Until I Die - By Amy Plum Page 0,82
said. “Let’s find a taxi.”
A half hour later we were at Le Bourget Airport, boarding a tiny private jet. “It’s Jean-Baptiste’s. We only use it in case of emergencies,” Vincent yelled over the noise of the engine as we walked up the stairs.
“I’m sure! It must cost a fortune each time you go somewhere!” I said, and stepped into the eight-person cabin.
“It’s not actually that,” Vincent said. “It’s justifying the carbon footprint.”
Trust a supernatural whose mission is saving the human race to think green, I mused while looking around myself in spoiled delight.
An hour and a half later we landed in Nice. Charlotte was waiting for us at the arrival gate. As soon as we stepped past airport security, she put an arm around each of us, squeezing us into a sandwich hug.
“I cannot tell you how good it is to see your faces. Much longer without my friends and I would have come to Paris, so thanks for saving me the trip!”
Her eyes shifted from my face to Vincent’s, and she gasped. “Oh my God, Vincent. You look awful!” She raised a finger to trace the bruiselike patches under his eyes. It had been almost three weeks since Vincent had been dormant. He already looked as bad as he did at the end of the last month, and he still had one more week to go.
Though he claimed he was hopeful his experiment was working, I didn’t want it to go on any longer. Next week I would talk to Gwenhaël, and if she had come up with some alternative plan, I would ask Vincent to call off this awful experiment.
“Look at you!” I exclaimed, changing the subject. Her hair had grown out to shoulder length. “I only saw you six weeks ago. How in the world did you grow your hair out so quickly?” I asked, and then laughed, realizing who—or what, rather—I was talking to.
Charlotte giggled. “Geneviève and I haven’t just been on vacation here. And I have a feeling that Vincent and you don’t talk about hair care. When we’re busy saving people, getting all that transferred energy, we have to get a haircut about once a week.”
“Doesn’t your coiffeur catch on?”
“I have four in Paris,” Charlotte responded, “and use them on a rotating basis so no one notices.”
Just one more detail I would never have thought of, I mused, wondering if there would ever be a point where I would stop being amazed and the whole revenant thing would be old hat.
We made our way arm in arm through the small airline terminal and into the early evening darkness outside. It was chilly, but not as cold as in Paris. I took a deep breath. The air had a slightly salty seaside flavor.
Geneviève was waiting for us at the curb in a bright red Austin Mini. She leapt out of the car when she saw us and ran over to squeeze me enthusiastically. “It’s so good to see you!” Leaning in to kiss Vincent, she shuddered. “Vincent, I’ve just got to say it: You look terrible. Let’s get you guys home.” And she hurriedly slid behind the wheel.
Charlotte and I sat in the tiny backseat, while Vincent took the passenger side, his legs folded so tightly that his knees were practically at his chest. Although it was dark, a million tiny lights lit the highly populated coastline between Nice and Villefranchesur-Mer. We drove along the beach before continuing onto a treacherous-looking two-lane road scaling the sheer cliffs that overlooked the sea.
Twenty minutes after we left the airport, we pulled off the main road onto a steep drive and up to a glass-and-wood house perched on the side of a hill. It looked more like a contemporary art museum than a home.
“Here we are!” crowed Charlotte enthusiastically as we winched ourselves out of the tiny car. “And you got here just in time for dinner.”
“Come in, come in,” said Geneviève, waving us through the front door.
I turned to Vincent, who was watching my face carefully. “This is amazing. Thank you,” I murmured, going up on tiptoes to give him a kiss.
“My pleasure,” he said. It was a strange and new feeling seeing him outside of his regular Parisian setting, and I could tell he was thinking the same about me.
The house couldn’t have been more different from Jean-Baptiste’s hôtel particulier. The architecture’s twentieth-century minimalism was echoed by the furniture: the whole effect meant to emphasize the view outside. I walked across the room and pulled aside