Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,64

her dad’s counselors . . . at least that’s what Charlotte said. Which would mean they’re aristocrats.”

“Oh believe me, it shows.” Georgia smirked.

“They both died around 1500, so he’s really ancient. And they’ve been living in isolation in this Loire Vall ey castle for a really long time.”

“What’s he like?”

“Honestly, Georgia, I don’t know,” I conceded. “After he said that humans shouldn’t be allowed in revenant meetings—right in front of me—I haven’t really felt like getting to know him. The chip on my shoulder’s pretty much superglued there.” Georgia smiled. “Are he and Violette . . . together?”

“I thought they were. She acts really possessive of him. But Vincent said it’s platonic. Platonic but codependent. Sounds like a healthy relationship.”

“He looked really hot in that T-shirt last night,” Georgia mused, taking a sip of coffee.

“Georgia!” I shouted. “You have a boyfriend. And plus, you’ve said it before yourself: You don’t do dead guys. You’re not even allowed in their house!”

“I’m not doing anything,” she said. “Especially not today.” She leaned back against her headboard, looking a little weaker than before.

“I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s five hundred, for God’s sake! Plus he has this love-hate relationship with humans. There’s no way he’d look twice at you.”

Oh no, I thought. That was totally the wrong thing to say to my sister. She was going to see him as a challenge now. I changed the subject fast.

“Anyway, what’s wrong with good old Sebastien?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” she said, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. Her expression suddenly changed to alarm. “Nothing except . . . oh my God, Kate. I ditched him last night and never called! Quick—bring me my phone. It’s in my bag.” I picked up the breakfast tray as she was babbling some ridiculous explanation of why she hadn’t shown last night to Sebastien’s voice mail. At least she was still concerned enough about him to make an effort, I reassured myself. The interest in Arthur was just one of those hero-worship infatuations. Knowing Georgia, she’d forget about it by lunchtime.

Vincent and I sat side by side, peering at the over-the-top gore of Géricault’s famous painting The Raft of the Medusa. He had convinced me to take him to the Louvre, even though it was a weekend and packed with people. “I want you to teach me about art so I can understand why you’re so affected by it,” he had said. Which was so romantic that before it was even out of his mouth, I was pulling him down the street in the direction of the museum.

We sat in one of my favorite rooms—one that contained melodramatic historical paintings on canvases as big as king-size beds. The sensational scene before us seemed oddly appropriate as a backdrop for a discussion about undead superpowers.

“So what’s the story with this energy transfer thing?” I asked.

“Energy transfer?” Vincent repeated, confused, his eyes glued to the scene before us. He seemed to be studying it in a problem-solving way. The decomposing bodies didn’t seem to bother him— I could tell he was just juggling the geometry of the live humans in his mind to strategize how many he could save in one go.

“Yeah. Jules mentioned it last night. He said something like Georgia would be weak because Arthur would have her energy. What’s that mean?” Vincent tore his gaze from the painting. “Well, you know why we die for people?”

“Besides out of the kindness of your nonbeating hearts?” I joked. Vincent took my hand and held it to his chest. “Okay, your beating undead heart,” I corrected myself, reluctantly pulling my hand away. “If you die saving someone, you reanimate at the age you lost your human life. It’s a compulsion meant to preserve your immortality, right?”

“Right,” Vincent said. “But you know we only die occasionally—maybe once a year in times of peace. Most of our ‘saves’ don’t necessarily involve dying. Did you ever think about why we would spend our immortal lives watching over you if there wasn’t a solid enticement? Whatever you’ve heard about superheroes, none of them are out saving the human race just because they’re really nice guys.” I immediately thought of Violette. Of her and Arthur holding out until their sixties until they died for someone, and then only doing it because Jean-Baptiste needed them. They didn’t seem to love their job, to say the least.

Vincent turned his body toward me and linked his fingers through mine. “Imagine that everyone