Die for Me

by Amy Plum

  I touched his arm to show I wasn’t upset. “I’ll give you another one. That wasn’t the most flattering of portraits, I have to say.”

  “Good idea,” Vincent said and, digging a camera out of the table next to his bed, held it up like a trophy.

  “Right now?” I grimaced, wondering if I looked as tired as I felt.

  “Why not?” he asked, and standing next to me, he put his arm around my shoulder and held the camera out in front of us. “Hold still. It’s better with no flash,” he said, and pressed the shutter release. He turned the camera around so we could see the shot.

  My heart was in my mouth as I looked at the image of myself standing next to this godlike boy. His eyes were half-shut, and in the dim light of the room the circles under them actually made him appear more handsome than ever—but with a hint of darkness.

  And me . . . well, I was glowing. Next to him, I looked like I was where I was supposed to be. And I felt it too.

  We sat up on Vincent’s bed and talked until late in the night. Finally my eyes began to close on their own, and he asked if I wanted to sleep. “Want, no. Need, maybe. Too bad your revenant insomnia can’t rub off on me.” I smiled, stifling a yawn.

  He pulled a light blue-green T-shirt out of a cupboard and tossed it to me across the room. “To match your eyes,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes at the cheesy remark but was secretly pleased that he happened to know my exact eye color. The shirt was big enough to come halfway down my thighs. “Perfect,” I said, and looked up to notice that Vincent had turned around to face the wall.

  “Go ahead,” he said in a playful voice.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him, laughing.

  “If I am forced to watch Kate Mercier strip down to her undies in my very own bedroom, I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer to Mamie for what might happen.” The huskiness in his voice made me wish, for just a second, that he would follow through with his threat.

  Pulling the shirt over my head, I said, “Okay, I’m decent.”

  He turned around and looked at me, whistling under his breath. “You’re more than decent! You look practically edible.”

  “I thought revenants weren’t into eating human flesh,” I teased, blushing in spite of myself.

  “I didn’t claim we never lapsed when pushed beyond our limits,” Vincent countered.

  Wondering if all our conversations were going to be this bizarre, I shook my head with a smile and fished my phone out of my bag. Texting Georgia, I asked her to tell the school I was staying home “for personal reasons” and that I would bring a note from my grandmother on Tuesday.

  And soon afterward, sitting on the bed with my back against the wall and my head on Vincent’s shoulder, I fell asleep.

  When I awoke in the morning, I was covered in blankets and resting on a whisper-soft feather pillow. Vincent was gone, but there was a note on the table.

  Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you sleep? The urge to wake you up and tell you was too tempting, so I left instead of risking your sleep-deprived wrath. Jeanne’s got breakfast for you in the kitchen.

  Throwing the previous day’s clothes on, I walked groggily down the hallway to the kitchen. When Jeanne saw me walk in, she gave a cry and, running over to me, grabbed my head between her plump hands and planted a huge kiss on each of my cheeks.

  “Oh, my little Kate. It’s good to have you back. I was so happy when Vincent told me you were stopping by last night. And he actually ate this morning, for a change! I thought he was on a hunger strike, but he was just so sick over losing you. . . .” She stopped herself, putting a hand over her mouth.

  “Listen to me run on, and you having just woken up. Sit, sit. I’ll get you some breakfast. Coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee,” I said, flattered by all the attention.

  Jeanne and I chatted while I was eating. She wanted to know everything about my family, where I was from, and what it was like to live in New York. I stayed for a little while after I finished eating, but couldn’t wait to see Vincent.

  Jeanne could tell. Picking up my empty cup and plate, she shooed me out of the kitchen. “I’m sure you don’t want to spend your day in here with me. Go find Vincent. He’s working out in the gym.”

  “Where’s the gym?” I asked, curious about a side of Vincent’s life I didn’t yet know.

  “Silly me, I keep thinking you know your way around, when you’ve only been here a couple of times. It’s in the basement. The door to the left as you leave the kitchen.”

  I heard them before I saw them. The clang of steel against steel. The heavy breathing, groans, and exclamations. It sounded like the special effects sound track for a martial arts film was being played full blast in an echo chamber. I got to the bottom of the stairs and gasped as I looked around.

  The room extended the entire length of the house. The stone ceiling was curved in a barrel arch. Tiny windows were hewn into the top of the wall along its length, at what must be ground level outside. Rays of sunlight angled into the room, transforming swirling dust motes into spooky-looking columns of smoke.

  The walls were lined with arms and armor, everything from medieval crossbows, shields, and swords to battle-axes and pikes. Mixed in were more contemporary swords and an assortment of hunting rifles and old army guns.

  In the middle of the room, Vincent was swinging a massive, two-handed sword at another man, whose black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. He parried, holding up his own dangerous-looking blade to deflect the blow. Their speed and force was astonishing.

  Vincent was wearing baggy black karate pants but was barefoot and shirtless. When he spun with the sword, his rock-hard abdominal muscles and broad chest rippled as he raised and lowered his weapon. He was chiseled, but not pumped up like Ambrose. His body was perfect.

  After a few minutes of blatant spying, I stepped down into the room, and the other man glanced toward me and nodded.

  “Kate!” Vincent called, jogging over to me. He took my face in his hands and gave me a sweaty peck on the lips. “Good morning, mon ange,” he said. “Gaspard and I were just working out. We’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  “Gaspard!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t even recognize you!” With his wild hair pulled back from his face, he looked almost . . . normal. And in the intensity of the fight, he had lost all his awkwardness and hesitation.

  “Don’t let Gaspard’s usual mad-poet appearance fool you,” stated Vincent, reading my mind. “He’s used the last hundred and fifty-odd years to study weaponry, and deigns to serve as martial arts instructor for us youngsters.”

  Gaspard forced the sword into its sheath. He approached and, making a half bow, said, “Mademoiselle Kate. I must say it is a pleasure to see you here again.” Without his sword in hand, he quickly lost his smooth manner and transformed into the jittery man I had met once before. “I mean . . . under the circumstances . . . that is, with Vincent being so inconsolable . . .”

  “If you stop there,” I laughed, “I’ll still be able to take it as a compliment.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” He smiled nervously and nodded toward Vincent’s sword lying on the floor. “Would you like to give it a try, Kate?”

  “Do you have life insurance?” I laughed. “Because I could quite possibly kill the three of us if you let me hold a deadly blade.”

  “You might want to take off that sweater,” Vincent said. I self-consciously pulled it off to reveal only a tank top underneath. He whistled appreciatively.

  “Stop it!” I whispered, blushing.

  Gaspard lifted his sword, and his face became calm. He smoothly urged me forward with his chin. Vincent positioned himself behind me, holding the grip in my hands between his own.

  The sword looked like it had been stolen from the set of Excalibur—the kind you saw knights in suits of armor staggering around with under its massive weight. The hilt was in the shape of a cross, with a grip long enough to fit one hand over the other and still leav
e lots of space. Together, Vincent and I raised the sword off the ground. Then Vincent let go, and it dropped to the floor.

  “Holy cow, how heavy is that thing?” I asked.

  Vincent laughed. “We work out with the heaviest swords so that when we go to something smaller and more wieldy, it’s like holding a feather. Try this instead,” he said, and grabbed a smaller rapier off the wall.

  “Okay, I can deal with this one,” I laughed, testing its weight in my hand. Gaspard stood at the ready, and I advanced with Vincent standing behind me, arms around my own. Feeling his bare torso pressed tightly against my back and warm skin brushing my naked arms, I forgot what I was doing for a second, and the sword drooped toward the floor. Forcing myself to focus, I pulled it upright. Concentrate, I thought. I wanted to have at least a passing chance at avoiding complete humiliation.

  They showed me a few traditional fencing moves in slow motion, and then changed to more dynamic, martial-arts-style swoop-and-spin movements. After five minutes I was already winded. Sheepishly I thanked Gaspard, saying I’d better sit the rest of the session out and start from scratch another time.

  Taking the sword from my hand, Vincent gave my waist a playful squeeze and let me go. I watched from the sidelines for the next half hour as they changed from weapon to weapon, both of them displaying an awe-inspiring mastery of each one.

  Finally I heard steps on the stairway, and Ambrose walked into the room. “So, Gaspard, are you done playing with the weakling and ready for a real man?” he jibed, and then, catching sight of me, flashed me a big smile.

  “Katie-Lou, well I’ll be. So we didn’t manage to scare you off for good?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No such luck. Looks like you just might be stuck with me.”

  He gave me a hug, and then leaned back to look at me affectionately. “Fine with me. We could use some eye candy around here.”

  Hanging out with a houseful of men was going to be good for my self-esteem, I thought, whether or not those men were technically alive.

  “Okay, back off, Ambrose. You might be bigger than me, but I’ve got a sword,” Vincent said.

  “Oh really?” laughed Ambrose and, reaching up with one hand, grabbed a battle-ax as tall as him from off the wall. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Romeo!” And at that, the men began a three-way fight that topped anything I’d ever seen in the movies—and without any Hollywood special effects.

  Finally Vincent called for a time-out. “Not that I couldn’t fight you all day, Ambrose, but I have a date, and it’s bad manners to keep a lady waiting.”

  “Convenient, that, just as you were starting to get tired,” chuckled Ambrose. Turning back to his teacher, he slowed to a more sustainable pace.

  Vincent picked up a towel from a chair and mopped the sweat off his face. “Shower,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He walked to one corner of the room and stepped up into a pine box the size of a sauna, with a large showerhead sticking out of the open top.

  Ambrose and Gaspard continued their workout, the older man looking like he could go for hours without a break. I watched, amazed, as they stopped and changed weapons, and began working on some fencing-style footwork while Gaspard called out instructions.

  Until I had picked up that two-handed sword, I never imagined how difficult martial arts could be. The movies make it look so easy, with all the flying up walls and acrobatic swordplay. But here, with the sweating and grunting and force expended with every single movement, I realized that I was witnessing truly breathtaking skill. These men were lethal.

  The hissing of the shower stopped, and Vincent stepped out with only a towel around his waist. He looked like a god straight out of a Renaissance painting, his brown skin stretched tightly over his muscular torso and black hair falling back from his face in waves. I felt like I was in a dream. And then that dream walked right up and took me by the hand. “Let’s go up?” he asked.

  I nodded, speechless.

  Chapter Thirty

  ONCE WE WERE BACK IN HIS ROOM, VINCENT pulled some clean clothes out of a paneled cupboard set into the wall. He grinned at me. “Were you planning on watching?” I blushed and turned around.

  “So, Vincent,” I said, pretending to inspect his photo collection as I heard him dress behind me. “Can you come to dinner this weekend to meet my grandparents?”

  “Finally, she asks. And unfortunately, I must decline.”

  “Why?” I asked, surprised. I turned to see him walking up to me with an amused expression.

  “Because I will not be in any condition to meet your family this weekend, much less make conversation or even sit, propped up, at a dinner table.”

  “Oh,” I said, “when are you dormant?” My voice faded as the strange word tripped off my tongue.

  He picked his cell phone up from a table and checked the calendar. “Thursday, the twenty-seventh.”

  “That’s Thanksgiving,” I said. “We’ve got Thursday and Friday off school. It’s a shame you won’t be around.”

  “The clock stops for no man, especially my type. Sorry.”

  “Well, how about before then?” I asked. “Today’s Monday. How about tomorrow night?”

  He nodded. “That would work. It’s a date. So . . . I’m meeting the grandparents? What should I wear?” he teased me.

  “As long as you’re not wearing a body bag, I should think you’ll do just fine,” I laughed, turning back to his collection of portraits.

  Among the head shots of angelic children, battle-worn soldiers, and tough teenage hoodlums was an old black-and-white photo of a teenage girl. Her dark hair was crimped into a 1940s hairstyle, and she wore a flowery dress with squared shoulders. Both hands were raised to one side of her face, where she was securing a daisy behind her ear. Her dark lips were open in a playful smile. She was stunning.

  “Who is this?” I asked, knowing the answer before the words had finished leaving my mouth.

  Vincent walked up behind me and placed his hands on my arms. He smelled freshly washed, like lavender soap and some kind of musky shampoo. I sank back into him, and he wrapped his arms around me. “That’s Hélène,” he said softly.

  “She was beautiful,” I murmured.

  He dropped his head to lean his chin on my shoulder, kissing it softly before he did. “Until I saw you, I didn’t let myself think of any woman besides her. My life since her death has been spent avenging it.”

  Hearing the pain in his voice, I asked, “Did you ever find the soldiers who did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you . . .”

  “Yes,” he replied before I could say the words. “But it wasn’t enough. I had to go after every other murderous villain I could find, and even when the worst of the occupiers and collaborators were gone, it wasn’t enough.”

  It was hard to think about Vincent destroying people, either human or revenant. Although now that I had seen how well he fought, I knew that he and his kindred were probably capable of taking out an army. But what kind of person could spend more than half a century thinking only of vengeance?

  The cool, dangerous edge that had both attracted and alarmed me when we met—it had a basis. Now I knew what it was. I envisioned his face contorted with fury, and shuddered at the thought.

  “What is it, Kate?” Vincent said. “Would you prefer that I took her photo down?” I realized that I was still staring at the picture of Hélène.

  “No!” I said, turning around to face him. “No, Vincent. She’s a part of your past. I don’t feel intimidated by the fact that you still think of her.”

  As the words left my lips, I realized that I was lying. I did feel intimidated by this beautiful woman. Vincent’s only love. Even though the hairstyle and clothes placed her securely seventy years in the past, he had guarded her memory so closely that it had influenced everything he had done—and not done—since she died.

  “It’s been a long time, Kate. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, but usually it feels like a lifetime
ago. It was a lifetime ago. Hélène is gone, and I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that you have no competition, from her or anyone else.”

  He looked like he had more to say but couldn’t decide how to say it. I didn’t push him. Getting off the topic of ex-loves was fine with me. I took him by the hand and led him away. And though we left the photos behind, my sense of unease remained.

  “Get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room. I turned my attention to the bookshelves, which were lined with books in several languages, all mixed together. Most of the English ones I recognized. We have a similar taste in reading material, I thought, smiling.

  Spotting a row of fat photo albums on a lower shelf, I pulled one out and opened it. 1974–78 was handwritten on the inside cover, and I giggled as I began flipping through, seeing photos of Vincent wearing distinctly hippyish clothes and long hair with sideburns. Even though there was something ridiculous about the styles, he was just as handsome then as he was today. Nothing had changed but his accessories.

  I turned a page and saw Ambrose and Jules standing together with competing enormous Afros. On another page, Charlotte was wearing Twiggy-style makeup and a micro-minidress, posed next to a Charles who looked like a teenage Jim Morrison: scraggly hair, shirtless, with rows of beaded necklaces. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud at that one.

  “What’s so funny?” Vincent asked, closing the door behind him. He set a bottle of water and a couple of glasses on the table and turned to me. “Aha, you’ve found my secret stash of blackmail photos.”

  “Show me some more, these are priceless,” I said, bending over to slot the album back into its space.

  I stood back up to find him standing inches away from me. “I don’t know, Kate. Swallowing my pride enough to show you photos of me looking like a clown through most of the twentieth century might just cost you something.”

  “How much?” I breathed, transfixed by his sudden nearness. I unconsciously moistened my lips.