Until I Die
Page 7
What if Vincent hadn’t been fast enough and one of those people had been killed? What if in attempting to reach the truck, Vincent had been the one mowed down? Instead of sitting in the back of a squad car, I could be kneeling over his mangled body. He had been just inches away. It had been so close.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on what was instead of what might have been.
SEVEN
WE SPENT OVER AN HOUR WAITING IN AN OFFICE at the police station before giving our depositions. The official investigation had begun by that point, and the officer who eventually turned up explained that they had discovered a medical card in the driver’s wallet saying that he was epileptic. Once they contacted his wife, she admitted that he had recently stopped taking his medication.
“He was unconscious by the time I reached the vehicle,” Vincent confirmed.
“He was unconscious, sitting at the wheel?” the officer asked, scribbling in a notepad.
“No. He had slumped over and was lying down on the seat. His foot was no longer on the accelerator.”
A row of three small butterfly bandages decorated Vincent’s forehead, the result of a paramedic’s ministrations while we sat in the back of the cop car. When the officer looked up from his writing, Vincent tested the wound gingerly with his fingers.
The man saw the gesture and closed his notebook. “I’ve been instructed not to keep you long. And to apologize for the wait before we got to you. It was inexcusable.”
From the way the man had bustled in all of a sudden, stumbling over himself to make us comfortable and offering up restricted information on the investigation, I assumed that Jean-Baptiste had been in touch with one of his police department contacts.
“Even though you have repeatedly refused to be taken to an emergency room, I do think you should see a doctor,” the man continued, looking concerned. “If for nothing else, you could use a few stitches on that head wound.”
“Thanks, Officer. At this point I just want to get home. This whole thing has really shaken me up.” I tried to refrain from smiling as Vincent played up his I’m-just-a-nineteen-year-old-regular-guy act.
The policeman nodded and, resting his pen on his notebook, walked around the desk to face us. He extended his hand, but when Vincent winced at the effort of raising his arm, he quickly withdrew it and instead clapped him carefully on the shoulder. “I just want to commend you for your heroic actions today, Monsieur Dutertre.”
I pursed my lips to stop another grin. Vincent must be a pro by now at creating random false identities at the drop of a hat.
“Promise me you’ll convince him to see a doctor,” the policeman said, turning to me. “Today.”
I nodded, and we followed him out of the office and through the mazelike préfecture, shaking hands again once we were in the lobby.
“Let’s go,” Vincent said as we reached the front door, and heading down the building’s grand staircase, we jumped directly into the backseat of a waiting car.
“Gaspard notified us of your acrobatic feats, Vin. Very James Bond. Nicely done,” Ambrose said as he pulled away from the curb. Vincent slumped down to put his head on my shoulder. “How you feeling, man? Clinic or home?”
“Feeling rough. I probably cracked a rib, but I don’t need a doctor.” Nice, I thought, feeling slightly stung. For me the rib was bruised. When would Vincent stop trying to protect me from the harsher realities of his existence?
“When are you dormant?” Ambrose asked.
“Got a couple of weeks,” Vincent said.
Ambrose peered at Vincent’s face in the rearview mirror. “Can that head wound wait till then?”
“I’m fine. Seriously.”
Ambrose shrugged. “Too bad we don’t scar. That doozy would amp your toughness quotient by about a hundred percent. Have the girls swooning in the streets.”
I leaned forward to give his shoulder a playful push.
“Not that that’s what Vincent’s trying for, of course,” Ambrose backpedaled, holding one hand up in surrender. “It’s just the first thing that would have crossed my mind. If I were in his place.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Incorrigible. You are truly incorrigible, Ambrose.”
He smiled his blinding white smile. “I try, Katie-Lou.”
Back at La Maison, a group of revenants were assembled for an informational meeting on numas with Violette, and as we arrived everyone gathered around to hear the details about the dramatic rescue. What with the mass inquisition and the large buffet lunch that Jeanne had laid out, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Vincent and I finally got a moment of peace.
We were settled in his room, sprawled on the couch in front of a crackling fire. Vincent’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dozing off.
I didn’t want to disturb him, but something had been bothering me ever since the accident that morning. “I know you’re tired, but can we talk?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face with my fingers.
Vincent opened one eye and looked at me warily. “Should I be scared?” he asked, only half joking.
“No,” I began, “it’s just about this morning . . .”
I was interrupted by a polite tapping at the door. Vincent rolled his eyes and roared, “What is it now?”
The door opened, and Arthur leaned in. “My excuses. Violette had just one more question about the beheading of Lucien . . . ,” he began.
“I have already told Violette every single detail of every numa encounter I have ever had,” Vincent said with a groan. “I need one hour alone with Kate. Just one hour, and then I will join you and tell her everything I know. Again. Please, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded, frowning, and closed the door behind him. Vincent looked back at me, began to speak, and then shook his head and stood up. “In five minutes someone else will be back here, bugging us again. Let’s go somewhere else. Put on your coat.”
“Are you feeling strong enough to go out?” I asked as he threw on his coat and scooped some blankets out of a cupboard.
“We’re not going out. We’re going up.” Taking my hand, he led me to the second floor, and then up another, smaller staircase at the far end of the hallway.
“What is this?” I gasped as we stepped through a trapdoor and onto the roof. Vincent lowered the door panel into its place in the floor and flicked a switch near the ground. White Christmas lights snapped on, illuminating a roof patio arranged with outdoor furniture: tables, chairs, and reclining lounge chairs.
“This is where we hang out during the summer. It’s better than the courtyard garden. Less shade. More wind. And a decent view.”
The whole city was spread out around us, the midwinter nightfall settling in early. Even though it was barely five o’clock, the sky was already changing from cotton candy pink into a rash of brilliant red in one of Paris’s spectacular early-winter sunsets. Lights began twinkling from the buildings. “It’s so magical up here,” I sighed, drinking in the view.
I finally tore my eyes from the scene and turned to see Vincent standing just behind me, hands in his pockets. “So what did you want to talk about?” he asked, concern flickering across his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, curious. “You look worried.”
“Judging from the past, when you ask if we can talk instead of just going ahead and talking, I know I’m in trouble.”
I smiled, and reached out to take his hand and pull him closer. “Fair enough. Okay, I was just wondering . . . this morning, before you ran for the truck, it looked like you were hesitating. Trying to make a decision. And it seemed like I was a part of that decision.”
Vincent was silent, waiting for me to draw my own conclusion.
“You were going to go for the pedestrians first, to try to throw them out of the way, weren’t you?”
“That was my instinct, yes.” His face was blank. Unreadable.
“And why didn’t you do it?” I asked, a cord of suspicion drawing tight in my stomach.
“Because there was a strong possibility of my own death if I took that route. And I promised you not to die.”
I exhaled, surprised to find I had been holding my breath. “That’s what I was afraid of, Vincent. That hesitation cost you a few seconds. What if that had been too much?”
“But it wasn’t, Kate,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
I put my arm through his and walked with him to sit on the edge of a large wooden sun bed that was pushed up against a low brick wall.
“Vincent, about our deal—you know, your promise to me—all along I’ve been regretting it, because I thought it was going to be too hard on you—”
“I told you, I can stand it,” he interrupted me, frowning.
“And I have total faith in you. But whether or not you can stand it . . . I’ve been feeling like it was wrong of me to ask it of you.”
“You didn’t ask me to do it. I’m the one who offered,” he said defensively.
“I know,” I pleaded. “Just let me talk.”
He sat, waiting to hear what I would say. Looking very unhappy.
“This whole time I’ve been worried about what your promise not to die meant for me. And for you. But I never thought about what it might mean for those people out there whose lives will be at risk. Someone might actually die because of me, Vincent. Because of my weakness.”
He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, then turned to look me straight in the eyes. “Kate, it’s not a weakness to be traumatized by death, especially after experiencing your own parents’ death. It’s not a weakness to want a normal relationship—one where you don’t have to watch your boyfriend be carried home in a body bag a couple of times a year. No one is going to die because of you. I can still save people without dying. I just have to be more cautious.”
“But you had to go against your instincts today. Isn’t that risky?”
“Honestly, Kate, yes. But I was able to come up with a plan B. You saw . . . it was probably an even better plan to stop the truck, since it would have hit a car or maybe someone else if it had kept going. So in this case, not following my instinct was a good thing.” He looked like he was trying to convince himself.
I hesitated. “Maybe that’s why JB doesn’t encourage human-revenant relationships. Because that’s kind of what it comes down to, isn’t it? If you’re concerned about me, it will distract you from saving other people.”
Vincent’s face grew dark. “You mean more to me than anyone else, and I will not apologize for that.”
I felt chilled, but not from the winter air. “Are you saying that my life is more valuable than other people’s? That, say, my one life is worth a couple you could have saved if you hadn’t been worrying about me? Because, honestly, that would be pretty hard to live with.”
Vincent took my hand back. “Kate, how long is a human life?”
“I don’t know . . . eighty to ninety years, maybe?”
“And you are seventeen. This is horrible to say, but . . .”
His meaning dawned on me slowly. “I only have another sixty or something years to live. Tops. So you only have to hold out for that long.”
His silence was as good as a yes. “During those years, the chances of a human dying because I don’t will be slim to none. I always walk with my kindred, and if there’s ever a life-or-death situation, they can be the ones to make the sacrifice.
“From my point of view, the time you and I have together is short. After that . . . I can spend the rest of eternity making up for lost lifesaving time, if that’s how you want to think about it.”
We sat in silence, the images called up by his words too disturbing for me to talk about out loud.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Even so, Vincent, we’re still left with the fact that you’re going to spend the rest of my mortal life suffering. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like a cake-and-ice-cream lifetime to me. To be honest, it makes me want to call off our agreement.”
His eyes opened wide. “No.”
“I don’t like to think about you going against your nature for me. I don’t want to watch you suffer. Your dying for people—like you’re supposed to—is the easiest solution to this whole mess. And I’m strong, Vincent. I think I can take it.” The quaver in my voice gave me away.
A look of determination replaced his astonishment. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around me. “Kate, knowing you, just thinking of my deaths will make you pull back from me. So please don’t give up on this plan yet. Not before you give me the chance to figure things out. I’m working on a solution. A way to make it all work. Give me time.”
As he held me, the last remaining threads of my resolve snapped. I shrugged, feeling powerless. “Vincent, if you think you can come up with something that will solve all our problems, then for God’s sake, do it. I’m just saying I’m releasing you from your promise, not that I’m leaving you.”
“I’m afraid you will leave me—for totally understandable self-preservation purposes—if you think I’m going to die,” Vincent insisted. “So I won’t. Our agreement is still on. Okay?”
I nodded, feeling awash in a sense of relief while at the same time kicking myself for it. “Okay.”
Pulling back to see my face, he smiled ruefully and fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across my face. “Kate, I admit that we aren’t in the easiest of situations. But are you always this . . . complicated?”
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on what was instead of what might have been.
SEVEN
WE SPENT OVER AN HOUR WAITING IN AN OFFICE at the police station before giving our depositions. The official investigation had begun by that point, and the officer who eventually turned up explained that they had discovered a medical card in the driver’s wallet saying that he was epileptic. Once they contacted his wife, she admitted that he had recently stopped taking his medication.
“He was unconscious by the time I reached the vehicle,” Vincent confirmed.
“He was unconscious, sitting at the wheel?” the officer asked, scribbling in a notepad.
“No. He had slumped over and was lying down on the seat. His foot was no longer on the accelerator.”
A row of three small butterfly bandages decorated Vincent’s forehead, the result of a paramedic’s ministrations while we sat in the back of the cop car. When the officer looked up from his writing, Vincent tested the wound gingerly with his fingers.
The man saw the gesture and closed his notebook. “I’ve been instructed not to keep you long. And to apologize for the wait before we got to you. It was inexcusable.”
From the way the man had bustled in all of a sudden, stumbling over himself to make us comfortable and offering up restricted information on the investigation, I assumed that Jean-Baptiste had been in touch with one of his police department contacts.
“Even though you have repeatedly refused to be taken to an emergency room, I do think you should see a doctor,” the man continued, looking concerned. “If for nothing else, you could use a few stitches on that head wound.”
“Thanks, Officer. At this point I just want to get home. This whole thing has really shaken me up.” I tried to refrain from smiling as Vincent played up his I’m-just-a-nineteen-year-old-regular-guy act.
The policeman nodded and, resting his pen on his notebook, walked around the desk to face us. He extended his hand, but when Vincent winced at the effort of raising his arm, he quickly withdrew it and instead clapped him carefully on the shoulder. “I just want to commend you for your heroic actions today, Monsieur Dutertre.”
I pursed my lips to stop another grin. Vincent must be a pro by now at creating random false identities at the drop of a hat.
“Promise me you’ll convince him to see a doctor,” the policeman said, turning to me. “Today.”
I nodded, and we followed him out of the office and through the mazelike préfecture, shaking hands again once we were in the lobby.
“Let’s go,” Vincent said as we reached the front door, and heading down the building’s grand staircase, we jumped directly into the backseat of a waiting car.
“Gaspard notified us of your acrobatic feats, Vin. Very James Bond. Nicely done,” Ambrose said as he pulled away from the curb. Vincent slumped down to put his head on my shoulder. “How you feeling, man? Clinic or home?”
“Feeling rough. I probably cracked a rib, but I don’t need a doctor.” Nice, I thought, feeling slightly stung. For me the rib was bruised. When would Vincent stop trying to protect me from the harsher realities of his existence?
“When are you dormant?” Ambrose asked.
“Got a couple of weeks,” Vincent said.
Ambrose peered at Vincent’s face in the rearview mirror. “Can that head wound wait till then?”
“I’m fine. Seriously.”
Ambrose shrugged. “Too bad we don’t scar. That doozy would amp your toughness quotient by about a hundred percent. Have the girls swooning in the streets.”
I leaned forward to give his shoulder a playful push.
“Not that that’s what Vincent’s trying for, of course,” Ambrose backpedaled, holding one hand up in surrender. “It’s just the first thing that would have crossed my mind. If I were in his place.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Incorrigible. You are truly incorrigible, Ambrose.”
He smiled his blinding white smile. “I try, Katie-Lou.”
Back at La Maison, a group of revenants were assembled for an informational meeting on numas with Violette, and as we arrived everyone gathered around to hear the details about the dramatic rescue. What with the mass inquisition and the large buffet lunch that Jeanne had laid out, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Vincent and I finally got a moment of peace.
We were settled in his room, sprawled on the couch in front of a crackling fire. Vincent’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dozing off.
I didn’t want to disturb him, but something had been bothering me ever since the accident that morning. “I know you’re tired, but can we talk?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face with my fingers.
Vincent opened one eye and looked at me warily. “Should I be scared?” he asked, only half joking.
“No,” I began, “it’s just about this morning . . .”
I was interrupted by a polite tapping at the door. Vincent rolled his eyes and roared, “What is it now?”
The door opened, and Arthur leaned in. “My excuses. Violette had just one more question about the beheading of Lucien . . . ,” he began.
“I have already told Violette every single detail of every numa encounter I have ever had,” Vincent said with a groan. “I need one hour alone with Kate. Just one hour, and then I will join you and tell her everything I know. Again. Please, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded, frowning, and closed the door behind him. Vincent looked back at me, began to speak, and then shook his head and stood up. “In five minutes someone else will be back here, bugging us again. Let’s go somewhere else. Put on your coat.”
“Are you feeling strong enough to go out?” I asked as he threw on his coat and scooped some blankets out of a cupboard.
“We’re not going out. We’re going up.” Taking my hand, he led me to the second floor, and then up another, smaller staircase at the far end of the hallway.
“What is this?” I gasped as we stepped through a trapdoor and onto the roof. Vincent lowered the door panel into its place in the floor and flicked a switch near the ground. White Christmas lights snapped on, illuminating a roof patio arranged with outdoor furniture: tables, chairs, and reclining lounge chairs.
“This is where we hang out during the summer. It’s better than the courtyard garden. Less shade. More wind. And a decent view.”
The whole city was spread out around us, the midwinter nightfall settling in early. Even though it was barely five o’clock, the sky was already changing from cotton candy pink into a rash of brilliant red in one of Paris’s spectacular early-winter sunsets. Lights began twinkling from the buildings. “It’s so magical up here,” I sighed, drinking in the view.
I finally tore my eyes from the scene and turned to see Vincent standing just behind me, hands in his pockets. “So what did you want to talk about?” he asked, concern flickering across his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, curious. “You look worried.”
“Judging from the past, when you ask if we can talk instead of just going ahead and talking, I know I’m in trouble.”
I smiled, and reached out to take his hand and pull him closer. “Fair enough. Okay, I was just wondering . . . this morning, before you ran for the truck, it looked like you were hesitating. Trying to make a decision. And it seemed like I was a part of that decision.”
Vincent was silent, waiting for me to draw my own conclusion.
“You were going to go for the pedestrians first, to try to throw them out of the way, weren’t you?”
“That was my instinct, yes.” His face was blank. Unreadable.
“And why didn’t you do it?” I asked, a cord of suspicion drawing tight in my stomach.
“Because there was a strong possibility of my own death if I took that route. And I promised you not to die.”
I exhaled, surprised to find I had been holding my breath. “That’s what I was afraid of, Vincent. That hesitation cost you a few seconds. What if that had been too much?”
“But it wasn’t, Kate,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
I put my arm through his and walked with him to sit on the edge of a large wooden sun bed that was pushed up against a low brick wall.
“Vincent, about our deal—you know, your promise to me—all along I’ve been regretting it, because I thought it was going to be too hard on you—”
“I told you, I can stand it,” he interrupted me, frowning.
“And I have total faith in you. But whether or not you can stand it . . . I’ve been feeling like it was wrong of me to ask it of you.”
“You didn’t ask me to do it. I’m the one who offered,” he said defensively.
“I know,” I pleaded. “Just let me talk.”
He sat, waiting to hear what I would say. Looking very unhappy.
“This whole time I’ve been worried about what your promise not to die meant for me. And for you. But I never thought about what it might mean for those people out there whose lives will be at risk. Someone might actually die because of me, Vincent. Because of my weakness.”
He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut, then turned to look me straight in the eyes. “Kate, it’s not a weakness to be traumatized by death, especially after experiencing your own parents’ death. It’s not a weakness to want a normal relationship—one where you don’t have to watch your boyfriend be carried home in a body bag a couple of times a year. No one is going to die because of you. I can still save people without dying. I just have to be more cautious.”
“But you had to go against your instincts today. Isn’t that risky?”
“Honestly, Kate, yes. But I was able to come up with a plan B. You saw . . . it was probably an even better plan to stop the truck, since it would have hit a car or maybe someone else if it had kept going. So in this case, not following my instinct was a good thing.” He looked like he was trying to convince himself.
I hesitated. “Maybe that’s why JB doesn’t encourage human-revenant relationships. Because that’s kind of what it comes down to, isn’t it? If you’re concerned about me, it will distract you from saving other people.”
Vincent’s face grew dark. “You mean more to me than anyone else, and I will not apologize for that.”
I felt chilled, but not from the winter air. “Are you saying that my life is more valuable than other people’s? That, say, my one life is worth a couple you could have saved if you hadn’t been worrying about me? Because, honestly, that would be pretty hard to live with.”
Vincent took my hand back. “Kate, how long is a human life?”
“I don’t know . . . eighty to ninety years, maybe?”
“And you are seventeen. This is horrible to say, but . . .”
His meaning dawned on me slowly. “I only have another sixty or something years to live. Tops. So you only have to hold out for that long.”
His silence was as good as a yes. “During those years, the chances of a human dying because I don’t will be slim to none. I always walk with my kindred, and if there’s ever a life-or-death situation, they can be the ones to make the sacrifice.
“From my point of view, the time you and I have together is short. After that . . . I can spend the rest of eternity making up for lost lifesaving time, if that’s how you want to think about it.”
We sat in silence, the images called up by his words too disturbing for me to talk about out loud.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Even so, Vincent, we’re still left with the fact that you’re going to spend the rest of my mortal life suffering. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like a cake-and-ice-cream lifetime to me. To be honest, it makes me want to call off our agreement.”
His eyes opened wide. “No.”
“I don’t like to think about you going against your nature for me. I don’t want to watch you suffer. Your dying for people—like you’re supposed to—is the easiest solution to this whole mess. And I’m strong, Vincent. I think I can take it.” The quaver in my voice gave me away.
A look of determination replaced his astonishment. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around me. “Kate, knowing you, just thinking of my deaths will make you pull back from me. So please don’t give up on this plan yet. Not before you give me the chance to figure things out. I’m working on a solution. A way to make it all work. Give me time.”
As he held me, the last remaining threads of my resolve snapped. I shrugged, feeling powerless. “Vincent, if you think you can come up with something that will solve all our problems, then for God’s sake, do it. I’m just saying I’m releasing you from your promise, not that I’m leaving you.”
“I’m afraid you will leave me—for totally understandable self-preservation purposes—if you think I’m going to die,” Vincent insisted. “So I won’t. Our agreement is still on. Okay?”
I nodded, feeling awash in a sense of relief while at the same time kicking myself for it. “Okay.”
Pulling back to see my face, he smiled ruefully and fingered a strand of hair that had fallen across my face. “Kate, I admit that we aren’t in the easiest of situations. But are you always this . . . complicated?”
