CHAPTER 5

DELETED SCENES

THERE ARE SO MANY REASONS FOR AN AUTHOR to delete scenes from a book. Some are cut for pacing. Sometimes you come up with a better idea and the scene ends up on the trash heap labeled “not quite good enough.” And sometimes the editor gives the author a reality check and very diplomatically says, “This isn’t feeling quite right yet.” Which translates as, “REALLY????” or “That is hands-down the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever read. Try again.” For whatever reason a scene is taken out, it is sometimes fun to go back later and see how an idea developed. I (almost) always think, “Thank the gods that didn’t stay in.” I hope you enjoy these scenes that, for one reason or another, didn’t quite make it into the final books.

DIE FOR ME OUTTAKES

DELETED PROLOGUE

Ten days after I got my driver’s license, my parents died in a car wreck.

And suddenly my life transformed from a not-terribly-exciting color film—about a girl living with her sister and parents in a nice Brooklyn suburb where nothing much happens but everyone’s reasonably happy—into an old black-and-white horror film where you never know what’s going to happen next but, based on the creepy organ music, it can’t be good.

Images from those first couple of parentless days are burned permanently into my memory. . . .

The school principal arriving in the middle of chemistry to pull me out of class: instead of the Evil Overlord expression he usually wears, he looks like he just got slapped, and his flickering, nervous eyes refuse to meet my own.

Georgia sitting there in the principal’s office waiting for me: her vivacious, freckled face is as pale and drained of blood as if she had just been pulled out of a vampire attack instead of AP English.

The policewoman, who was probably assigned to break the news to us because of her gender: She looks slightly constipated as she drily informs us that we are now orphans. Her male partner sits behind her, the apologetic look on his face implying he would have done a much better job.

Auntie Mel flying in from Kansas just hours later: Her disheveled hair, tearstained cheeks, and outstretched arms reaching for us as she runs through our front door make her look like a soprano in some tragic opera standing amid a pile of dead bodies, belting out her aria as if her life depended on it.

Those freeze-frames from the first day are as clear as if they had been printed movie-poster size, ready to be studied minutely over and over again by my searching eyes.

Remembering it now, that day seems to have gone by in seconds flat. And then someone pressed “Slow Motion” and all of a sudden time began to stretch on eternally as I numbly stumbled around a house crowded with relatives. Besides a lot of background noise, the film becomes mostly silent at this point, since I was in too much shock to add any dialogue to the script besides, “I’m fine,” “No, thanks,” and “I’ll be in my room.”

Whole chunks of film from the next few weeks are missing. Sometimes people remind me of something that happened during that time, and I don’t have a clue about what they’re referring to.

Besides the surreal horror of the funeral, things go kind of fuzzy for a while. Like Vaseline was smeared across the camera lens. Luckily, it didn’t matter—I didn’t need to see anything clearly, since my aunt and uncle and our grandparents kind of corralled us in, forming a barrier between my sister and me and the world.

Christmas was just a few days later. I don’t even remember it happening.

It’s funny how, at the worst of times, your true nature seems to be magnified. My tendency toward introversion turned me into a snail that had been poked in the head: I pulled into my shell and just hung out deep inside, waiting until the kid with the stick went away.

Georgia, on the other hand, became even more manic and extroverted than usual, throwing herself into an organizational overdrive. She insisted on personally taking care of all the someone-just-died tasks that you could never imagine even existed.

It was Georgia who decided that we would move to France to live with our grandparents. When she asked my opinion, she had obviously already decided but magnanimously pretended to give me a choice. “It’s either Paris with Papy and Mamie, Cornfield Kansas with Auntie Mel, or Redneck Mountain Tennessee with Uncle Rhett,” she joked.

She paused to let the reality of our options sink into my grief-muddled brain. And then, dropping her frenzied über-planner mask, she allowed herself to be human for two long seconds. She looked at me with an expression that she was way too young to assume, gave me a back-patting hug, and asked softly, “So . . . it’s Paris?”

I nodded, and my life, as it had been, was over.

The film of my first sixteen years on earth came to an end. The credits began to roll, and I stood up from my seat wondering what kind of lame-o director would end a movie just as it was about to become interesting. It wasn’t until much later that I understood that my story up until then had been nothing but a prequel.

KATE DESCRIBING PARIS

It’s hard for me to describe Paris. The city is so beautiful, it takes my breath away.

But I know that’s being way too vague, so I’ll give it a better try. Paris is like New York if you chop off the top of all the buildings so that nothing is higher than seven or eight stories. Then add at least a couple of hundred years to each building’s age. Mix in a ton of trees and parks and run a beautiful, sparkling river through the middle. Then add over a thousand years of historical events that took place on the same spot where you happen to be standing. And you will have a rough idea of what Paris is like.

For example, a girl I used to play with when I came to visit my grandparents every summer lived on a street called rue Saint-Antoine. Just in front of her building was a stretch of road that was used in the Middle Ages for jousts. Jousts! As in with horses and lances and knights in armor . . . right in front of her house. I used to sit on the steps of the church next to her building and stare at the street, re-creating the sounds and colors of the medieval tournaments in my mind. If all the ghosts of Paris’s past could suddenly materialize, you would find yourself surrounded by the most incredible people.

Like on the bridge called Pont Neuf. An old proverb says that the type of people crossing it were so numerous and varied that you couldn’t get from one side to the other without seeing “a monk, a white horse, and a prostitute.” Now that is something I would love to see. I’ve crossed it dozens of times, and the closest I ever came was when I ran into a group of Asian nuns. So I decided to change it to “a businessman talking on a cell phone, a cyclist, and a backpacker.” You’ll definitely see at least one of those when crossing Pont Neuf.

But the inescapable historical face-lift the city’s undergone in the three hundred or so years since the proverb was written hasn’t stopped me from looking—there and everywhere else in Paris—for telltale signs of the ancient city’s past. Coming from the relative newness of New York, all that history squeezed into Paris’s small geographical area has always made me feel light-headed. As if all those invisible jousters, priests, and prostitutes were sucking up the Parisian air around me, leaving barely enough to fill my lungs.

KATE DESCRIBING PARISIAN CAFÉS

I’ve always thought of Parisian cafés as their own universes: little islands of civility and warmth dotted throughout the big city. People go there for three main reasons: to eat, drink, and gawk at other people. Besides an occasional glass of wine at dinner with Mom and Dad, I didn’t drink. But drinking in Paris isn’t like drinking in the States. American teenagers seem to drink with the express purpose of getting drunk. They don’t do that in France. “Drunk” is an extreme, and the French don’t like extremes. Nothing too cold or too hot—it ruins the taste, they say. Your Coke is served slightly chilled, but without ice. And you’ll never get a tongue-scalding cup of coffee.

So the typical café-goer will slowly sip a glass of wine or beer, ordering a second one if they decide to stay for a while. The coffee cups all look like they were stolen from a child’s tea set, but people sit there and nurse them for an hour.

And then there’s the people-watching. It isn’t considered rude in France to stare. So people do. You can’t walk past a café without everyone sitting at the outside tables giving you at least a two-second looking-over. That’s why you never leave your front door dressed in a ratty old sweat suit or anything else you mind being judged in.

My black jeans, green T-shirt, and Converse tennis shoes guaranteed me invisibility in this land of beautiful people wearing stylish clothes. I passed the minimum level of appearance-acceptability, while simultaneously accomplishing inconspicuousness.

KATE DESCRIBING HER GRANDPARENTS’ APARTMENT

If you get out of the Métro (what the subway’s called in Paris) at the stop called rue du Bac, climb up the stairs from the platform to the street, and turn right up a one-lane one-way road, you’re on our street. Walk up the rue du Bac, past a couple of small neighborhood cafés, and some way-too-expensive clothes, interior decor, and antiques stores. If you walk as fast as I do, in five minutes you will reach a park on the left, filled with lush greenery and ancient trees and scattered with green wooden park benches.

Mamie and Papy’s house overlooks the park from the third floor of a six-story building. Thanks to Papy’s successful antiques business, they own the entire floor, including three bedrooms, a salon, dining room, laundry, kitchen, and Papy’s well-stocked library-slash-office. You may not know, but that’s enormous for a Paris apartment. Georgia and I realized we were lucky.

During the warmer months, the window boxes overflow with brightly colored flowers, transforming each of the windows into a carefully arranged still-life painting in your peripheral vision. The rooms are all crammed with antiques, artifacts, and paintings, giving the place a fragrance that’s a cross between Musty Library and Furniture Polish. And as you pass the vases of cut flowers that Mamie has scattered throughout the rooms, you walk through a cloud of freesia or lilac or something else delicious, before moving back into the ancient-odor zone. Living with my grandparents is like living in a museum—one where you can touch everything and even carry things back to your bedroom if you want to see them every day when you wake up.

MONSTER’S BRIDE MINI-CHAPTER

The following is the over-the-top Gothic mini-chapter that originally followed the eight-word Chapter 28. It was Kate’s final struggle with her doubts about falling for Vincent despite what he was. Cue creepy organ music, floor-to-ceiling velvet curtains, spitting fire, and dusty cobwebs.

A switch flipped in my head, and all of a sudden I was in Storybook Mode. Here I was, the young, virginal human girl, sitting amid the splendor of the monster’s lair and being seduced by the stranger dressed in the skin of a beautiful young man. But underneath his disguise was the re-animated body of a man who had died sixty-five years ago. A corpse.

A corpse that had been subjected to numerous violent deaths. A corpse that, when magically moving about, became obsessed by the people it followed. And a corpse that, for three days a month, transformed back into its true form: dead, cold, motionless.

But sitting inches away from me was a crushingly handsome boy with tears in his eyes and hope radiating from his entire being, solely because I had spoken the word “yes.”

You’re accepting the role of the Monster’s Bride. My subconscious lobbed this last thought into the forefront of my mind as the horrific Storybook images finally flickered and died. I willfully banished all other nightmarish thoughts from my head and leaned forward to wrap my arms around my boyfriend.

PRINCESS OUTTAKE

Georgia whistled as she took a look into Jean-Baptiste’s courtyard. “Not bad!” she murmured, leaving me standing at the gates. “Have fun playing princess in your Parisian castle,” she yelled, a bit too loudly, waving good-bye before turning the corner.

Vincent was waiting for me at the front door. “So, now you’re my princess?” he joked.

“I’m nobody’s princess. I’m a strong, liberated woman,” I grumbled, reaching my face up for a kiss. He complied.

THE CATACOMBS FIGHT

“There are some decisions that have to be made, and I need to hear what happened, in detail, from each of your perspectives. I’ll start.” [Jean-Baptiste] set the poker against the fireplace and stood with his hands behind his back, looking everything like a general debriefing his troops.

As Charlotte, Ambrose, and Jules recounted their own parts of the story, with Jean-Baptiste “translating” for Vincent, a tapestry depicting the evening’s events began to weave itself together in my mind. I closed my eyes and could see it as clearly as if I had been there.

The group arrives a few blocks away from the Catacombs entrance and parks on an unlit side street. Jules and Charlotte set off with their guitar cases for the nightclub, while Ambrose waits in a car with Jean-Baptiste. Everyone is tense, not knowing what to expect.

Vincent enters the Catacombs to scout for Charles’s body. He returns, telling Ambrose and Jean-Baptiste that the body is in the Crypt of the Sepulchral Lamp, one of the Catacombs’ central rooms. A fire has been prepared, and the room is guarded by four numa with swords.

“It’s a trap.” Jean-Baptiste confirms all their doubts.

“But what else can we do?” Ambrose finishes his thought. The men arm themselves and proceed down into the dank blackness of the Catacombs.

Vincent finds Jules and Charlotte in the nightclub’s basement, forcing their way through a locked door that opens onto the Catacombs. Neither Georgia nor Lucien is at the party, they report: A bartender informed them that Lucien had left a few minutes earlier. Vincent says he’s found Charles’s body, and, after unloading their cases and arming themselves, the two revenants and volant spirit make their way through the darkness.

They arrive to find Jean-Baptiste and Ambrose tied to columns inside the crypt on either side of the lamp, a giant stone chalice set high on a pedestal with a fire blazing up from inside its cup. Charles’s hacked-up body lies crumpled on the floor a few feet away, not far from the immobile forms of two dead numa.

“We were waiting for you,” a voice says, and an evil-looking figure steps from the shadows, swinging a massive mace toward Charlotte. She dodges easily and with a lightning movement lodges a throwing star deep into his right cheek. He screams and lunges toward her. She runs him through with a spear, lodging the blade tip between the soft stones and spiking him securely against the wall.

The fourth guard has forced Jules against a wall of skulls, knocking several to the ground as he goes for Jules’s neck with a machete. Just then another numa silently slips into the room behind Charlotte, puts a sword to her throat, and commands his kinsman to stop. “They must not be killed,” he says, a flash of gold glinting from his teeth. “Lucien specified that we must keep them alive until he returns.”

“Just this one,” the numa holding Jules begs, poking the machete into the revenant’s chin.

“No,” the other responds, securing Charlotte’s wrists with rope. “Orders were clear. Not until he gets back with the head.”

“With what head?” Jean-Baptiste murmurs, and then yells, “Vincent—quickly! Go back home!”

The newcomer curses and shoves Charlotte against a pillar.

“So,” says Ambrose, “you’re not supposed to kill us? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” And he bursts free from his bonds, lifting his swords from the ground near his feet. “Slice ’em, dice ’em, numa sushi,” he chants as he works with both hands at once, swinging the swords like turbines, making short work of his two remaining enemies.

“Thanks, man,” says Jules, wiping the blood off his punctured chin.

Ambrose frees Jean-Baptiste and then nods toward the five numa bodies on the floor. “Shall we burn them?” he asks, a bit too gleefully for the circumstances.

“No time,” says Jean-Baptiste. “We’ve got to follow Vincent back home. If Gaspard fails to hold Lucien off, he might return with two heads rather than one.”

Ambrose picks up Charles’s body, slings it over his shoulder, and they leave the Catacombs, hacking their way through another half-dozen numa on the way out. Ambrose, going before the rest and using only one arm to fight, receives most of the injuries.

At this detail, Ambrose glanced proudly at me and flexed a bicep for my benefit. I rolled my eyes and shook my head, not managing to hide a grin.

“It doesn’t seem we were followed,” Jean-Baptiste concluded. “Kate”—he turned to me officiously—“would you kindly take over the narrative here?”

UNTIL I DIE OUTTAKES

ALTERNATE WALK HOME FROM NEW YEAR’S PARTY

“Henri sees two of them, just a few streets down, walking in our direction,” Vincent said darkly. “This is getting to be ridiculous! You can’t step out the door nowadays without a half-dozen numa getting in your face. Now tell me you’re glad we’re with you, Kate.”

“Um,” I said nervously as we began walking at a faster pace, “I doubt they would be following if it were just me. I’d probably be safe enough if I weren’t with two walking targets.”

“Aw, man. Not even an hour into the new year and they’re already cramping my style,” said Ambrose, loosening his bow tie. Although he pretended to complain, his expression of excitement gave him away. Ambrose loved a fight. The fact that the Mississippi native had saved his entire World War II tank battalion from German attack with just one machine gun said a lot about his character.

We jogged across the avenue, the boys supporting me by either arm since my high heels made me a bit wobbly. As we headed down a side street toward my grandparents’ building, Vincent said, “Henri says they’re still tailing us.” He looked around at the empty street and said, “Just two blocks to go, Ambrose. Fight or flight?”

Ambrose smiled widely and patted the leather sheath strapped to his side underneath his long coat. “Are you really asking me that question?”

There was no one on the street. If we had stayed on the larger avenue, where the odd couple was roaming, nothing might have happened. Revenants and numa didn’t fight in front of humans, if they could help it. It was part of their attempt to “stay under the radar,” as Vincent had said. Whether it was out of fear of reprisal—being hunted down and destroyed, perhaps, by humans or by other supernatural beings—I had no idea. Ambrose had told me that there were “others,” without being specific. But whatever their motivation, they would not begin one of their crazy heavy-weaponry fights with witnesses around.

The numa could, however, stab and run like they did to Ambrose a few months earlier. If they got both Ambrose and Vincent, Henri would have to return to Jean-Baptiste’s to alert the others to recover the bodies before the numa could take them back to their lair, cut off their heads, and burn them. Because that was the only way a revenant’s death could be permanent.

I shuddered at the thought and threw a glance behind me. Ambrose followed my gaze. “And . . . here they come,” he said in his molasses baritone. Two shapes separated from the side of a building as they came around a corner toward us. One was tall and thin, and the other even taller and brawny. They didn’t seem to be much of a match for Vincent or Ambrose, but I hoped the situation wouldn’t get to the point where my theory was tested.

“Half a block,” murmured Vincent. “Let’s try to get Kate into her front door before they reach us.”

“I second that suggestion,” I said. “I’m not much help dressed like this.” I quickly leaned down and took off my shoes before turning to sprint across the frozen pavement toward my front door. Glancing back, I saw Vincent and Ambrose turn and pull together, walking backward arm against arm and moving slowly in my direction, creating a defensive wall behind me. I reached my door and quickly typed in the digicode. The lock clicked and I flung the door open. “Hurry!” I yelled, standing just inside.

Vincent and Ambrose were ten feet away from me and the numa the same distance from them. They had all four drawn swords and held them low beneath their coats. The numas’ faces were visible now, their evil scowls making them look like demons, which, if you took them at face value, they basically were. Humans who died after betraying someone else to their death. And then spent their immortality killing off whoever else they could in the same manner.

I revised my “who’s stronger” theory and switched into full panic mode. My heart was racing as my protectors stood directly in front of the door and waited as the monsters approached. Just outside sword-waving distance, they stopped. The skinnier one flicked a piece of mud off the toe of his shoe with the tip of his sword and said, “Looks like a pretty ritzy party you’re coming from.”

“Yeah,” said the other in a thick-tongued, gangster-sounding accent. “We were wondering where our invites were.”

“Well, you numa are kind of on the C-list,” explained Ambrose mockingly. “It’s just one of those good zombie, bad zombie things. I hope you understand.”

If possible, their scowls got even deeper. “I’m guessing that humans make it to the B-list?” the thin one said, casting a glance at me.

“No, B-list would be Hitler. Bin Laden . . .” Vincent glanced over at Ambrose, as if looking for help.

“Satan?” Ambrose ventured.

“Satan. Good one.” Vincent nodded. “Yeah, we’d rather invite them than you. But then again, you’ll probably take that as a compliment.”

The wicked smiles that stretched across the two numas’ faces affirmed Vincent’s guess. “If you’re done with the flattery, we can get to business,” the thin man said, lifting his sword from beneath his coat. His partner leaned over to pull a knife from his boot and held it parallel with the sword in his other hand.

“All right!” growled Ambrose. “Bring it on!”

Just then, the noise of a speeding car came from the direction of the avenue, and headlights lit up the dark street. The four men dropped their weapons back beneath their coats and hid their faces from the oncoming vehicle.

ALTERNATE BUFFY-STYLE ENDING OF PHILIPPE’S FUNERAL

I looked directly up into a pair of pale gray eyes. Sneering lips parted to show nicotine-stained teeth, which clenched as the enormous man grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me over his shoulder as easily as if I were a rag doll.

“You’re ours now, little girlie,” he said as he joined two men who waited under a nearby tree. The three men practically oozed evil. There was only one thing they could be. Rising bile stung my throat as I realized that I was being carried off by a band of numa.

The rain had cleared the tourists from the cemetery, allowing us to move unimpeded toward the front gates. Even though there was no one to hear me, I screamed, kicking and hitting my captor as I tried to flail out of his grasp.

“We were planning on using you as bait, but I have nothing against killing you right here on the spot if you so much as wriggle,” the numa walking behind us said. “In fact, girlie, I take that back. You just keep on moving. I feel like eviscerating something today.” He pulled a gigantic hunting knife out of his coat and twisted it inches from my face. I shut up and went limp, letting myself be carried like a bag of potatoes past row after row of tombs.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked softly after a few minutes.

“Home,” the man carrying me grunted.

“Our home,” the knife wielder said.

“Where we’ll have plenty of time to play with our new toy before her boyfriend comes to rescue her,” said the third, with a deranged-sounding laugh that paralyzed me with fright.

“Playtime’s over,” came a fourth voice from nearby. “Put her down.” I knew this voice: It was the voice I heard in all my dreams. I allowed myself a split second to close my eyes in relief before giving one violent thrash with my entire body, causing my captor to lose his hold on me. I dropped to the ground on my hands and knees, and using an evasive technique Gaspard had taught me, rolled a few feet out of the way before springing back to my feet, my hands lifted in fists before me.

Vincent was striding toward us through the tombstones, his dark face lethal. In his clenched jaw and stone-cold eyes I caught a glimpse of the wild, inconscient warrior he must have been during his vengeance-wreaking years after the war. Without slowing his pace, he passed a statue of a guardian angel, grabbed the marble sword from its hand, breaking it off at the hilt, then swung it at the head of my attacker, felling him with one violent blow. The man lay motionless on the ground as his two cronies backed up a step, one brandishing the hunting knife and the other drawing a sword.

Vincent ran to my side, pulling me farther away from the numa, and revealing Ambrose and Arthur, who stepped out from behind him.

“Just having a little fun,” said one of the numa, in a creepily reptilian voice. His eyes darted from side to side as he backed up, and I could see him weighing whether or not he could make a run for it.

“Us too,” Ambrose said, and wrenching an iron spike off a metal gate, he thrust it through the knife-wielding monster, picking him up off the ground as if he weighed as much as a pillow, and threw him to one side.

Arthur went after the third numa, drawing two short-swords from inside his coat. They sparred for a few minutes, the ancient revenant’s two-weapon technique confusing his challenger. This drew jeers from Ambrose, who was watching them like it was a spectator sport. His taunting befuddled the numa even more, who made a few useless jabs before Arthur moved forward, swinging his swords like a turbine, stabbing the man through the heart with one blade and swiftly beheading him with the other.

“He might be ancient as the hills, but you got to give the guy top points for style,” Ambrose crowed.

Arthur threw one sword each to Vincent and Ambrose, who effortlessly lopped off their own victims’ heads, while Arthur took out a cell phone and notified Jean-Baptiste that they needed to dispose of three bodies. He slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and nodded to Vincent. “Your ambulance driver will pick them up and have them cremated before the day’s out,” he said. “I’ll wait here with the bodies until he arrives.”

“Aww, now that’s a real shame,” said Ambrose. “If we built a bonfire right here, I’ll bet we could attract a whole drum circle of hippie kids from Jim Morrison’s grave and have a regular ol’ marshmallow roast.”

“Ambrose,” I said, my faculty of speech finally returning, “that’s disgusting.” I looked at the mutilated bodies on the ground and felt sick. Vincent was back by my side in a second and hugged me to him, turning me away from the gore.

“Aw, now, Katie-Lou,” Ambrose replied. “They’re just monsters. There’s no such thing as respect for the dead in their case. It’s just good riddance and move on.”

“I know that,” I said, raising my chin to prove it didn’t bother me. “I’ve killed one myself. I’m just not used to seeing . . .” My eyes flitted back to the blood gushing from the headless corpse and I blanched.

“You don’t have to prove anything to us. You killed the big boss. We’re just mopping up the henchmen,” Vincent said. He put an arm around my shoulders, steering me away from the bloody scene and whispered, “I’ll take you home now.”

His voice was calm, but his face showed an emotion that I had never seen there. It was fear. Even though Vincent had looked as dangerous as a mercenary while he fought, underneath it all he had been afraid. For me.

DELETED GUÉRISSEUR SCENE

I wrote this when I was trying to figure out who the guérisseur was and where he was located. Luckily, Bran stepped in and introduced himself before I went much further.

Vincent always drives the speed limit when I’m in the car, claiming defensive driving in a city of crazy drivers. When I point out that a mere car crash wouldn’t take him out, he assures me that it’s for my safety, not his own.

Jules obviously doesn’t feel the same, because we arrived in the little town exactly two hours later, my adrenaline still pumping from his supersonic speed on the highway. “The less time we’re away from Paris, the less trouble I’m going to get in with Vincent,” he explained. I personally wasn’t feeling bad about the going-behind-Vincent’s-back part of things, especially knowing that he was tromping around Paris trying to find a numa to kill, thinking I didn’t know about it.

As we followed the sign into Briançon, I watched the GPS on the dashboard. “Maybe park here,” I said as we got to the town square. “The house is just a block or so away.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Jules asked for the fortieth time.

“Nope,” I said as we got out of the car. Spying a tiny café at one end of the square, I pointed to it and said, “But you can wait for me there.”

“The answer to that command is ‘Non, madame la capitaine.’ Not on your life am I going to let you walk into some country guy’s house on your own. You guilt-tripped me into bringing you here by appealing to my sense of duty in guarding you. Now you’ve got to live with what you asked for.”

We stared each other down for a few seconds. But when I saw he wouldn’t budge, I nodded and walked with him in the direction of the house. I was starting to feel nervous, unsure of how I would handle things when I got there.

We walked up to a gated yard filled with a crazy arrangement of bushes and empty flower beds. There was no sense to the garden’s layout, but it was obvious that someone spent a lot of time weeding, pruning, and trimming everything within an inch of its botanical life. Not to mention the ceramic garden gnomes—they were everywhere. I checked the number on the gate again. Yes, this was the right place.

I had been imagining something more haunted-house-looking. Instead, it felt like I was right back in Brooklyn, where a few old ladies in our neighborhood had specialized in wacky gardens. Like our neighbor, who had three plaster geese in the yard that she dressed differently every day according to the weather. The fear that twisted my stomach for the last couple hours was fading, and quickly being replaced by a sense of bemusement.

A small, round man with poppy-red cheeks walked out of the house, hands in pockets, and said cautiously, “Can I help you folks?”

“He’s all yours,” murmured Jules, and took a step backward.

“Um, yes. Are you Monsieur Pelletier?”

“In the flesh,” he said, looking wary.

“I have a bad case of . . . eczema. My grandfather knew of your family and told me you were the best person to see.”

“Well, did he now?” the man said, loosening up. He walked to the gate and, opening it, put an arm out to herd us into the yard. “Just come this way. What is your grandfather’s name?”

“Um, Mercier.” Might as well keep to the truth as much as possible.

“Hmm. Common enough name, but I can’t say I remember a Mercier visiting us.”

“Apparently it was a long time ago,” I said, smiling as I watched Jules pick his way carefully through the gnomes.

“In that case, he probably saw my father, or maybe even my grandmother,” the man mused as he opened the door to his house. It was dark and warm inside, with a fire burning in one corner. Every surface of the room was filled with little glass and porcelain figurines, punctuated by tacky memorabilia from French tourist sites.

“Just come over here where it’s warm and have a seat,” he said, sitting down in a worn green easy chair and motioning for me and Jules to take two others. “You say you have eczema. Let’s have a look at it.”

“Actually . . .” I paused, thinking fast “. . . it’s not really eczema that I’m here to see you about.”

“A baby then? No. I would have been able to tell right away if you and the monsieur were expecting a happy event.” He glanced over at Jules for the first time, and his jolly expression changed quickly to one of alarm. His eyes narrowed like he couldn’t quite focus on Jules’s face, and he seemed to be trying to melt backward into his chair. The man looked scared to death.

Jules stared at me and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry that I misled you,” I said, trying to drag the man’s attention back to myself. “I didn’t want you to turn me away. I came because someone told me your family has the power to discern if someone has a latent . . . predisposition.”

The man’s gaze swung back to me. “What type of predisposition?”

“I want to know if I am a latent revenant,” I said, wondering if he would even know what I was talking about.

For a moment, he seemed to be trying to remember something. As it clicked in his mind, the confusion left his face and his eyes widened in shock. “Is that what . . . he is?” he asked, pointing his thumb toward Jules.

“Yes, it is,” Jules said calmly, while throwing me a What the hell are you doing? look.

“Then, you do have that ability?” I asked simply, now wondering if this whole idea had been a big mistake.

The man’s expression quickly changed to one of uncertainty. “I . . . I don’t really know. I remember my grandmother talking about it. But she had never been asked to use that gift. I don’t even know if her own mother had.”

With an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, I began to stand. “I am so sorry to have bothered you, Monsieur Pelletier.”

“Now, now,” he said, standing himself but gesturing for me to stay seated. “Let’s not be hasty here. You came to use my gift. I let you into my house. Now I have an obligation to help you. The rules are the rules no matter how out of the ordinary the case might be.” He stared at Jules uncomfortably. “So you’re undead, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jules responded, looking as awkward as if the man had asked him if he wore briefs or boxers.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” the man muttered as he shuffled out of the room. “Be right back,” he yelled. “Don’t leave!”

“What are you playing at?” Jules hissed as soon as the man was out of sight. “What do you mean, asking if you’re a revenant? This is completely insane!”

“I know what Vincent is doing,” I said, leaning toward the pissed-off revenant. “I know he’s following the Dark Way.”

“Hey,” Jules said, holding his hands up in the air, “I sure as hell wasn’t the one who told you!”

“No, you didn’t, but I know anyway. And I don’t want him to feel he has to do that for me. It just seems like all our problems would be solved if I was a revenant like him.”

Jules shook his head in amazement. “All your problems would be solved? What . . . by you having to die? Not even knowing if you’ll reanimate?”

“That’s why we’re here,” I protested.

“Even so! Even if this guy tells you that you have the latent possibility of becoming a revenant, are you going to believe him?” Jules waved his hand toward the hundreds of knickknacks as proof of the man’s craziness.

“I don’t know. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to find out. At least if he gives me a definitive no, I can put that hope behind me.”

“You hope to be a revenant? You hope to be locked into an eternity of living to die? Over and over again? Of becoming obsessed with your rescues? Of being bound by something that controls you?”

“Saving people’s lives isn’t such a dishonorable raison d’être,” I spat back.

Jules sighed. “You’re right, Kate. There is a fulfilling side to being what we are. To knowing that you have saved people—delivered them from death for however more years they remain on earth. Changing their future, and that of their family and loved ones. But there are so many drawbacks to being a revenant.”

“More drawbacks than being human?” I asked.

Unable to answer, he just pitched himself back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Monsieur Pelletier returned holding an ancient-looking notebook and flipping through its pages as he walked. “Let’s see here . . . ,” he murmured, and then, glancing up at me, explained, “My grandmother’s notes.”

He sat down in his armchair and continued turning the thin pages, which were filled with old, spidery-looking writing. “Warts, burns, eczema”—he stopped and peered more closely at a faded page—“‘Them,’” he read. Looking up at Jules, he said, “She only refers to your type here as ‘Them.’ But I know you’re what she’s talking about. Stories have been passed down through the family.”

“Like what?” asked Jules.

“Are you family?” the man asked abruptly.

“No,” Jules admitted, taken aback.

“Then don’t ask.” He looked down at his book. “Mamie wasn’t very good about explaining things. When she passed the gift to my dad, she just told him to trust his instincts. Which is exactly what he said when he handed the gift to me. Dead now, both of them, so it’s not like I can call them up and ask.”

“What’s the book say?” I asked, impatient. I couldn’t see what was written from where I was sitting, but there wasn’t much on the page.

“Well, it says, ‘Them’ and then it says, ‘You can tell from their aura.’” He closed the book. “That’s all it says.”

“Do I have an aura?” I asked.

“Of course, everyone has an aura,” he responded, as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard.

“Well?” I asked. “What’s it tell you?”

“See, now, I’m not really sure. You have a human aura, but it’s a strange one, that’s for sure. It’s kind of sizzling, shooting off little sparks around you. Whereas his”—he looked back at Jules, shaking his head as he studied him—“his looks like a damn forest fire. Never seen anything like it. He’s definitely one of ‘Them.’”

“What’s all that supposed to mean?”

“Where you from?” he asked, sidestepping my question.

“New York.”

“Well, you see. I don’t get out much. Been to the beach a couple times. Went up to Normandy once.” He pointed toward an ashtray with a picture of a boat on it as if providing evidence. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever met someone from New York before. Especially someone who keeps this type of company,” he said, nodding to Jules. “So maybe you don’t have that odd of an aura for someone like that.”

“Your aura can change with the people you hang out with?” I asked suspiciously.

“Nice teenage kid starts hanging out with the wrong crowd at school—stealing, doing drugs, whatever—their aura can change from one week to the next. Core stays the same. It’s the part around the edges that changes.”

“But you can’t tell from mine if it has the potential to be like his,” I said, interrupting him.

“Of course not. You’d have to die first.” This pronouncement sent him into a fit of coughing, as if all this excitement was too much for his lungs to take. “That’s enough to change anyone’s aura,” he said when he had composed himself.

This was a total waste of time, I thought, and began to rise.

“Listen, missy. All I can tell is you’re different from any other human being I know. That’s for sure. But heck, as far as I know, you might be some other sort of . . . mystical being or whatever it is these guys are. You might not be one of them. Might be something else completely.”

He pried himself from his chair and said, “Sorry I can’t be of more help. I could keep looking into it . . . see if I can’t find anything else in my ancestors’ documents. Let me just write down my telephone number for you,” and he left the room again. I heard him digging around in the hallway while Jules and I grabbed our coats and walked toward the door.

Jules picked up a ceramic figurine standing among a dozen others on the entry table. It was a dancing fawn playing the panpipes. “Believe in me, little girl,” Jules said in a tiny voice, jiggling the fawn as it spoke. “My owner knows the secrets of the universe. Which is why he keeps me and a hundred other freaky knickknacks hanging around his living room.”

“Put that down,” I whispered to Jules as Monsieur Pelletier bustled back into the room holding a piece of paper in his extended hand. “Call me in a few weeks. Probably won’t have anything else for you, but you never know.”

Jules bowed slightly as he started out the door.

I nudged him, and he set the fawn figurine back on the table. “Just wanted a souvenir from this nuthouse,” I heard him mutter.

“Thank you,” I said, turning to face the man once I was outside on his doorstep.

He glanced briefly at Jules and lowered his voice. “It’s probably none of my business, but why’s a nice girl like you getting mixed up with a bunch of monsters?”

“They’re not monsters. They’re more like angels.”

“They’re the walking dead. Why do you want to know if you’re like them? Got a death wish or something?”

“No. I’m in love with one.”

That shut him up for an entire ten seconds. He rubbed the top of his head miserably and said, “Dangerous company you’re keeping. That’s all I’ve got to say. In any case, I feel bad I wasn’t able to do anything for you.” With visible effort, he replaced his concerned expression with a joking smile. “You don’t have any warts, now, do you?”

“No,” I said, stifling a laugh. “No eczema, no warts, no baby. But I’ll be sure to call you if anything changes.”

He nodded and put his hand up in the air for a final good-bye.

Jules was waiting for me on the other side of the gnome minefield. When I looked back, the door was closed. The man had disappeared inside, and with him, my one chance to discover if I could hope for a different future.

ALTERNATE “KATE GETS BANNED” SCENARIO

The next day Georgia and I stepped out of the Métro at the rue du Bac stop to see a welcome committee waiting for us. Violette, Ambrose, and Jules were lined up in front of the magazine kiosk, standing solemn and unspeaking, as if they didn’t know one another.

“Wow, what happened here? You found a wrinkle and finally realize you’re as old as the crypt-keeper?” Georgia jibed, looking Violette up and down as if they were the last two competitors in a beauty pageant.

As soon as she spoke, Jules approached me so fast he was almost running. “Kate, everything’s going to be okay. I told Violette and Ambrose not to come, but JB told Ambrose to tell you, and Violette wanted to be here to support you. But I wanted to be the one. . . .”

He paused, seeing the confusion on my face, and, ignoring everyone else, took me into his arms. “This is pure stupidity, Kate. It has nothing to do with any of us, and we will fight it to the end.”

“Fight what? What happened?” I asked, pulling back and searching those chestnut-brown eyes that felt as familiar to me now as a brother’s.

Ambrose and Violette walked forward until they were flanking us, and Ambrose said with a shake of his head, “Katie-Lou, Jean-Baptiste has banned you from coming to the house. And he wants us to stay away from you. He asked me to give you the message. But off the record, I have to say, I think he has gone completely bonkers. And although the house is his, we’re not. No one’s going to abandon you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, stunned. As the realization of what they were saying set in, my body went slack and Jules tightened his grip on me.

“He says he has reason to think you were fraternizing with numa. That you passed them some valuable information,” Violette responded. Pulling me away from Jules, she took my hands lightly in her own. “Oh, dear Kate. What abominably horrible news to pass on to someone I consider a friend.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Um, excuse me, she’s mine,” Georgia said, jerking me away from Violette’s grasp.

“Georgia!” I hissed, touching Violette’s arm in contrition.

“I have to say, I’ve been waiting for this,” my sister said, grabbing my hand back and holding it in hers. “That aristo-snob stepfather of yours has gone too far this time. Banning me from your house, I understand. I made a very unfortunate choice in hooking up with an evil zombie whose only goal in his happily shortened afterlife was destroying the lot of you. I’m also not always Little Miss Sunshine and Daisies. If I don’t like someone, they’re going to know it.” With this, she threw a burning glare in Violette’s direction.

“But”—and she hesitated here, long enough to look the revenants in the eyes, each in turn—“my sister is better than me. She’s a prize. More loyal to people than they ever merit. If your leader”—and she paused on this word, as if challenging them to contest his control—“doesn’t have faith in her, well then, he doesn’t deserve her. None of you do.” And taking me by the arm, Georgia pulled me away from them and across the street toward home.

I awoke the next morning with a sense of expectancy. Something was different. I could feel it as my brain moved from fuzzy to clear. And then, before anything could register, I heard my phone ring. I picked it up and groggily said, “Hi.”

“Kate, before you open your eyes . . . know that I love you.”

And then it all came back. The hot flush of shame bleeding down through my face. I was banned. Banned from the house of the one who I loved. Banned from my only real friends. Although they said they wouldn’t respect Jean-Baptiste’s wishes, my seeing them would put them in opposition to the man who was like a father to them. I couldn’t be responsible for that. I was basically alone now.

As if he heard my thoughts, Vincent responded, “You’re not alone. We’re all behind you.”

“You’re not all behind me. Jean-Baptiste actually banned me. He said he thought I was the leak. As if!”

“I know, Kate. I spoke with everyone this morning as soon as I became volant. Jean-Baptiste refuses to tell me why he did what he did. Trust me—I don’t think I will ever forgive him.”

“Vincent,” I breathed. “The last thing I want to do is pit you against Jean-Baptiste. But I wish I could understand. What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” came Vincent’s words. “I don’t know what has possessed him, but as soon as he realizes his error, he will regret it. And when he realizes how much he has hurt me by hurting you—unfoundedly—I can only hope that things will change. Permanently. Kate . . . this will all turn out fine. Better than fine. I promise. I’m coming back. Today. I’ll be at your house by tonight.”

That day at school was pure hell. It didn’t matter what Vincent had said. Or that no one at school had any clue what I was mixed up in. Forget the Scarlet Letter. A red A sewn to my sweater would have been a welcome alternative to feeling like I was wearing a huge sign that read, Rejected—by dead people.

But when three o’clock came around, I found Jules and Ambrose waiting outside the school in their 4x4. Georgia took one look at them and walked directly to the bus stop. For my sister to refuse a ride home, I knew she was making a major statement.

“So,” I said, hands on my hips, “what are you guys doing here at the American School of Paris?”

“Um, officially, Katie-Lou, we’re ‘walking.’” Ambrose said, making the huge vehicle look like a baby’s playpen as he popped the top back and lifted his massive frame up from within.

“That would mean you’re protecting a human from life-threatening circumstances,” I said, peering around behind myself as if looking for someone being pounced on in the ultrasafe Parisian suburb.

“Come on, Kates,” Jules said. “We’re just checking on you. Vincent told us you didn’t want him hanging around today. We thought we could cheer you up.”

I eyed them for a few seconds, and then asked, “Hey, do you guys have business expenses?”

They both stared at me quizzically.

“Do you have one of Jean-Baptiste’s credit cards?” I clarified. The two boys nodded, confused.

“Georgia!” I called. “We’re going out. Jean-Baptiste’s treat!”

My sister was in the 4x4 in ten seconds flat.

For some crazy reason, knowing that Jean-Baptiste paid for high tea for four at Angelina made me feel a lot better. Like he had said “sorry”—only against his will. Over the steaming-hot pots of chocolate and plates of meringues and butter cookies, we talked about everything but the reason I was there and not back hanging out with Vincent’s dead body in his bedroom.

But finally I had to say something. “Gaspard told me . . . well, I sort of tricked him into telling me . . . that it was Arthur who told JB I had talked to the numa. As if I would even know any numa to talk to!”

A look passed between Ambrose and Jules. “Yeah, we heard that,” Ambrose said. “But it’s not his fault, he just passed along the message from another revenant.”

“Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Arthur has something against me? Maybe not as a human, but because he doesn’t think humans and revenants should mix? Maybe he wants me out of the house, and this was a good opportunity?” I asked, slathering a dollop of whipped cream atop my cup of melted chocolate.

“Ha!” Ambrose laughed. He shoveled half the cookies off the three-tiered platter in the middle of the table and onto his delicate flowered plate.

“You guys know that I’m totally innocent,” I insisted.

“Yes, we do,” Jules said, reaching over and tousling my hair. “But we also know that Arthur is one solid dude.”

“So what do you guys think?” I asked. “Who would leak information about your house to the numa?”

Ambrose shrugged. He studied a macaroon as if he were hoping it would double in size from the pure intensity of his stare.

“There isn’t one among us who would betray the rest of the group to our enemies. It’s unimaginable. Therefore, it had to be some sort of mistake,” Jules said matter-of-factly, and raised his hand to flag the waiter.

(Much later, after Violette has betrayed them all . . .)

Jean-Baptiste looked at me curiously for a second and then shook his head dismissively. “Now that Arthur has explained everything, I believe that Violette was lying. But I must impress upon you the fact that I had to trust her. She is one of us.”

“So just because she’s a revenant and I’m human, that makes her more credible than me?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel now that she’s gone all Anakin Skywalker on you?”

“Kate, you have to understand, we live by a certain creed. I would always believe a revenant over a human.”

“Looks like that’s turned out real well for you,” I seethed. I seriously wanted to hurt this man.

“You are completely justified in your anger, Kate. How can I convince you of my regret? Besides, of course, reversing the ban on you. And your sister. You are both of course welcome—”

I cut him off. “You know where you can put your welcome, you hypocritical old bastard. All I want is my boyfriend back.”

KATE GOES WITH AMBROSE TO LOOK FOR VINCENT’S BODY

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. A blast of heavy-metal music came through the earpiece, as a voice speaking in an American accent said, “I’m parked in front of the house, Katie-Lou. Put on your fighting gear and get your butt outside. We’re going to find your boyfriend.”

We looked like a scene straight out of a fantasy role-playing game: a dozen characters entering a cave, dressed in leather and Kevlar and carrying enormous medieval-looking weapons.

Ambrose had decided to lead a search party to the man-made caves, old gypsum mines, that honeycomb beneath Montmartre. Not only had Violette met the numa at Sacré-Coeur, but several of the Paris revenants reported back to Jean-Baptiste that they had sighted numa in the area, so it seemed a logical choice.

Jules had gone with a group led by Gaspard, who was following another tip in the south of Paris. Without a volant guide, we were entering the caves with no idea of what we would find inside. Even so, I wasn’t afraid. Over the last hour my despair had transformed into a burning determination. The only thing that mattered to me was finding Vincent, and I was ready to face anything to get to him. I could tell that the others felt the same: The revenants accompanying us marched unflinchingly forward, with jaws set and weapons at the ready.

The cave opening was large enough to drive a car into, and the fresh tire tracks in the dusty cave soil made it clear that someone had been there recently. Our party filed silently in, and then, following Ambrose’s gesture, turned to walk two by two into a dark passageway leading downhill from the entrance.

The musty cave odor mixed in my nostrils with something more sinister. It smelled like death down there. Like rot and decay. The oscillating light of Ambrose’s flashlight cast evil shadows down the rough-hewn walls, and I saw in its farthest-cast beams that we were approaching a larger room.

But before we reached the end of the passageway, we were cut off by two leather-clad numa who lunged from either side of the opening and let out bloodcurdling battle cries as they swung massive spiked maces at us. The short, slight bardia who was at the front of our group was immediately struck down, his body thrown aside like a sack of laundry. Ambrose blocked the second numa’s swing and handily lopped off his head with one stroke of his curved saber.

We stormed out from the tunnel and into the cavern as one of our companions, a tall dark-skinned woman, drove a metal lance through the other numa’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall of the cave. “Talk!” she insisted.

Wincing in pain, the numa quickly rearranged his face into a sneer. “You’re too late,” he said, spitting his words like missiles. “They’re all gone, and they took your wonder-boy’s body with them.”

“Where did they go?” said Ambrose, his voice pitched dangerously low.

“Even if I knew, why would you think I would tell you?”

“Because I might spare your pitiful afterlife and let you go.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the numa said defiantly.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t,” said Ambrose with a shrug, and swung his saber so hard against the man’s neck that the blade lodged firmly in the soft stone wall as the head above it and the body below fell to the ground.

“Check out those tunnels.” Ambrose nodded toward a couple of passageways leading off from the larger room we were standing in.

“Not you, Katie-Lou,” he called as I fell in line with a group. “Remember, you don’t come back to life if you get killed.”

I turned to face him, my sword in hand. “Ambrose, I want to go. I need to help.” With the adrenaline of the chase speeding through my veins, I ached to move. I couldn’t just sit and wait.

“You can help,” he said, and gestured toward the revenant boy who lay motionless on the floor, his face crushed and bloody. A man had shrugged off his leather duster and was spreading it on the ground next to the body.

I blanched. “I can’t look at that,” I said, looking back at Ambrose.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Gore. It’s gory. Really gory. And I’m . . . not used to it.” As if I needed another difference to point out to him, but I knew my limitations. Fainting or throwing up was the last thing I wanted to do.

“Oh, right,” Ambrose said, and helped the man move the body onto the makeshift gurney, then whipped off his jacket and laid it over the upper part of the boy’s body. I took the end of the duster in my hands and helped the man carry the light load down the long passageway and out of the cave to one of the cars.

As we laid the boy carefully in the backseat, I realized that if I had been a dozen feet farther along, it could be me lying there dead with half my head bashed in. Ambrose was right. Unlike this boy, I wouldn’t reanimate in three days. Once dead, I was gone. Permanently.

And for the hundredth time, I felt an overwhelming sense of not belonging. Anywhere. I had been training with the revenants. I knew their secrets and held their symbol around my neck. I was part of their world now, and they were a major part of mine. But I was not one of them.

Neither was I comfortable in the skin of the human teenage girl I had been a year ago. I had gone too far now—out of the world of believing only what you can see and into one where the mystical was mundane.

Vincent had been my link with the revenants. But—if I were honest with myself—without him I would be drifting between the two worlds with no anchor to ground me and no oars to navigate. I pushed that thought out of my head. We will find him, I promised myself.

By the time we returned to the cave, the search parties had returned. Now that I had time to look around, I saw that the large room we were assembled in was packed with weapons and simple furniture, suggesting that it had been used as a hideout. And from the cavern’s state of disarray, it seemed that the numa sentry had been telling the truth: It had been recently and abruptly abandoned.

Ambrose looked up from the discussion he was having. “The white delivery van you described is parked at a side entrance. There was blood on the floor of the van, Kate. Vincent was here. They must have transferred him to another vehicle and left in it.” He clasped my arm as if to comfort me, and I broke his gaze and stared at the floor.

“If we had gotten here earlier,” I began.

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” he responded, lowering his head to look me in the eyes. “And we’re only getting started.” His phone vibrated and he picked it up. “Yeah?”

He listened for a few seconds, and then sighed in resignation.

“What?” I asked, my body buzzing with alarm.

“Just a sec, Gaspard.” He glanced up at the others, who were listening attentively, and then looked directly at me. “Gaspard’s group got a numa to talk. Violette and some others have taken Vincent’s body out of the city. The guy only knew that they were headed south.” Whispers and murmuring broke out around me.

Ambrose filled Gaspard in on what we had found. “Yep. Yep. Yeah, we’re coming back,” he said, and stuck his phone in his pocket. “We’re regrouping at La Maison,” he announced. “Let’s get back to the cars, but take as many of these weapons as you can carry.” I tried to ignore the fact that his determined expression had been replaced by disappointment.

“What’s this mean? Where do we look next?” I said, unwilling to accept that we were just . . . giving up.

Ambrose jostled a two-handed sword to detach it from the wall. “We have no other leads, and no clue where the numa are taking Vincent. Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard are working on a longer-term plan.” His eyes met mine. “Because in the short term, Katie-Lou, there’s nothing else we can do but wait to hear from them.”

We formed a convoy of cars on the way back to Jean-Baptiste’s house. I rode silently beside Ambrose as the sky above the city changed from cotton-candy pink into a rash of brilliant red in one of Paris’s spectacular early winter sunsets. I was transported back to the months after my parents’ death, where at every turn I felt like nature was mocking my despair with its beauty. How could the world go on—how could sunsets and the warm twinkling beauty of Paris at twilight continue—when Vincent was helpless in the hands of his enemies? Nothing made sense.

ALTERNATE ENDING

I awoke in a cloud of grogginess the next morning to hear my alarm beeping softly on my bedside table. I opened an eye to look at my clock. Six a.m. Why is my alarm going off so early? I wondered. And then, realizing it was my cell phone, I was awake in an instant.

Ambrose, I thought as I reached past the clock to grab the telephone. I had called him one last time at two in the morning, just before falling into a dreamless sleep. At that point they still had no news. No one could find a trace of the numa. They had all disappeared.

I picked up the phone to see that it was a blocked number, and pressed the button to answer. “Yes?”

“Kate,” came that familiar voice with the tone of a little girl and the gravity of an older woman. But now it was colored with something else. It had slipped over the dark edge of the vocal spectrum and was now resonant with evil. “Since you’re so fond of supernatural beings, I hope you’ll enjoy snuggling up with a ghost. I have Vincent’s body, but his spirit’s all yours.”

“Where are you keeping him?” I whispered, my throat constricted to the point that I could barely push the words out.

“Somewhere no one can get him. And if they try, it’s poof—up in smoke for poor Vincent. Yesterday I swore I’d kill you, Kate. I sincerely hope to have that pleasure someday. Until then . . .” And she hung up.

I was out of bed in a second, throwing on my clothes and dashing out of the apartment and down the stairs. But before I could get to the front door, I stopped motionless in my tracks. An enormous vase of white lilies stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking my way.

I didn’t need a book to tell me that white lilies were for funerals. And I knew without a doubt who had put them there and why.

Shoving the arrangement out of the way, knocking flowers and water the length of the vestibule, I ran out the door into the street. I sprinted the whole way to the rue de Grenelle and, upon arriving at the gate, leaned on the doorbell with all my force. Jules answered, pushing the button to open the gate as soon as he heard my frantic voice.

The early morning sun had turned the fountain into a giant sundial: The statue of the angel cast a shadow that stretched toward me down the length of the courtyard. I ran down its gray path to the door and threw myself, weeping, into Jules’s arms as he opened it.

Wobbling a bit, he whispered, “Careful, Kates. I’m still weak.” And then, leaning up against the door frame, he held me for the longest time, finally pushing me back so that he could see my face.

I struggled to compose myself enough to speak. “It’s Violette,” I sobbed. “She just called. She said she’s keeping Vincent’s body. That if we try to rescue him, she’ll destroy it. What are we going to do?”

Jules raised a hand to his brow. “Oh, Kate.”

Something was wrong. I could sense it before I saw anything different. But when Jules lowered his hand from his face and looked straight into my eyes, there was something there. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something in the way that he was looking at me was different. I took a step back.

Jules grasped my shoulders softly and tilted his handsome, rugged face slightly to the side with a look like he was about to cry too.

“What? What is it?” I said, a sudden fear scraping my heart like a knife.

“Kate. It’s me,” he said, smoothing a tear-drenched lock of hair off my face and securing it behind my ear. “I’m here with Jules. It’s me—Vincent.”

IF I SHOULD DIE OUTTAKES

CHARLOTTE MEETS MAMIE

I sat up cautiously, wincing as I felt a dual pain in the middle and upper part of my chest: grief and my cracked collarbone, both compliments of Violette. I tightened the Ace bandage the doctor had given me and made my way to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I poked at the swollen flesh beneath my eyes and then pulled out a concealer stick and went to work making myself look normal. Even though I didn’t have a plan, I knew I had to do something, and I didn’t want to lose a second sitting around my grandparents’ and mourning.

I headed toward the kitchen.

“So tell me, dear, are you one of them too?” I heard Mamie say.

“One of who?” came a girl’s voice. I recognized it and my heartbeat accelerated.

“One of those . . . you know . . . revenants.”

“Um . . .”

“Charlotte!” I yelled, and threw my arms around her as she rose from the table. “You came back.”

“Oh, Kate. Geneviève and I jumped on a train as soon as we heard what happened,” she whispered. She glanced furtively at my grandmother, who sat at the table behind a tiny cup of espresso.

“I told Mamie,” I admitted. “Everything. I had to.”

Charlotte relaxed, her hair falling in long wheaten strands around her face and her green eyes darkened with sorrow. She and my grandmother exchanged a look of complicity, and then she met my eyes. “I am so sorry about Vincent.”

“So am I,” I said, coughing to clear the lump from my throat.

“What can be done, dear Charlotte?” asked Mamie.

We sat down at the table. Charlotte picked up the coffee that Mamie had set out for her and sipped at it pensively.

“Not much right now,” she admitted, glancing at me curiously. “How much did you tell . . . ,” she began to ask.

“You can say anything in front of Mamie, Charlotte. Jean-Baptiste kind of scoped my grandparents out a few months ago and decided they were trustworthy. Vincent faced off with the numa in Papy’s gallery, so he already knew. And the way things are, I could hardly keep hiding it from Mamie.”

Mamie lifted her chin and said, “After my chat with my granddaughters last night, I don’t think that anything would surprise me. Don’t spare the details: I want to know exactly what’s going on. I’m sturdier than I look.”

Charlotte eyed my grandmother’s ramrod-straight posture, pink tweed skirt-suit, and power hairdo, and said, “Madame Mercier, I can’t think of many people sturdier than you.”

Mamie nodded approvingly. “Then proceed, my dear.”

“Okay. What we’re hoping is that once Violette uses Vincent’s spirit, she will cast him off and he will be able to return to us. But since we don’t know what her plans are once she gets his power, we don’t know how proprietary she will be with him. All we can do now is wait.”

Mamie folded her hands on top of the table and leaned toward Charlotte. “Why don’t you revenants just break into the castle and force Violette to release Vincent’s ghost?”

“Well, that’s what some wanted to do, but Gaspard—he’s kind of our scholar-in-residence—is afraid that Violette might be able to harm Vincent in some other way. Like make his spirit disappear or something . . . I didn’t really understand.”

I hadn’t noticed I was squeezing the tablecloth for dear life until Mamie’s cup rattled in its saucer and she shot me a concerned look. I had thought that the worst had already been done to Vincent. That no more harm could come to him. Now it sounded like I had been wrong. “If a group’s going to the castle, I should go with them,” I said.

“No, you shouldn’t,” insisted Charlotte and Mamie in the same breath.

“It wouldn’t do any good, Kate,” Charlotte said. “There’s nothing you could do. Arthur already took a contingent to Langeais early this morning, and the only thing they can do is keep the castle under surveillance. Watch who comes and goes so at least we have an inkling of what’s going on.”

Something occurred to me. “How about Jules? Was he able to find Vincent last night?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Whatever Violette is doing to bind Vincent’s spirit to her also kept Jules from being able to enter her rooms in the castle.”

The feeble strings supporting the hope inside my heart snapped. I had hoped for some sort of news. Even if Jules hadn’t been able to communicate with Vincent, at the very least I wanted to hear that his spirit was safe.

Charlotte finished her coffee and nodded at my pajamas. “Do you feel like coming over? Geneviève would love to see you.”

My grandmother’s knuckles whitened. She clutched her tiny espresso cup so tightly that I was surprised the handle didn’t pop right off. When she spoke, her voice was strained.

“Katya, I listened to you last night and expressed my sympathy for what you are going through. I told you that if Vincent comes back I will not forbid you from being in contact. But that is a far cry from letting you walk right back into danger.”

Mamie turned to Charlotte. “I will need you to explain this to the rest of your clan.” She searched for words. “How to say this without sounding like I’m speaking out against any certain mortal predisposition?” She paused.

“Okay. Put yourself into my shoes. Last night my granddaughters came home after having been in a violent fight during which both could have easily been killed. Kate’s boyfriend actually was killed, although I realize that that sort of thing isn’t as serious for your kind, being impermanent,” she said crisply.

“But now he is floating around as a ghost and being held captive in a castle by a psychotic medieval zombie. The same psychotic medieval zombie who gave one of my granddaughters a concussion and has been sending the other flowers for the last couple of months . . . at our home . . . because she knows where we live.” Mamie’s face was now red from fighting a battle between politesse and expressing her true feelings.

“And now I am being asked if my granddaughter can join the same . . . people . . . who got her into this mess, under their very own roof? Unless I was completely insane, my response to that request would be an unequivocal no.”

My grandmother took a deep breath to compose herself. “Charlotte, it may be hard for an immortal to understand. But I lost my son just a year and a half ago because of a drunk driver. I refuse to risk losing another family member for a reason that is just as senseless.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Charlotte touched my hand to stop me. “Actually, Madame Mercier, the invitation is for you, too. Jean-Baptiste hoped you would meet with him to discuss recent events and how he intends to keep your family out of danger.”

My mouth dropped open. “But how did he know I would tell her?”

“He didn’t. But he said that if she didn’t know by now, he didn’t want your family’s trust to be compromised by dishonesty and would tell her himself.”

A little light went on in Mamie’s eyes that signaled her respect for Jean-Baptiste’s reasoning. Her chin lifted just an inch as she once again felt her opinion was being respected. “And when was Monsieur Grimod de la Reynière offering to meet with me?” she asked.

“He said he was ready to receive you at your earliest convenience,” Charlotte said, throwing me a look that asked, Is this going to work?

I didn’t dare signal back. Mamie knew each innuendo of my every expression.

Mamie got up and took her cup and saucer to the sink. She walked over to the tiny kitchen window and stared out at the brown brick wall across the courtyard, hands on her hips, lost in her thoughts.

Charlotte leaned over and spoke to me in a low voice. “I got designated messenger since your grandmother’s already met me. JB thinks it would be dangerous for your grandparents to try to protect you themselves. You need to be at La Maison or around us as much as possible. So he’s going to try to convince Mamie without letting her know that he’s worried something might actually happen.” She gave me a quick glance. “Which I’m sure it won’t. It’s just a security measure.”

We leaned away from each other as Mamie turned back toward us. She smoothed her skirt with the palms of her hands, and with a look of resignation said, “Please call Monsieur Grimod and tell him we will arrive promptly.”

MAMIE VISITS LA MAISON

“My dear woman, can I just say what a true pleasure it is to meet you at last,” Gaspard said, shaking only slightly in his tic-y way as he did a bow/hand-kiss combo that I knew would melt Mamie’s heart.

“Katya, I will join you when I finish talking to the gentlemen,” said Mamie, excusing me. And accepting Gaspard’s arm, she accompanied him into the sitting room. JB closed the door behind them.

“Rolling out the red carpet!” I exclaimed.

“Well, it’s not just an act,” said Charlotte. “JB and Gaspard do love you, or at least Gaspard does. I’m not sure that ‘love’ is a word I would use too freely with JB.”

I smiled. “So what are they going to tell Mamie?” I asked as we began walking toward the kitchen.

“They’re going to let her ask any questions she wants, and then work with her on a solution that will make her feel comfortable about your safety, since being with us was what compromised it in the first place. You know,” she said as we walked, “if you had never met Vincent, you would not be in danger.”

“Neither would Vincent,” I said, with a trace of regret.

“Vincent would probably be exactly where he is now,” Charlotte insisted. “Violette would have gotten to him anyway.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She would never have been able to beat him if he hadn’t been in such a weakened state. Which was because of me.”

“Gaspard caught me up on everything you learned from the numa yesterday,” said Charlotte. “Violette had actually ordered Lucien to bring her Vincent’s head! Which he would have accomplished if you hadn’t been there.”

“Lucien would never have gotten into your house if it wasn’t for my sister. Who Lucien only dated because he wanted to use me to get to Vincent.”

Charlotte came to an abrupt stop and turned to face me. “That’s enough, Kate. Let’s just say that you’ve both done enough saving each other—and putting each other in danger—that you’re even. In any case, now no one is safe.”

GANESH AND ANJALI

Charlotte and I walked into the kitchen to find the table full and a lively discussion taking place over an Italian-themed meal. The sharp smell of garlic hung thick in the air, mixed with the comforting aroma of baked cheese.

Geneviève jumped up from her chair and swept across the room to hug me. “Oh, Kate, I was so sorry to hear about Vincent.”

She waved an arm toward the table. “Come meet some of our Indian kindred. This is Ganesh,” she said, leading me to a boy with coffee-colored skin, cinnamon eyes, and coal-black hair. He looked to be in his midtwenties like Geneviève.

“Hello, Kate. I’ve heard all about you,” he said in English infused with a rich Indian accent. He pressed his palms together with his fingers almost touching his chin and nodded his head. I dipped my head in return and said, “Namaste,” winning a wide smile from the boy.

“And this is his sister, Anjali.” Geneviève gestured toward a girl who looked just like her brother, but with waist-length wavy hair and thickly lashed eyes the color of melted caramel. She looked a couple of years older than her brother: closer to thirty, I guessed.

“So good to meet you,” she said, giving me the same quick praying-hands bow.

“Ganesh and Anjali surprised us, arriving from Delhi the day after you and Vincent left,” Charlotte said.

Not even a week ago, I realized with amazement, Vincent and I had been in the south of France, sitting on the cliff overlooking the ocean and talking about our future. Just six days ago he explained the Dark Way to me, and his plan to kill numa in order to resist dying. And now he was gone.

Sadness weighed like an iron yoke across my shoulders. Noticing my expression, Jeanne came over from where she was preparing a tray for my grandmother and gave me a firm, affectionate kiss on each cheek. “You’ll join us for some lasagna, won’t you, Kate?”

“I actually haven’t have breakfast yet, but I’m not that hungry. Thanks anyway, Jeanne,” I said, taking a chair that Ambrose had pulled out for me.

“Nonsense,” she said. She picked up a plate, loaded it with a steaming square of gooey pasta, and set it in front of me, before doing the same for Charlotte.

“Never say no to Jeanne,” muttered Ambrose, taking a sizable bite of garlic bread. “Especially over one of her Italian grandmother’s recipes. Not that she’ll get offended. She’ll just take it as a challenge. Watch this.” He gestured to his empty plate. “Jeanne, that lasagna was delicious. I’m so full I couldn’t imagine having another bite.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and bringing the pan over to the table, plopped a giant-size piece in front of him. “With all the fighting you boys do, you need all the calories you can get.”

Ambrose lifted an eyebrow and smiled at me in triumph.

“Um, so . . . how do you know each other?” I asked, looking from Geneviève to the newcomers.

“We met at a convocation,” Anjali said, dabbing her lips politely with her napkin, “oh, maybe thirty years ago?” Her brother nodded.

“We’ve been traveling through Europe for the past few months and heard that Geneviève and Charlotte had moved to the Riviera. So we decided to pay them a visit. And when we heard what happened to Gen’s husband, we decided to stay a while,” her brother said, placing his hand compassionately on Geneviève’s.

Geneviève returned the gesture, covering Ganesh’s hand with her own. “You and Anjali have been so kind,” she said, showing as much warmth as she could with her gesture. Because as soon as Ganesh mentioned her husband, her eyes lost their spark and her face took on a lost expression.

I noticed Ambrose staring at Ganesh’s and Geneviève’s hands, which remained clasped together on the table, and I felt him stiffen uncomfortably beside me. “Well, that was certainly thoughtful of you to stay for Geneviève. When are you going back?” he asked.

“We’ll stay as long as we can,” Anjali replied. “Especially with all that is happening, we figure that our French kindred could use all the help they can get. Jean-Baptiste told me he is preparing for all-out warfare against the numa if Violette doesn’t free Vincent’s spirit.”

“There’s going to be all-out warfare against the numa even if she does,” conceded Ambrose, relaxing as Geneviève dropped the boy’s hand and returned to her lasagna. “Violette isn’t stealing the Champion’s power just so she can sit around and send off sparks. She told Katie-Lou here that she was planning on overthrowing France’s revenants. So it’s more a matter of who’s taking the war to whom at this point.”

“Well, we just added an Indian contingent to our side,” Charlotte said, beaming at the siblings. “And you should get a load of how these two fight, Ambrose. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is that so?” said Ambrose with a broad smile. Taking his plate to the counter, he leaned down to give Jeanne’s shoulders a squeeze, then walked toward the door. “I might just have some kataras down in the armory if either of you feels like a workout. Just sitting around and waiting for news from Langeais is making me crazy.”

“Now that’s an invitation I can’t resist,” crowed Ganesh, and thanking Jeanne for the meal, followed Ambrose out the door.

“I’m in for a fight!” exclaimed Charlotte, and Geneviève and Anjali stood to join her.

“Leave your dishes, dears, and go work off some steam,” said Jeanne, waving them away from the table and out the door.

BRAN’S ESCAPE

A week passed. Arthur’s group in Langeais, which included Jules, reported seeing no numa enter or leave the castle. Gaspard and his scholar friends continued to search for information on wandering souls. And Jean-Baptiste prepared for the inevitable attack.

I went to school and tried to focus on finishing my junior year instead of wondering if I would ever hear from my boyfriend’s spirit again. I had once joked with Vincent that I couldn’t date a ghost. Well, now I would be happy to have even that much of him. But I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind as I made the movements to go to school, study, and spend every extra moment in special low-impact fight training with Gaspard. (No swinging of heavy maces while my shoulder was still healing.)

To my complete surprise, Georgia had begun training as well. She had gone to La Maison (or “La Morgue,” as she called it) to visit Gaspard two days after our run-in with Violette, and he had agreed to teach her to fight. At first I suspected that it was a ploy to get nearer to Arthur. But she had already shown up for three sessions even though Arthur was away for an extended period of time. I began to wonder if it involved more than her most recent crush. Georgia’s fight with Violette had left her feeling vulnerable and weak. And those were two qualities my sister despised.

Week two of no Vincent began. It was the end of February and school had closed for a week and a half for winter vacation, a French institution during which everyone heads for the Alps or the Pyrenees Mountains or one of the smaller ski stations dotting the countryside. Working parents often sent their kids to ski camp, and Papy and Mamie had previously offered to take Georgia and me, but since our fight with Violette, the subject had been dropped.

Papy hired me to work mornings at his gallery for the week. And when I asked Gaspard if he would be willing to pack in a few extra fight sessions with me and my sister in the afternoons, he was only too happy to comply. The waiting was getting to be hard on all of us.

It was Monday afternoon, and Georgia and I were making our way to La Maison, when I heard my phone ringing. I pulled it out of my bag to see an incoming call from a blocked number. I hadn’t even finished saying hello when a man began speaking urgently in French.

“Kate, is that you?”

“Yes . . . who is . . .” and then all of a sudden I recognized the voice. “Bran?”

“Yes, it is Bran. From Le Corbeau. My mother was the—”

“Bran, I know who you are. I’ve tried to call you about a hundred times in the last couple of weeks, but no one ever answered.” “Hiding. I was hiding. But now she’s found me.”

“Who’s found you, Bran?”

Georgia and I stopped as we arrived outside the grand gates of Jean-Baptiste’s home. My sister punched in the door code, and I followed her into the courtyard as the gate swung back shut behind us.

“The small one. The ancient one. Her numa imprisoned me for questioning, but I escaped before she arrived.”

“Wait, Violette was coming to question you?”

“Yes. But I need help or her henchmen will find me again straightaway.” Bran’s voice was hushed and there was a trace of panic in his tone. Like he was doing everything he could to hold himself together.

“Just a second,” I said as Ambrose opened the front door.

“Katie-Lou. We’ve just had word that Violette has left the castle and is headed toward Paris,” he said. The enthusiasm in his voice made it clear that he didn’t think this was a bad thing. It wasn’t hard to read his mind: He had been itching for a fight, and now it was coming straight to him.

“Ambrose, I’ve got Bran on the phone. The numa were holding him until Violette could arrive, but he’s escaped. We have to go help him.”

The burly revenant took my phone and began asking Bran rapid-fire questions. Hanging up, he strode quickly through the foyer and down the back hallway, while Georgia and I jogged along in his wake. We sped down the stairs into the armory-slash-gym, interrupting a four-way swordfight between Gaspard, Geneviève, Ganesh, and Anjali.

Ambrose recounted the story as he armed himself, and the other four revenants sprang into action, girding themselves with Kevlar vests and body armor. They were out the back door and into cars within minutes, leaving Georgia and me standing alone in the middle of the empty space.

“I’d say they were ready for action,” I murmured as I walked over to the wardrobe to find my fight suit.

“Ya think?” Georgia quipped as she pulled her own new suit on. “They’ve been bouncing off the walls for a week and a half. I figure if you’d said Bran was about to jump off the Eiffel Tower, Ambrose would have scaled it from the outside just to burn off some pent-up frustration.”

“I hope they find Bran before his captors do.”

Georgia lifted an eyebrow, and her lips curled in a wicked smile. “With the state Ambrose and the gang are in, those numa don’t stand a chance in hell.”

Less than an hour later, we heard the cars pull into the drive. Georgia and I hung our swords on their pegs on the wall as the door opened and the group poured into the room.

“Did you get him?” I called, and then saw Bran’s stick-figure body supported between Ambrose and Ganesh, his arms around their shoulders. There were fresh bruises rising on his face, one eye so swollen that it was only a slit.

“Oh, Bran!” I said, covering my mouth in horror.

His good eye flicked to me. “Kate,” he said, and letting out a sigh, his head fell forward. Releasing his hold on Ambrose and Ganesh, Bran sank unconscious to the ground.

GHOST BOYFRIEND

Georgia threw her arms around me as soon as Mamie let me go. “So. Ghost boyfriend, huh. We’ll have to get a pottery wheel so you can be like Demi Moore in that old movie where that ghost guy feels her up while she gets all funky with the clay.”

“Once again, Georgia, your sensitivity astounds me,” commented Papy drily. We took our places around the table, and after Mamie wished us bon appétit, everyone tucked into the delicious food.

“I’m just trying to point out that this kind of thing has happened before . . . ,” Georgia continued, with her mouth half-full.

“In Hollywood,” Papy responded in a conversation-closed tone of voice. Mamie watched me as if she expected me to burst out crying.

VIOLETTE BECOMES A NUMA

And I finally pinpoint something that has been bothering me about her ever since she walked into the room. When I last saw her at the hotel, she was still a bardia. But now she is unquestionably numa, and it is because she killed me. There is no turning back for her. If there ever was a chance for her to change, it is now gone.

Vincent had explained it to me: Even though it is almost unheard of, revenants can turn into numa. But a numa turning revenant is like a serial murderer saying he is sorry and going on to live a normal, productive life in society. It just doesn’t happen. Violette is damned.

PREBATTLE MAKE-OUT SCENE

“Are you okay?” Vincent asks. He is holding back, waiting for me to make a move. Watching to see what I want. I hold out my hand and he takes it and draws me to him. “Do you need some time to rest?”

“Not when we don’t have any time to spare,” I say. “Who is here already?”

“Ambrose, Charlotte, Geneviève, Arthur, Ganesh, Anjali, and a few others. I’ll make a few calls and get everyone together. You have a little time.” He leads me through the sitting room past the great hall to a hallway on the far side of the house. It is brightly lit with skylights, and three matching doors are evenly spaced down its length. Vincent holds the first one open for me.

I walk into a small room that is decorated in white and robin’s-egg blue. A canopy bed takes up one corner and a footed bathtub is posed on the hardwood floor in another. Garlands of flowers interlaced with ribbons are painted around the ceiling, and a small glass chandelier hangs from a blue ribbon in the center.

“I chose this room for you because I know you like your long soaks with a book,” he says, nodding toward the bathtub. “I mean, it’s temporary, of course. Your grandparents and Georgia are in the guest house in back,” he says, carefully avoiding the subject of What Is Going to Happen Next—just one of a handful of decisions I am faced with. I push that thought out of my mind. Not today.

Vincent sees my uncomfortable expression and opens a closet.

“My clothes!” I exclaim, and shuffling off his coat, go bury my face in them. They smell like home. “I cannot wait to get out of this dress,” I say, glancing down at the torn and dirty frock, and I start taking it off right there in front of him. Like a gentleman, he turns and waits until I have put my fluffy white robe on.

“I’m decent,” I say, and he turns back to me.

“I have to disagree,” he says, his eyes traveling from my face to my feet and back. “I’ll come get you as soon as everyone is here. You’ve got time to bathe and change.” He kisses me lightly on the forehead and turns to leave the room.

“Wait,” I say, and he stops. “Five minutes. Give me five minutes.”

“Kate, I don’t want five minutes.” He glances at my lips and presses his eyes shut. When he opens them, his expression is one of longing. “Five minutes isn’t enough. I want days. If we start now, I’m not going to want to stop. They’ll have to drag me out of your bedroom to go to war.”

I walk up to him and stroke his neck with my fingertips. He shudders. “Five minutes. That’s all, I swear. I’m feeling strong enough for both of us,” I say.

He shakes his head as if refusing. And then, suddenly lifting me into the air, he tosses me onto the bed and throws himself on top of me. “So the Champion thinks she can handle me. We’ll see about that,” he says, and begins kissing me all over. I laugh and hold him tightly as he peppers my skin with kisses.

He kisses me until I am burning, my body on fire and my lips searching for any point on his face I can reach as he makes a tortuous tour around my features. Finally our lips meet, and he hesitates a full second before running his tongue lightly along the underside of my lip. And then we connect, his mouth on mine, still painfully light but moving deeper. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him like I’ve been longing to and he kisses me like I haven’t been kissed for what seems a very long time.

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.”