“Kate!” Vincent called, jogging over to me. He took my face in his hands and gave me a sweaty peck on the lips. “Good morning, mon ange,” he said. “Gaspard and I were just working out. We’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“Gaspard!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t even recognize you!” With his wild hair pulled back from his face, he looked almost . . . normal. And in the intensity of the fight, he had lost all his awkwardness and hesitation.

“Don’t let Gaspard’s usual mad-poet appearance fool you,” stated Vincent, reading my mind. “He’s used the last hundred and fifty-odd years to study weaponry, and deigns to serve as martial arts instructor for us youngsters.”

Gaspard forced the sword into its sheath. He approached and, making a half bow, said, “Mademoiselle Kate. I must say it is a pleasure to see you here again.” Without his sword in hand, he quickly lost his smooth manner and transformed into the jittery man I had met once before. “I mean . . . under the circumstances . . . that is, with Vincent being so inconsolable . . .”

“If you stop there,” I laughed, “I’ll still be able to take it as a compliment.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He smiled nervously and nodded toward Vincent’s sword lying on the floor. “Would you like to give it a try, Kate?”

“Do you have life insurance?” I laughed. “Because I could quite possibly kill the three of us if you let me hold a deadly blade.”

“You might want to take off that sweater,” Vincent said. I self-consciously pulled it off to reveal only a tank top underneath. He whistled appreciatively.

“Stop it!” I whispered, blushing.

Gaspard lifted his sword, and his face became calm. He smoothly urged me forward with his chin. Vincent positioned himself behind me, holding the grip in my hands between his own.

The sword looked like it had been stolen from the set of Excalibur—the kind you saw knights in suits of armor staggering around with under its massive weight. The hilt was in the shape of a cross, with a grip long enough to fit one hand over the other and still leave lots of space. Together, Vincent and I raised the sword off the ground. Then Vincent let go, and it dropped to the floor.

“Holy cow, how heavy is that thing?” I asked.

Vincent laughed. “We work out with the heaviest swords so that when we go to something smaller and more wieldy, it’s like holding a feather. Try this instead,” he said, and grabbed a smaller rapier off the wall.

“Okay, I can deal with this one,” I laughed, testing its weight in my hand. Gaspard stood at the ready, and I advanced with Vincent standing behind me, arms around my own. Feeling his bare torso pressed tightly against my back and warm skin brushing my na**d arms, I forgot what I was doing for a second, and the sword drooped toward the floor. Forcing myself to focus, I pulled it upright. Concentrate, I thought. I wanted to have at least a passing chance at avoiding complete humiliation.

They showed me a few traditional fencing moves in slow motion, and then changed to more dynamic, martial-arts-style swoop-and-spin movements. After five minutes I was already winded. Sheepishly I thanked Gaspard, saying I’d better sit the rest of the session out and start from scratch another time.

Taking the sword from my hand, Vincent gave my waist a playful squeeze and let me go. I watched from the sidelines for the next half hour as they changed from weapon to weapon, both of them displaying an awe-inspiring mastery of each one.

Finally I heard steps on the stairway, and Ambrose walked into the room. “So, Gaspard, are you done playing with the weakling and ready for a real man?” he jibed, and then, catching sight of me, flashed me a big smile.

“Katie-Lou, well I’ll be. So we didn’t manage to scare you off for good?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No such luck. Looks like you just might be stuck with me.”

He gave me a hug, and then leaned back to look at me affectionately. “Fine with me. We could use some eye candy around here.”

Hanging out with a houseful of men was going to be good for my self-esteem, I thought, whether or not those men were technically alive.

“Okay, back off, Ambrose. You might be bigger than me, but I’ve got a sword,” Vincent said.

“Oh really?” laughed Ambrose and, reaching up with one hand, grabbed a battle-ax as tall as him from off the wall. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Romeo!” And at that, the men began a three-way fight that topped anything I’d ever seen in the movies—and without any Hollywood special effects.

Finally Vincent called for a time-out. “Not that I couldn’t fight you all day, Ambrose, but I have a date, and it’s bad manners to keep a lady waiting.”

“Convenient, that, just as you were starting to get tired,” chuckled Ambrose. Turning back to his teacher, he slowed to a more sustainable pace.

Vincent picked up a towel from a chair and mopped the sweat off his face. “Shower,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He walked to one corner of the room and stepped up into a pine box the size of a sauna, with a large showerhead sticking out of the open top.

Ambrose and Gaspard continued their workout, the older man looking like he could go for hours without a break. I watched, amazed, as they stopped and changed weapons, and began working on some fencing-style footwork while Gaspard called out instructions.

Until I had picked up that two-handed sword, I never imagined how difficult martial arts could be. The movies make it look so easy, with all the flying up walls and acrobatic swordplay. But here, with the sweating and grunting and force expended with every single movement, I realized that I was witnessing truly breathtaking skill. These men were lethal.

The hissing of the shower stopped, and Vincent stepped out with only a towel around his waist. He looked like a god straight out of a Renaissance painting, his brown skin stretched tightly over his muscular torso and black hair falling back from his face in waves. I felt like I was in a dream. And then that dream walked right up and took me by the hand. “Let’s go up?” he asked.

I nodded, speechless.

Chapter Thirty

ONCE WE WERE BACK IN HIS ROOM, VINCENT pulled some clean clothes out of a paneled cupboard set into the wall. He grinned at me. “Were you planning on watching?” I blushed and turned around.

“So, Vincent,” I said, pretending to inspect his photo collection as I heard him dress behind me. “Can you come to dinner this weekend to meet my grandparents?”

“Finally, she asks. And unfortunately, I must decline.”

“Why?” I asked, surprised. I turned to see him walking up to me with an amused expression.

“Because I will not be in any condition to meet your family this weekend, much less make conversation or even sit, propped up, at a dinner table.”

“Oh,” I said, “when are you dormant?” My voice faded as the strange word tripped off my tongue.

He picked his cell phone up from a table and checked the calendar. “Thursday, the twenty-seventh.”

“That’s Thanksgiving,” I said. “We’ve got Thursday and Friday off school. It’s a shame you won’t be around.”

“The clock stops for no man, especially my type. Sorry.”

“Well, how about before then?” I asked. “Today’s Monday. How about tomorrow night?”

He nodded. “That would work. It’s a date. So . . . I’m meeting the grandparents? What should I wear?” he teased me.

“As long as you’re not wearing a body bag, I should think you’ll do just fine,” I laughed, turning back to his collection of portraits.

Among the head shots of angelic children, battle-worn soldiers, and tough teenage hoodlums was an old black-and-white photo of a teenage girl. Her dark hair was crimped into a 1940s hairstyle, and she wore a flowery dress with squared shoulders. Both hands were raised to one side of her face, where she was securing a daisy behind her ear. Her dark lips were open in a playful smile. She was stunning.

“Who is this?” I asked, knowing the answer before the words had finished leaving my mouth.

Vincent walked up behind me and placed his hands on my arms. He smelled freshly washed, like lavender soap and some kind of musky shampoo. I sank back into him, and he wrapped his arms around me. “That’s Hélène,” he said softly.

“She was beautiful,” I murmured.

He dropped his head to lean his chin on my shoulder, kissing it softly before he did. “Until I saw you, I didn’t let myself think of any woman besides her. My life since her death has been spent avenging it.”

Hearing the pain in his voice, I asked, “Did you ever find the soldiers who did it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you . . .”

“Yes,” he replied before I could say the words. “But it wasn’t enough. I had to go after every other murderous villain I could find, and even when the worst of the occupiers and collaborators were gone, it wasn’t enough.”

It was hard to think about Vincent destroying people, either human or revenant. Although now that I had seen how well he fought, I knew that he and his kindred were probably capable of taking out an army. But what kind of person could spend more than half a century thinking only of vengeance?

The cool, dangerous edge that had both attracted and alarmed me when we met—it had a basis. Now I knew what it was. I envisioned his face contorted with fury, and shuddered at the thought.

“What is it, Kate?” Vincent said. “Would you prefer that I took her photo down?” I realized that I was still staring at the picture of Hélène.

“No!” I said, turning around to face him. “No, Vincent. She’s a part of your past. I don’t feel intimidated by the fact that you still think of her.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that I was lying. I did feel intimidated by this beautiful woman. Vincent’s only love. Even though the hairstyle and clothes placed her securely seventy years in the past, he had guarded her memory so closely that it had influenced everything he had done—and not done—since she died.

“It’s been a long time, Kate. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, but usually it feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. Hélène is gone, and I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that you have no competition, from her or anyone else.”

He looked like he had more to say but couldn’t decide how to say it. I didn’t push him. Getting off the topic of ex-loves was fine with me. I took him by the hand and led him away. And though we left the photos behind, my sense of unease remained.

“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room. I turned my attention to the bookshelves, which were lined with books in several languages, all mixed together. Most of the English ones I recognized. We have a similar taste in reading material, I thought, smiling.

Spotting a row of fat photo albums on a lower shelf, I pulled one out and opened it. 1974–78 was handwritten on the inside cover, and I giggled as I began flipping through, seeing photos of Vincent wearing distinctly hippyish clothes and long hair with sideburns. Even though there was something ridiculous about the styles, he was just as handsome then as he was today. Nothing had changed but his accessories.

I turned a page and saw Ambrose and Jules standing together with competing enormous Afros. On another page, Charlotte was wearing Twiggy-style makeup and a micro-minidress, posed next to a Charles who looked like a teenage Jim Morrison: scraggly hair, shirtless, with rows of beaded necklaces. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing out loud at that one.

“What’s so funny?” Vincent asked, closing the door behind him. He set a bottle of water and a couple of glasses on the table and turned to me. “Aha, you’ve found my secret stash of blackmail photos.”

“Show me some more, these are priceless,” I said, bending over to slot the album back into its space.

I stood back up to find him standing inches away from me. “I don’t know, Kate. Swallowing my pride enough to show you photos of me looking like a clown through most of the twentieth century might just cost you something.”

“How much?” I breathed, transfixed by his sudden nearness. I unconsciously moistened my lips.

“Hmm. Let’s see,” he whispered, as he raised his hands to my waist and held me firmly. His fingers kneaded the small of my back, making my knees dissolve.

“It might cost you just a few kisses here. . . .”

He leaned his head down to the side of my neck and held his mouth an inch away from my ear, exhaling warm breath onto my skin. I felt goose bumps rise all over my body as he slowly leaned forward and pressed his lips to the side of my neck.

I shuddered, and sighed instinctively as he began working his way with soft kisses downward, then moved slowly forward to my throat. When he got to the place between my collarbones, he paused and said, “Or maybe here . . . ,” and I felt him carefully touch the tip of his tongue to the soft skin in its hollow.

I moaned and reached my arms around his neck. He pulled me closer and, maintaining his torturously slow pace, began kissing up the front of my neck in little steps, until he reached my chin. My head fell back, and he cupped it with one hand, supporting me as his lips worked the short way from my chin to my mouth.

“Or here,” he said, pausing before he brushed his lips against my own so lightly that my body tingled in anticipation. I waited, but nothing else came. Forcing my eyes open, I saw that his were closed, a look of concentration and willpower creasing his brow. He began to draw back, and his grip on me loosened.

I let a second pass. And then in desperation I grabbed his face and pulled him back to me. As our lips met, I crushed myself against him and threw my arms around his neck. He stumbled forward slightly and lifted his hand to the wall for support. I felt the bookcase press behind my shoulders and leaned backward against it, pulling him toward me.