by Amy Plum
TEN
THE DOORBELL RANG AS SOON AS I SAT DOWN ON my bed. A couple of seconds later there was a knock on my bedroom door.
“Katya, darling. It’s Vincent. He’s coming up.”
“Thanks, Mamie,” I said, opening the door. My grandmother stood before me, dressed in her “going-out” outfit of three-inch heels and a calf-length skirt. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, and her fashion choice boldly flaunted the best legs I had ever seen on a senior citizen.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, zoning in on my expression.
“Oh, nothing,” I said automatically, and then, seeing she wasn’t going to move until I answered, I asked, “Mamie, have you ever been in a situation where you were purposely made to feel like an outsider? Like you didn’t belong?”
Mamie crossed her arms over her waist and gazed at the ceiling. “Your grandfather’s family made me feel like that in the beginning. It was a case of his parents’ old money versus my family’s new money, and they made me feel like an arriviste.”
“But that changed?”
“Yes. When they saw that I didn’t give a hoot what they thought about me. I think that was one reason your grandfather fell for me. I was the only woman who ever had the guts to stand up to his mother.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
Mamie took my hand. Her gardenia perfume hadn’t changed since I was a little girl, and the fragrance made me feel grounded. She had known me my whole life. She’d been there in the hospital when I was born.
And even so, I can’t tell her what is really bothering me, I thought. I trusted Mamie with my life but couldn’t imagine how she would react if I told her what Vincent was. If she even believed me and didn’t take me to a psychiatrist on the spot. Her goal was to protect me, and I was guessing that the job of protecting your granddaughter would not involve allowing her to date a revenant.
“This transition must be hard for you,” I heard Mamie saying. I refocused on her concerned face. “Moving from Brooklyn to Paris. Starting a new school. Making new friends. It probably feels like you’re living in a whole new world. Perhaps a scary one at that.”
As I let her hug me close, I thought, Oh, Mamie, you have no idea.
Vincent was waiting in the hallway when I opened our door. His alarmed expression faded when he saw that I wasn’t visibly upset. “Kate, I’m so sorry,” he said, taking me in his arms. I closed my eyes and let myself bask in the hug for a few seconds before pulling him into the apartment.
“Hello, Vincent, dear,” Mamie said, walking up behind us and standing on her tiptoes to give him the customary cheek-kisses. “How have you been?” she asked.
My grandparents loved Vincent, which definitely made my life easier. While they always questioned Georgia about her whereabouts, all I had to do was say I was going out with Vincent and there were no more questions asked. Another good reason not to rock the boat.
“I’ll just leave you two alone now,” she said after they’d caught up, steering us into the living room and closing the glass doors behind us. The room was crammed with antiques, artifacts, and paintings, and it smelled like a cross between a musty library and a Bedouin tent.
I settled on the couch next to a vase of cut flowers, one of several that Mamie scattered through the rooms, letting you walk through a cloud of freesia or lilac or something else delicious, before moving back into the ancient-odor zone. Vincent positioned himself in an armchair right in front of me.
“I can’t apologize enough for what happened back there,” he said. “You know that no one else agrees with Arthur.”
“I know,” I said, though I was aware that Jean-Baptiste hadn’t exactly been jumping for joy when he’d officially welcomed me into his house. But since that day, he had been nothing but courteous.
“I just can’t figure it out,” Vincent said, looking bothered. “Arthur’s such a good guy. I mean, even though he and Violette act like they’re God’s gift to revenants at times, he has never been intentionally exclusive or petty.”
“Maybe he was just being honest,” I said. “Maybe he actually does think that it’s dangerous for me to hear your plans.”
“Well, he could have mentioned it before, instead of bringing it up in front of everyone.” He brought his hand up to touch my cheek, and I grasped it and pulled it to my lips before dropping it to my lap.
“I’m fine, really,” I said, although the humiliation still felt cold in the pit of my stomach. “What is up with Arthur and Violette, though? They seem to argue like an old married couple, but I’ve never seen them touch. Are they together?”
Vincent laughed, and got up to finger one of Papy’s ancient figurines that sat atop the fireplace mantel. “They are not together—in the sleeping-together sense of the word.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But you kind of got it right with the ‘old married couple’ reference. Arthur considers himself Violette’s protector. They’re from the time when women were thought to need protection, of course,” he added, grinning.
“Arthur was Violette’s father’s counselor, and they both died in the same kidnapping attempt. So I guess it’s natural that they would stay together all this time, but I know that ‘love’ is not the nature of their relationship. Codependence, maybe, but not love.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, intrigued by the suddenly sheepish look on his face.
“Oh, Violette and I have a bit of a history. I’ve met her a few times over the years. Whenever Jean-Baptiste found a previously undiscovered text that he thought was particularly important, he had me take it to her for inspection. She wasn’t exactly shy about confessing her feelings for me.”
I gasped. “Violette was in love with you?”
“Love is a strong word. But yes, she told me she was interested. I couldn’t reciprocate. But”—he glanced fleetingly at me, and then back to the figurine—“I was actually tempted to give it a try. I thought it might be my only chance at finding someone to be with.”
I realized I was gaping at him. “But Vincent, she’s only fourteen. That’s kind of … I don’t know … pervy.”
“She was in her twenties at the time,” Vincent said, pressing his lips together to stifle a smile.
“Oh, yeah. Right,” I said, trying to process this weird new information.
“Nothing happened,” he reassured me. “At all. But I guess Violette sensed I might be open to it, and that probably encouraged her. We went out a couple of times, but as soon as I realized I couldn’t make myself feel something that wasn’t there, I ended it. I hadn’t actually seen her since then—it’s probably been about forty years. I asked JB to send another emissary on those errands.”
“She’s got to resent me for being with you, then.” I recalled Violette’s slipup at Philippe’s funeral—about revenants who were with humans—and wondered if she hadn’t actually said it on purpose. A little jab at the human who had succeeded in doing what she hadn’t: capturing Vincent’s heart.
“Actually, she’s talked to me about you already,” Vincent said. “She was pretty gracious about it and congratulated me on finding such a ‘lovely young lady.’” His imitation of her voice and ancient speech style made us both laugh. “No, seriously, she seems to really like you.”
“So it’s just Arthur who’s being a jerk?” I ventured.
“Seems like,” he said, “even though that’s so untypical of him. He took off right after the meeting, obviously to avoid me. Violette asked me to forgive him. She said she had warned him not to bring it up but that he had felt obliged. She was going to talk to him later.”
“That was nice of her,” I said, warming to the strange girl. “It’s over, anyway. I just want to forget about it now.”
And as I mentally turned the page on the afternoon’s humiliation, something occurred to me. “Vincent, I found something about revenants in Papy’s library last night.”
“Really?” It was rare that I surprised Vincent instead of the other way around, but right now he looked
like if I pushed him with one finger, he would keel right over. “Can I see it?”
I led him to the study, peeking in first to make sure Papy wasn’t there. Checking the clock on his desk, I saw that he wouldn’t be closing the gallery for another half hour. We were safe.
I pulled the bestiary out of its protective box and, placing it on Papy’s desk, turned to the revenant page. Vincent’s eyebrows shot up as he saw the illustrations. “Wow, this is really rare, Kate. There is almost nothing about revenants remaining in human book collections.”
“Why not?”
He went on staring at the book as he spoke. “Dealers like your grandfather know that if they find anything, they can sell it for a fortune to a group of anonymous buyers. These collectors snatch up anything revenant-related before it even comes on the market.” Vincent glanced at me. “JB’s one of them. He has stacks of these old manuscripts in his library. I doubt Gaspard’s even worked his way through half of them.”
“Yeah, well, Papy must really treasure it, then,” I said, wondering why he would pass up a good sale to keep the book in his library. Maybe he hadn’t seen the revenant page and didn’t realize its value.
Vincent’s attention was back on the book, and he mouthed the words to himself, following along with his finger. “You know Latin?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yes, it used to be required in schools before people decided that dead languages weren’t good for anything. Do you want to know what it says?”
“I actually had an attempt at decoding it last night,” I admitted.
“Of course you did,” Vincent said, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “I can’t imagine you turning down that kind of challenge.” He looked back down at the book, and as he read the article aloud in English, I was pleased that I had gotten the gist of it myself. When he was done, I didn’t point out the fact that he had purposely skipped the last two lines. If I were in his place, I wouldn’t want him to think he was cursed to be with me.
“So what’s the deal with the ‘bardia’ term?” I asked. “If that’s actually what you are, why do you call yourselves ‘revenants’?”
“Good question,” responded Vincent. “I guess it’s just kind of gone out of style.” He mulled it over for a second. “Actually, it’s probably a kind of superiority thing—we think we’re the real deal, while the numa are more like deviants. You can ask Gaspard about it, but I think ‘bardia’ is based on a word that means ‘to guard,’ so it would actually be the more accurate term for us. It’s used in our official documents. But say ‘bardia’ to Ambrose or Jules and they will definitely look at you funny.” He flipped through the book’s pages once more before putting it back in its box and placing it carefully in its niche in the bookcase.
“Vincent? When Jean-Baptiste was talking to us today, he said something about going on the offensive. And I felt like there was something you didn’t want him to say. Like there was this weird kind of face-off between the two of you before Arthur cut in and voted me out of the meeting. What was that about?”
A strange expression crossed Vincent’s face. Pulling me to my feet, he said, “It doesn’t matter. And if it ever does, I will tell you about it. But for now, let’s talk about something more interesting.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like where I’m going to take you to dinner tonight,” Vincent said, and, grasping me lightly by the hips, drew me toward himself and bent down for a kiss. Any lingering doubts I had melted as quickly as snowflakes over a bonfire.
ELEVEN
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A MIXTURE OF excitement and dread. I had fight training with Gaspard and Vincent today, and even though I loved the actual fighting, I still felt way below par with my skills. My first lesson, barely a month ago, had been a disaster. We had concentrated solely on the sword, which seemed easy enough when we were walking slow-motion through moves, but as soon as Gaspard sped things up a notch, I was useless.
Fighting seemed like dancing to me, and besides not having much natural rhythm, I’ve always felt a bit stupid on the dance floor. This definitely carried over into my lessons. My self-consciousness made me clumsy, and I was so afraid of looking like a weak, defenseless novice that I actually became what I feared most.
However, by the fourth lesson I found myself becoming engrossed in the movements. It was like my self-hypnosis sessions in museums or at the river—I let myself zone out, and all of a sudden the moves seemed to come by themselves. It was a kind of yin-yang phenomenon, where my subconscious took over and my brain shut off. As soon as I stopped thinking about what I was doing, everything worked.
The awkward moments were becoming shorter and shorter, and lately it took just a few steps back and forth before the switch flipped and I was on autopilot.
Today will be an autopilot day, I reassured myself as I threw on some jeans and a sweater and made my way blearily to the breakfast table. Papy was already sitting there, dressed for work and reading his morning paper. “Up so early?” he asked, lowering the paper to meet my eyes.
“Exactly why my teacher insists on a lesson at nine a.m. on Saturday, I don’t quite get. But I know better than to keep him waiting,” I said, pouring myself some grapefruit juice and grabbing a croissant off the counter.
When I had (somewhat hesitantly) told Mamie and Papy that Vincent had gotten me fencing lessons for my birthday, they were delighted—to my astonishment. I hadn’t realized how popular the sport was in France, or that it had aristocratic connotations. My grandparents weren’t pretentious, but working in the art-and-antiques world gave them an appreciation for anything grounded in history. And what was more historical than swordplay?
Papy went all out and bought me my own suit and épée. I didn’t explain to him that Vincent’s gym housed a fully stocked armory, or that fencing was just one component of my fight training. He would have to buy a battle-ax, quarterstaff, and a half-dozen other weapons to keep up with Gaspard’s training regime.
My grandfather gestured toward a vase of flowers on the hall table. “Found those in the vestibule when I picked up my paper this morning.” A brightly colored nosegay was nestled in a small round vase, with a gift-wrapped package sitting next to it. I opened it and pulled out a book entitled Le Langage des Fleurs. “The Language of Flowers,” I whispered to myself and, opening it, saw an inscription on the title page:
For Kate. You’re already fluent in two languages. I thought a third wouldn’t hurt. Your homework assignment accompanies this book. With affection, Violette de Montauban.
Glancing at the tiny bouquet, I flipped through the pages to look up yellow roses and purple hyacinths and, grinning, shoved the book into my bag and called “Au revoir” to Papy.
Once out the door, I looked around for Vincent, my heart beating a little faster in expectation of seeing him waiting for me, leaning up against the park fence like he usually did. Which is why my heart dropped when I saw Jules there instead. I quickly rearranged my look of disappointment into a careful smile, but he noticed anyway.
“Sorry I’m not your boyfriend. And I mean that in all sorts of ways,” he said with an amused smile as he leaned forward to kiss me on each cheek.
“Where’s Vincent?” I asked, taking the arm he offered as we headed toward his house.
“He’s off doing something for Jean-Baptiste,” Jules said, glancing down at the sidewalk as if he was afraid I would read his mind.
Which sent warning bells off in my head.
I thought back to the awkward stare-down between Vincent and JB at the house meeting, and then to Vincent’s elusiveness last night when I asked what it had been about. There was definitely something going on that he didn’t want me to know.
“And he didn’t think I could find my own way to your house?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.
“Yeah, um … Vincent’s been a bit jumpy lately. About your human vulnerability. With the numa poised to attack at any moment, it’s kind of got him spooked.”
“Do you thin
k he’s overreacting? About my vulnerability, that is,” I asked, looking sideways at him. Okay, I was fishing. But I was hoping I could get more information out of flirty Jules.
“Kate, you are totally kick-ass. But you are still made of flesh and blood. Non-reanimating flesh, that is. So I have to say that I get where Vincent’s coming from.”
I nodded, wishing with all my might that I was as indestructible as them. If I were Charlotte. Or Violette, for God’s sake: fourteen years old, and everyone treated her like she was made of steel. Respect, I reflected. It’s hard to demand respect when something as tiny as a bullet could remove you from existence. Permanently.
“So am I going to get an escort to and from school?” I asked, wondering how far Vincent would go with his paranoia.
“Non,” Jules laughed. “It’s just that Violette got a tip-off yesterday that the numa are on the move. She’s worried that they might be monitoring our house. It’s only because you’re coming to our place that Vincent thought you should have an escort. Don’t worry: After this morning, you can fend for yourself.” And he mock-punched me in the arm. I hit him back … hard. “Damn, girl, you pack a mean punch,” he teased me, which set off a mock scuffle that lasted the rest of the way to La Maison.
Gaspard was waiting for me in the gym, doing some kind of tai-chi-looking stretching exercises. He finished his movement, gave me a slight bow, and then chatted with Jules while I went to put my padded fight outfit on. It was made of a type of slate gray Kevlar that protected me from the more extreme blades in the revenants’ armory. I felt a bit guilty about the expensive, classic-white fencing costume Papy had bought me, which hung untouched in the armory closet. But this higher-tech suit, although it made me look scarily like Kate Beckinsale in Underworld, kept me from getting the nicks and cuts that didn’t bother the revenants.
Jules whistled appreciatively as I walked over to them and took the sword Gaspard held out toward me. “Kate, you look positively … lethal,” he murmured.
