” he smirked, as Georgia’s breath drew in sharply beside me. “I saw you girls together at the river a few months ago after Vincent saved that pitiful teenager who jumped from the bridge.”
“You were the one who sped off in a car after almost knocking us over!” I gasped.
“Yours truly,” Lucien leered and gave a bow. “So when I saw Vincent come swooping out of the Métro with you in his arms after the second suicide in a row that he ruined for me, I figured that you must be someone special to him. And it was so easy to find out everything about you afterward, including the fact that your party-girl sister was a regular patron at several of my nightclubs. Which isn’t much of a coincidence either, since she isn’t terribly discriminating about the places she frequents and the crowds she moves in.”
I felt Georgia deflate at these words, and Lucien chuckled, enjoying her reaction. “You used me to get to Kate,” she muttered, stunned by the revelation.
Lucien smiled and shrugged. “No offense, darlin’.”