Die for Me (18 page)

GOING HOME THAT NIGHT WAS LIKE AWAKING
from a long sleep. When I was with Vincent I occasionally forgot about all the weird revenant stuff, but still felt like I was wandering through a Salvador Dalí dreamscape. Mamie and Papy's world felt amazingly comforting after twenty-four hours in a surrealist painting.

“So?” said Georgia as we sat down to dinner. “What is the status of this ‘thing' with Vincent? Did your little pajama party give you two enough time to work out your problems?” She grinned wickedly at me and popped a piece of bread into her mouth.

Mamie tapped her on the arm reprovingly and said, “Katya will tell us what she wants us to know when she wants us to know it.”

“That's okay, Mamie,” I offered. “Georgia can't help herself from living vicariously through me, since she has no life of her own to speak of!”

“Ha!” said Georgia.

Papy rolled his eyes, obviously wondering how his peaceful home had so quickly transformed into a sorority house.

“So?” asked Georgia, wheedling now.

“We seem to have worked things out,” I said, and turning to Mamie, asked, “Is it okay if he comes to dinner tomorrow night?”

“Of course,” she responded with a broad smile.

“Woo-hoo!” crowed Georgia. “No more Kate pining away in her bedroom. I should go over to his house and thank him myself.”

“That's enough now, Georgia,” said Papy.

“You can thank him tomorrow night,” I said, and quickly changed the subject.

At seven thirty the next night I got a text from Vincent:
Good evening, ma belle. Could I please have your digicode?

I sent him the four-number and two-letter code, and a minute later our doorbell rang. I pushed the interphone, buzzing open the door to the stairwell. “Third floor, left,” I said through the speakerphone.

My pulse sped up as I opened our front door and stood in the hallway waiting for him. He was up the three flights of stairs in no time, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bag in the other. “These are for your Mamie,” he said, leaning over to give me a quick, soft kiss on the lips.

The pounding of my heart went into overdrive. Vincent lifted his eyebrows suggestively. “Are you going to ask me in, or were you testing to see if I could cross your threshold without the invitation?” Then he whispered, “I'm a revenant, not a vampire,
chérie
.” His teasing expression made me forget my nerves, and taking a deep breath to compose myself, I reached for his hand and led him through the doorway.

“Mamie's right here,” I said as she walked out of the kitchen toward us. She had gone to her salon that morning and was looking stunningly elegant in a black-and-white wool dress and four-inch heels.

“You must be Vincent,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheeks, her gardenia-scented perfume enveloping us like a grandmotherly hug. She backed up a step to get a look at him. She seemed to be grading him, and from her expression he was getting an A.

“For you,” he said, handing her the massive flower arrangement.

“Oh, from Christian Tortu,” she said, spotting the florist's card. “How lovely.”

“I'll take your coat,” I said, and Vincent shrugged off his jacket, revealing a robin's-egg blue cotton shirt tucked into dark corduroys.

I could barely believe that this crushingly handsome boy had dressed up and brought flowers expressly to impress my family. He had done it all for me.

“Papy, I would like to introduce you to Vincent Delacroix,” I said as my grandfather approached from his study.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Vincent said in a formal manner as they shook hands. He held up the bag and said, “For you.”

Taking it, Papy pulled out a bottle and looked startled as he inspected the label. “Château Margaux, 1947? Wherever did you find this?”

“It's a gift from my uncle, who says he has already had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, madame,” Vincent said, looking back at Mamie.

“Oh?” she said, her interest piqued.

“He recently brought you a painting to repair. Monsieur Grimod de La Reynière.”

Mamie's eyes widened. “Jean-Baptiste Grimod de La Reynière is your uncle?”

Vincent nodded. “I have lived with him since my parents died.”

“Oh,” Mamie said, her eyes softening. “I am sorry to hear that you have that in common with our Katya.”

Fearing more in-depth questions, I took Vincent by the hand and quickly turned toward the sitting room. “Would you like something to drink? Maybe a bit of bubbly?” Papy asked as we sat down next to the fire.

“That would be nice. Thank you,” said Vincent.

“Yes, please,” I said, nodding at Papy, and he left the room, just as Georgia made her way in.

She looked stunning in a green silk frock that made my own simple black dress look drab in comparison. Vincent stood up politely. “Georgia,” he began, “I know that Kate apologized for me after we left you at that restaurant. But I just wanted to tell you myself. I am so sorry. I never would have done it if Ambrose hadn't been in such a bad state. Even so, it was unforgivable.”

“I consider myself a very understanding person,” she said, with just a tinge of her fake Southern accent coming through. “If you weren't so darn cute, I'm not sure I would let this one go. However, under the circumstances . . . ,” she trailed off as she slowly kissed his cheeks.

“For God's sake, Georgia! Could you try to leave a bit of him for me?” I exclaimed, shaking my head in disbelief.

“I'll take that to mean I'm forgiven,” Vincent said, laughing.

Meals in France can last for hours. And when guests are invited, they usually do. Luckily, since tonight was a school night, we only spent a half hour over each course. I didn't want my grandparents to have enough time to get too far past the polite conversation stage into the personal information stage with my mysterious guest.

“So, Vincent, I would guess you're a student?” Papy asked about halfway through the hors d'oeuvres. Vincent answered that he was studying law. “At such a young age? Not wanting to pry, but how old . . .” My grandfather let his sentence fade out so he wouldn't have to ask a direct question.

“I'm nineteen. But my uncle had me tutored privately, so I'm a couple of years ahead.”

“Lucky boy!” Papy nodded approvingly.

After that, Vincent deflected more personal questions by asking his own. Papy was delighted to tell him in detail about his business and the travels he had made to pick up the special objects he dealt in, which had taken him all over the Middle East and North Africa.

Vincent mentioned his interest in antique and ancient weaponry, and that conversation alone got us through the main dish, a tender-as-butter side of beef. Mamie asked him about his uncle's painting collection and seemed impressed by his broad knowledge of the artists and stylistic periods.

By the time we had gotten to dessert, Vincent and my family were talking and laughing together as if they had known one another for years. He and Georgia teased each other and teased me, and I could see Mamie glancing between Vincent and myself and looking pleased with what she saw.

Finally, after settling into the comfortable sitting room chairs with decaf espressos and a plate of chocolate truffles, Mamie asked Vincent if he would like to join us for dinner in two weeks. “It's Kate's seventeenth birthday on December ninth, and since she refused to let us give her a party, we thought we'd have an informal dinner here at home.”

“Now
that
is very interesting information,” Vincent said, smiling broadly at me.

I put my head in my hands and shook my head. “I don't like to make a big deal about birthdays,” I moaned.

Vincent gestured to the others and said, “Well, too bad that the rest of us do!”

“It's settled, then?” asked Mamie, looking at me for approval.

I grimaced but nodded my head.

“Now that we're handing invitations out left and right, how about coming out with me and Kate on Friday night, Vincent?” asked Georgia.

“I would love to, but I already have plans that night.” He winked at me.

“Not with Kate, you don't!” said Georgia defensively. “She's promised my friend Lucien to come to a party at his club. And from what I've heard, you might want to accompany her, since he's promised to supply a crop of handsome friends for all the single ladies showing—” Georgia stopped midsentence, seeing the dark look spreading across Vincent's face.

“Are you talking about Lucien Poitevin?” he asked.

Georgia nodded. “Do you know him?”

Vincent's face turned flame red in seconds flat. He looked like a pressure cooker about to explode. “I know
of
him. And quite honestly, even if I didn't already have plans, I would have to refuse.” I could tell he was using great restraint to sound calm.

“Vincent!” I whispered. “What—” He cut me off by taking my hand and unintentionally (I hoped) squeezing it so hard it hurt.
This is officially very bad,
I thought.

“Who is this Lucien Poitevin?” asked Papy sternly, frowning at Georgia.

“He's a very good friend!” she retorted, glaring at Vincent.

The room was quiet. Vincent finally leaned toward her and said in his most diplomatic voice, “I wouldn't say this if I wasn't a hundred percent sure of myself, but Lucien Poitevin doesn't deserve to stand in the same room as you, Georgia, much less be counted among your friends.”

There was a collective dropping of jaws. Georgia, for once, seemed lost for words. She looked like she had been slapped. And then had a bucket of ice poured down her back.

Mamie and Papy gave each other a look that made it clear they had been worrying about Georgia's nocturnal activities.

Georgia gave both me and Vincent an evil glare and then stood abruptly and stormed out of the room.

Mamie broke the silence. “Vincent, could you clarify why you think Georgia shouldn't be associating with this man?”

Vincent was staring at the coffee table. “Excuse me for causing this lovely dinner to end on a bad note. It's just that I know of this person, and wouldn't want anyone I cared about to have anything to do with him. But I've said enough. Again, my apologies for upsetting your granddaughter in your own home.”

Papy shook his head and held a hand up, as if it was no trouble, and Mamie stood to collect the cups. As I got up to help her, she said, “Now don't worry yourself, Vincent. We try to keep a certain measure of openness and honesty in this household, so your comments are not unwelcome. I'm sure Georgia will apologize for her temper next time she sees you.”

“Don't bet on it,” I said under my breath.

Hearing me, Vincent nodded grimly. “I should be going,” he said. “I'm sure you all have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.”

“I'll walk you out,” I said, intending to grill him as soon as we got outside.

Papy stood to get Vincent's coat. After thanking my grandparents for the evening, Vincent stepped out into the hallway. I followed, taking my coat and closing the door behind us.

“What—” I began.

Vincent put a finger to his lips, and we maintained a tense silence until we got outside. As soon as the door shut behind us, he grabbed me by the shoulders and looked intently into my face. “Your sister is in grave danger.”

My confusion transformed into alarm. “What are you talking about? What's wrong with Lucien?”

“He's my sworn enemy. The leader of the Paris numa.”

I felt like someone had picked me up and thrown me against a brick wall. “Are you sure we're talking about the same person?” I asked, refusing to believe it. “Because when I met him—”

“You met him?” Vincent choked. “Where?”

“At that club where I went dancing with Georgia.”

“The same place you saw Charles?”

“Yeah—in fact, Charles was talking to him outside when I left. I don't see—”

“No. This is terrible,” Vincent said, shutting his eyes.

“Vincent. Tell me what's going on,” I said, a sick feeling rising in my throat. If Lucien was a monster, what did that mean for my sister? I shivered as I thought of the kiss Georgia shared with Lucien that night in his club. She obviously didn't know about his dark side. Georgia couldn't see past her own nose when it came to discernment. As my mom lamented once when a boyfriend of Georgia's was arrested for burglary, “She can't ever see the bad in people. Your sister's not stupid, she just doesn't possess an ounce of intuition.”
This time that flaw could be fatal,
I thought.

Vincent pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Jean-Baptiste? Lucien's got Charles. I'm sure. Yeah . . . be there in a minute.”

“Please! Talk to me!” I begged him.

“I have to get home. Can you come with me?”

“No.” I shook my head. I had to go back and clean up the mess that Hurricane Vincent had left for my family.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Then I'll walk you home,” I insisted. “You can tell me on the way.”

“Good,” he said, taking my hand as we began walking down the lamp-lit streets toward his house. “So, Kate. You know how there's a bad guy in every story?”

“I guess.”

“Well, Lucien's the bad guy in my story.”

“What do you mean
your
story?” I ventured uneasily. “I mean, is it just a case of the two of you being on opposite sides of the good-and-evil divide?”

Vincent shook his head. “No. It's me against him. We have a long history.”

“Wait,” I said, putting together the puzzle pieces in my mind. “Is he the one you guys are always referring to? ‘The Man,' or whatever?” I paused, thinking. “Was it Lucien you saw at the Village Saint-Paul . . . and who Jules spotted nearby when Ambrose got stabbed?”