by Amy Plum
And then there is a knock on the door and she walks in. And all those thoughts disappear like smoke in a gust of wind, and the full-on pain hits me square in the chest.
She is ravishing. There is a wild look to her now that she is undead. The look all bardia have, the one that attracts humans, that makes them lay their lives in our hands. It’s a complete lack of fear of death. A recklessness coming from knowing we are almost impossible to destroy. And it has turned Kate’s natural loveliness into a savage beauty. The golden bardia aura surrounding her amplifies the effect, and my heart has no chance. I am once again lost.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you,” she says, and her voice hasn’t changed and she is once again the Kate I knew.
I prop up on my elbows and say, “That’s okay. Come in,” but immediately regret it. I want to see her, but I need her to leave. She sees the struggle in my eyes, and then looks down at the couch—the historic couch, where for a couple of wild, passionate moments she was mine—and her face turns red.
“I didn’t try to contact you because I thought you didn’t want it,” she says.
There’s no correct response to that, so I watch her, silent.
“But now that you’re here, I was hoping we could talk,” she says, still standing in the doorway. She waits, and I have to say something.
“Okay, let’s talk.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart is beating a million miles an hour, and I’m having a hard time breathing. “Let me just open a window.” I get up off the damned couch, throw open a couple of windows, and, returning to the rug in the middle of the floor, sit down on it, cross-legged. I motion for her to sit across from me, and she does.
I wait for her to speak, trying to look her in the eyes without flinching. Those eyes. My chest hurts.
“I want to apologize,” she begins.
“You don’t have to—” I say, but she holds a hand up to stop me.
“I never knew,” she says. “I saw how you were with other girls, and I thought I was the same. A harmless flirtation. A bit of fun. I thought you did the things you did and said the things you said just to make me feel good—to get a reaction—not because you meant them.”
“That’s how it started,” I say honestly. She’s watching me with sad eyes, and I have to look away. I swing my gaze to the ceiling, run my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. “Then things changed.”
“I wouldn’t have been as friendly if I had known,” she says.
“Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”
“I wouldn’t have allowed Vincent to possess you . . . to use you to kiss me. I wouldn’t have let it go that far.” There are tears in her eyes.
I don’t know what to say. I wish to God that hadn’t happened either, because seeing her expression when she realized it wasn’t Vincent she was kissing was like a knife to the chest. On the other hand, it was my one and only chance to have her, so I wouldn’t have traded it for the world, even with all that pain.
“Come here,” I say, and she scoots across the rug toward me until she can lean into my open arms. I hold her while she cries and feel something inside me snap into place. A piece of me that began shifting when I walked through the front door and realized this is where I belong. I am finally accepting it. This is the only way it will ever be between me and Kate. And it hurts like hell, but there’s nothing to do about it except to pick myself up and move on.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” I tell her. “I wasn’t honest. But really, how could I be?” We lean back, and she wipes her eyes and nods.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve thought about it. You couldn’t tell me without betraying Vincent. You couldn’t tell Vincent because . . . what would be the point? I understand why you left. It was really the only sane, healthy thing you could do. But you need to know how much I miss you. That you are one of my favorite people, my closest friends. I wish you could come back, but also realize it’s totally selfish of me. So I just want to know that you are fine. That you are happy where you are.”
“I’m fine and I’m happy,” I lie.
Kate searches my eyes. “No, you’re not.”
“I will be,” I say. “Promise. More time, and I’ll be fine.”
She takes a deep breath and hugs her legs to her chest. Like old Kate. A moment passes before she speaks again. “It was good of you to come to the wedding.”
“I didn’t want to,” I admit.
“I know,” she says, and smiles sadly. “So who are these New York kindred Theodore sent with you?”
“Well, Faust is a newbie, and one of the nicest guys I ever met,” I respond. “And Ava scares the crap out of me and, for some reason that completely eludes me, hates my guts. But Gold wanted me to accompany her here so she could quiz Gaspard and Bran, and I’m sure you and Vincent as well, about what to do about the numa in New York.”
“Is she Gold’s second?” Kate asks curiously.
“They don’t have firsts and seconds there. Or at least, not on paper, although it’s pretty clear to me that Gold’s in charge. She’s his special envoy, in any case.”
Kate looks thoughtful. “Why does she hate you? Did you hit on her?”
“Absolute negative on that. It was apparently loathing at first sight,” I say.
Kate grabs my hands, and we lean back, using each other’s weight to stand up, both cracking a smile at the effort it takes to get off the ground.
“Dinner?” she asks.
“A meal in the presence of France’s brave Champion?” I say. “How can I resist?”
Kate smiles and puts her arm around me, resting her head on my shoulder as we walk together toward the door.
NINE
DINNER IN THE KITCHEN—IT’S JUST LIKE OLD times. Jeanne bustles between the stove and table, bringing course after delicious course, and Ambrose inhales everything like an industrial-size vacuum cleaner. Charlotte sits next to him, so close that her body is practically fused to his, chatting away in English to Ava, who has proven once again to be the star of the show. In less than an hour, she’s got everyone at La Maison wrapped around her finger.
Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste always took their meals upstairs, but now that his partner is gone, Gaspard seems to have decided to join the rest of the group. He looks distinctly awkward, struggling to understand Faust’s strong New York accent as he quizzes the young bardia about New York’s kindred. There is a sadness about Gaspard that is hard to watch. He’s lost weight, and his hyper quirkiness has mellowed with his grief. But since he is here, eating with the rest of the house, it means he is trying. He’s making an effort to carry on. I can’t imagine losing someone you’ve loved for over a century and a half. Up until recently, I couldn’t even imagine loving someone at all.
At Gaspard’s side, Kate is radiant inside this warm circle of conversation and companionship. She belongs here—it is evident. My eyes sweep the table and meet Ava’s. She glances back and forth between me and Kate, and I can see her catching on, and suddenly I’m choking on the chicken I was trying to swallow. Ava gets this amused look and turns back to her conversation with Charlotte.
Ambrose pats me on the back. “You got to chew, dude.”
“You’re one to talk—human shovel,” I reply, taking a quick sip of water.
“Need the calories. Wedding prep is taking more out of me than fighting numa ever did,” he says. Charlotte nudges him, and then gives him a kiss on the cheek. Kate sees it and takes Vincent’s hand under the table. Love is freaking everywhere. I clear my throat.
“So, Gaspard, when is Bran coming?” I ask in English, so that our guests can follow along. “Gold specifically wanted Ava to meet with him.”
“Ah, you see, there’s a bit of a problem with that,” Gaspard replies. “The mother of Bran’s sons is indisposed. I believe she is in the hospital—nothing too serious, fortunately. But Bran must care for his children and won’t be coming to the wedding.”
“Then we have to go to him!” Ava b
lurts out.
Gaspard places his hand on hers. “That is the plan, my dear. Bran has invited you to visit him in Brittany this weekend.”
“How do I get there?” she asks. This change in plans seems to set her on edge: She’s squeezing her fork so tightly that her knuckles are white.
“The easiest way is by car. I would be happy to accompany you, but with all the wedding preparations, I’m afraid—”
“I’ll take her,” I say, cutting Gaspard off. Ava stares at me in surprise. “Gold wanted me to be your French tour guide,” I explain, even though that’s not really the reason. I’m not really sure why I’m offering—it has something to do with her panic and the feeling that I need to do something to help.
“Yes, of course, that would be best,” Gaspard says.
“Faust can be our third,” Ava adds quickly.
“No can do,” Faust says. “I’ll be sleeping the sleep of the dead.”
“You’re dormant this weekend?” Ava asks, accusation in her tone.
“Hey, I was awake to accompany you on the plane,” Faust says with a shrug, “and I’ll be awake again for the wedding and the trip home. You can find another third for the trip to Brittany, right?”
“Don’t worry about your safety getting there and back,” Vincent reassures Ava. “Numa activity is at a record low in France—you won’t need a third.”
“Thanks to Kate’s super-Champion-numa vision,” interjects Ambrose.
Kate responds by blowing cockily on her fingernails, and then grins as Ambrose laughs.
“How far is Bran’s house?” Ava asks, looking distinctly uneasy.
“Paris to Carnac is about five hundred kilometers,” Gaspard responds. Ava gives him a blank stare.
“Americans don’t think in kilometers,” Ambrose explains. “That’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive.”
Ava gives me a pained look, and I’m sure my face is a mirror image. A six-hour plane trip was bad enough with Faust serving as a buffer. Now we have to drive four and a half hours in a car. Alone.
TEN
THE NEXT FOUR DAYS ARE A BLUR OF ACTIVITY. Once it’s decided that Ava and I will leave for Brittany on Saturday, she practically disappears. Kate and Charlotte enlist her help with the wedding preparations and, on their breaks, take her to see the sights of Paris. On one of the rare occasions that our paths cross, I ask how her research for Gold is going.
“I have to start with Bran,” she claims, and that’s the end of that.
I spend the time catching up with my kindred over meals, sparring in the armory, and walking the Paris streets. In a way, it’s like nothing ever happened, but my return to New York lurks, ever-present, in the back of my mind.
Vincent and I spend the next few evenings in the great hall, sprawled on the leather couches, catching up. People come and go, knowing we will be there, and join the conversation, before leaving us alone once again.
Vincent wants to know about New York, and I give him all the details. But we both carefully skirt around the subject of Kate and her everyday life with my kindred. It’s unnatural to feel this uncomfortable around my best friend. We know everything there is to know about each other. But we’re both being careful. Tiptoeing around each other’s feelings. And knowing that we both feel weird about it.
Although we don’t sleep, everyone needs their downtime, and in the early hours of Saturday morning, I say good night to Vincent and go back to my room. I try to read but can’t focus. I pull some old drawings out of a cupboard and sort through them. God, I’m glad no one dug through my stuff while I was gone. All the drawings from the months before I left are of Kate. Kate lying on a couch, reading. Kate sitting in a café, laughing. Kate in my studio, lying on her back and staring dreamily at the ceiling as she poses for me.
I toss the sheaf of papers onto a table and realize I’m no longer pining. Following the conversation with Kate, I’ve begun to pull myself back together and am starting to feel like my old self again. Maybe, when I get back from Brittany, I’ll talk Ambrose into going to one of the clubs we used to go to. I could pick up a high-spirited French beauty. Charm her into taking me back to her place. And find solace in the arms of a woman for a few delicious hours. I think back to the last time . . . it’s been a while. Sacha? Or was it Sandra? I can’t even remember her name.
And suddenly I feel empty. Like a century of affairs that felt like a bubbling source of sparkling springwater—water I needed to survive—had actually just been a mirage. A dry streambed in a desert of emotional void. And I know that’s not what I want anymore. I crave something else. Something real, tangible, lasting.
I pick out a sketchpad and some charcoal and take them over to my easel. Who to draw . . . who’s not Kate. I start sketching the lines of Faust’s face. Handsome, square jawline. Deep-set eyes and defined brows. I smile when I think of his unself-conscious earnestness. His natural openness. And I add a few shadows to his cheekbones and some white to his forehead, and here he comes, emerging from the paper. Faustino Molinaro: a hero with a heart.
Satisfied, I flip the paper over the back of the easel and start from scratch. I draw without thinking, my hand moving while my mind drifts back across the ocean to that foreign place I’ve made my home. New York: where I speak the language but don’t yet understand the people. It is still a beautiful mystery to me—the danger that lurks just beyond people’s everyday lives, the vertiginous mix of nationalities, ethnicities, languages, foods, dress, religions . . . everything in the world condensed into one shining city.
I am drawing New York, it’s New York in my mind, but staring out at me from the surface of the paper are the eyes of Ava. Exotic eyes, whose color I haven’t yet figured out. For fear of getting freezer burn. High cheekbones. I pick up a copper-brown pastel and brush it across her face. Warm-dark skin that seems to glow from within. Bow lips, the color of currants.
I sit back and inspect my work. New York. Ava. They are the same in my mind. The same on the page. I can see what people love, what draws her kindred—and apparently mine as well—to her. There’s something about her that makes you want to get closer. To be near her. To have her accept you into her court of admirers. Well, that’s not going to happen for you, buddy, I think. You’re going to have to make your own friends. A few days in Paris haven’t made her warm to me, it seems. She ignores me at the rare meals we’ve all had together and was as glacial as ever when we crossed paths in the garden this morning.
There’s a knock on my door. I yell, “Entrez!” and it cracks open. And, holy crap, speak of the devil. I flip the page with Faust back over, covering Ava’s portrait before she’s able to get a glance.
She steps into the room. “Sorry for disturbing you,” she says, and then, getting a glimpse of my jam-packed walls, begins the gawking process that everyone who walks into my room goes through.
“Wow!” she says, starting at one wall and working her way up and down the rows of portraits. “Are these your saves?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a hundred years of rescues,” I say. “Demands a lot of wall space.” I stay seated on my stool, body-blocking the sketchpad where her portrait hides under Faust’s.
“I’d say!” she says, stopping at a portrait of a little girl I saved from drowning in the 1960s. “She’s a beauty,” she remarks.
“Went on to found an NGO in Africa. Her group has saved countless lives,” I say. “One of those times when your sacrifice pays off big for humanity.”
Ava moves on to another—a rough kid with glazed-over eyes and a hollow face. “Unlike others,” I continue, “who, even after you’ve saved them, manage to finish themselves off anyway.” She gives me a quick look of understanding and moves on, perusing my walls like a gallery.
“You are talented,” she says.
“Why, thank you,” I respond, half-curious. “But weren’t you the one who introduced me to your clan as an accomplished artist?”
“Honestly,” Ava says, “I’d never seen anything of yours in perso
n. Just some black-and-white photos from old exhibition catalogues . . . before your death, of course. I have no idea what pseudonyms you’ve been using since then.”
“There have been several,” I admit.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say your reputation preceded you,” she says, and gives me a significant look. But what it signifies, I have absolutely no clue.
She strolls over to the couch and, before I can stop her, picks up the sheaf of drawings I tossed there.
“No, wait!” I say, jumping up and lunging toward the stack, but it’s too late, she’s already shuffling through. Kate after Kate after Kate. She stops at one: a drawing of Kate looking up from her café crème. Her eyes are sparkling, and she has a playful smile on her lips. Vincent asked me to draw it from a photo he took of her. I didn’t tell him that I made a copy for myself.
Ava stares at the drawing and then up at me. She’s put the pieces together. Smart girl. Damned insightful. “She’s why you ran away.”
I tuck the pages back into the cabinet and then sit back down on my stool. “I didn’t exactly run away.”
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Okay, I ran away,” I admit.
“I’ve seen how you are with your kindred,” she says. “How close you are. You’re practically family.” She pauses, and then asks, “Vincent loved her first, right?”
I nod and rub my forehead with my fingertips.
“It was the noble thing to do,” she says quietly. She strolls over to me and inspects the image of Faust. Her own portrait is faintly visible through the paper, and I’m supremely glad in this moment that X-ray vision is not a revenant superpower. She smiles fondly. “Good old Faust. You really captured his spirit here. I don’t think I know a nicer guy in all of New York.”
