Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,55

unsure whether he heard my pillow-muffled words.

Desire . . . The airspace in my head was quiet for a whole minute, and then I heard him again. Desire is a funny thing. When I’m with you—in body—I’m constantly on the defensive. Against myself. We haven’t known each other long, and I need you to be sure of what you want before we . . . go further.

“I know what I want,” I said.

Vincent ignored that and continued. But here, when touching you isn’t even an option . . . well, I want you so badly it hurts.

I sat up in surprise and looked around the room, trying to place exactly where he was. “You’ve never said that before.” Trying to resist you is like trying to resist dying. It just gets harder the longer I hold out.

I sat there for a minute, stunned by his words. My senses were all on the alert: My fingers tingled and the scent of Mamie’s flowers on my nightstand suddenly seemed overpoweringly heady. “You said that dying is like a drug to you,” I said finally.

And yet, I choose you instead. I can only imagine that when our time finally comes, it will be exponentially better than any of these short-lived supernatural rewards.

“When will our time come?” I asked hesitantly.

When do you want it to?

“Now.”

Easy answer, since it’s not possible. I could almost hear Vincent’s rueful smile.

“Soon, then,” I responded.

Are you sure? The words flitted like birds through my mind.

“Yes. I’m sure,” I said, my body buzzing, but my mind feeling strangely calm about my decision. It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about it. A lot. Sex—in my mind—was something you did with someone you planned on staying with. And there was no question that I wanted to stay with Vincent. Intimacy was the next natural step.

I stayed in bed for another half hour, talking to Vincent. The phone rested on my pillow in case Mamie walked in unannounced. Which she never did.

But if that ever happened, it was my excuse for having a conversation with the air.

Vincent was on walking duty for the entire day with Jules and Ambrose, so once he left, I got up, had my breakfast, and took off. I had done my research the day before and had discovered that the Bishop Saint Ouen, for whom the town was named, had died in the royal vill a of King Dagobert in 686 CE. It was to this Vill a Clippiacum that pilgrims had made their way, and the whole town had been founded around Saint-Ouen’s cult.

The royal vill a no longer existed, but I found a website saying that it was probably located where a twelfth-century church now stood. I figured I would begin my search in the area immediately around the church, and then work my way outward until I found something.

I took the Métro to Mairie de Saint-Ouen, just above the northernmost edge of Paris’s circle—at the twelve o’clock of its watch face—and headed toward the church, using the neighborhood map in the Métro station.

During the fifteen-minute walk, the buildings went from modern glass and tile structures to run-down brick high-rises with satellite dishes attached outside every window. When I finally reached the church, I was amazed to see the squat stone building nestled in the middle of an iffy-looking housing project. Seeing a gang of surly boys leaning on a rail nearby, I headed directly for the church’s front door and tugged at it, only to find it locked.

I stepped back to get a better look. The stone facade didn’t look very old, but the carving over the lintel was medieval, showing an angel handing a chalice to a queen. To the right of the church was a cobblestone courtyard lined with rosebushes locked behind a white metal gate. On it hung a paper printed with the hours of upcoming masses. “Église Saint-Ouen le Vieux” was typed across the top. This had to be the right place.

The church was perched on a high cliff overlooking an industrial stretch of the river Seine, and I could easily imagine—with its vantage point over water transport—why this location had been chosen for the seventh-century royal vill a. If pilgrims came here to worship, the relic sellers couldn’t have been too far away, I thought.

I glanced around for a church boutique or one of those shops near European holy places that are stuffed with pictures of the pope and postcards of saints. But the only buildings sharing the block with