Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,54

and the husband had a numa destroy him.”

“I have heard about that story before,” Violette said thoughtfully. “I have not actually read it, but I have seen it referred to in other texts.” She hesitated. “Not to discourage you, but I have to warn you, Kate: Those old legends are usually just that—old legends. They might have a grain of truth in them, but certainly nothing that you could rely on to be helpful.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, wanting to change the subject now. Once I had returned the book, I could show it to her and ask what she thought.

Until then, I preferred that she forget about it. The last thing I wanted was for her to go searching for it in Jean-Baptiste’s library and find an empty box.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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NINETEEN

IT WASN’T UNTIL I GOT IN BED THAT NIGHT THAT I felt it. The loneliness. This was my least favorite day of the month. The day when Vincent was nonexistent. A few streets away, his body lay cold on his bed.

It wasn’t like I had to see him every single moment of the day. But when I knew I couldn’t talk to him—that there was no way to contact him—well, that was when it really got to me.

We hadn’t even been together for a year, but it truly felt like Vincent was my soul mate. He completed me. Not that I wasn’t a whole person on my own. But who he was seemed to complement who I was.

I leaned my head back against the pillow and closed my eyes. The image of a painting came to my mind: one of my favorite works by Cézanne. It is a small, simple canvas depicting two perfect peaches. The fruits are painted in loose brushstrokes of oranges, yellows, and reds, their vivid colors combined in a way that makes you want to pluck one from the painting and bite into it to experience its tantalizing juiciness for yourself.

But there was something else in the picture that you didn’t even notice until you let your eyes drift from the warm colors. The peaches sat on a creamy white plate with a soft blue fabric nestled up behind them. If the peaches had been painted on empty canvas—fiery colors against a background of pure white—they wouldn’t have been believable. But the delicately painted background brought them to life.

That’s what Vincent was for me. He gave me context. I was whole in and of myself, but better than whole with him.

But for now, I was alone. I set my mind on what I had planned for the next day, and gradually drifted into sleep.

Good morning, ma belle, a voice said as I opened my eyes. I glanced at my clock. Eight a.m.

Rolling over to my side, I closed my eyes again. “Mmm,” I groaned in pleasure. “Good morning, Vincent. How long have you been ghosting around my bedroom?” I spoke my thoughts aloud. It was the only way Vincent could hear me, since mind reading was not a revenant superpower.

Since I woke up. I guess it was a bit after midnight. The words ran through my head like a breeze, bypassing my ears and traveling directly through my thoughts. In the beginning I had gotten only a few words at a time. But now—after a few months’ practice—I could understand almost everything.

“Did I snore?” I murmured.

You never snore. You’re perfect.

“Ha!” I said. “I’m just really glad you don’t have a sense of smell when you’re volant. I don’t have to jump up and brush my teeth before we chat.” Although I couldn’t see him, I imagined he was smiling.

“I miss you,” I said. “I wish I could be at your house right now, lying in your bed, keeping you company.” Keeping my cold, hard body company? In my mind, Vincent’s voice sounded amused. When you could be having a conversation with me instead? So— the next words took a few seconds to come through —you do like my body better than my mind.

“I like both,” I said obstinately. “But I have to say there’s something about human touch that seems pretty essential to a relationship. I would not be into dating a ghost, for example.”

No ghosts, okay. But revenants are datable?

“Only one revenant,” I said, my arms actually aching to hold him against me. I wrapped them around my pillow instead. A flower of desire began blooming inside me as I imagined him lying in bed beside me. “I want you,” I murmured,