Jules had strapped a crossbow and arrows into a large case and was overlaying them with daggers and swords. He looked up from his packing and, noticing my gaze, gave me a flirty wink.

“Why don’t you guys just use guns?” I asked, amazed by their casual attitude.

“We use guns when we’re expected to,” answered Charlotte, “if we’re fighting alongside humans in the cases I mentioned . . . bodyguarding and the like. But bullets don’t kill revenants”—she paused—“or others like us.”

Before I could ask her to clarify what she meant by “others,” Ambrose, lacing up some massive steel-toed boots, yelled, “Plus, Katie-Lou, you’ve got to agree . . . hand-to-hand combat is way cooler.” Despite myself, I laughed. He obviously loved a fight.

“How many times have you gone up against Lucien and his crew?” I asked.

“Uncountable. It’s all part of a never-ending battle,” Charlotte responded.

“Well, it must mean you’re winning if you’re all still around.”

No one answered. And then Jules broke the silence. “Let’s just say there used to be a lot more of us.” The snake inside me constricted so tightly I couldn’t breathe.

“There also used to be a lot more of them,” called out Jean-Baptiste, who, with Gaspard, stepped down into the room. Charlotte, Ambrose, and Jules stood up, as if at attention, while Jean-Baptiste walked back and forth among them, carrying out an inspection of their body armor and weapons cases. “We’ve got everything,” he said finally, nodding at the three of them approvingly.

He took two normal-looking canes out of an umbrella stand and threw one to Gaspard. With a lightning-quick movement, Gaspard drew a sword forth from the cane and inspected its blade.

They certainly looked like a mini army, led by a fierce general. But individually, they could pass for musicians dressed for a gig—that is, if their band had a marked penchant for leather.

They led the way through double doors at the end of the gym, and up to the back courtyard where several cars, motorcycles, and scooters were parked. Jean-Baptiste climbed into a midnight blue sedan, while Jules and Charlotte took a dark-hued 4x4. Ambrose strapped his case to an enormous Ducati and started up the bike’s engine with a roar.

As the other vehicles started their motors, I clutched my arms across my chest and clenched my teeth. This isn’t my fight, I thought, it’s theirs. But I couldn’t help feeling helpless—like the damsel in distress that I never wanted to be.

I heard Vincent say, When we’re done, I’ll come back to you.

“Be careful,” I murmured.

Nothing can happen to me, the words came. My body is here with you.

“Take care of the rest of them, then,” I said.

Good-bye, Kate, mon ange.

The cars began backing up, and smoothly exiting one by one through the gates into the dark night beyond, they were gone.

Chapter Thirty-Six

GASPARD EXCUSED HIMSELF AND SAID HE WOULD be in the library, while Jeanne and I walked back up the stairs to the kitchen in silence. I watched her as she began cleaning up from the ad hoc meal. She must have seen so much over the years. And I needed a distraction. “Tell me about Vincent.”

Jeanne tucked her towel into her apron. “Let me make you a coffee first,” she said. “If you’re going to be waiting up for them to get back, you’ll need the stamina.”

“That would be great, Jeanne. Thanks. Will you have one with me?”

“No, dear, I have to go home. My family’s waiting for me.”

She has a family, I thought, wondering why I was surprised. She too divided her time between the undead and the living. For the first time, I felt a bond with her.

She set my coffee on the table with a pitcher of milk and sat down next to me. “So. What can I tell you about Vincent?” she mused. “Well, I was sixteen when I started helping my mother here, doing the laundry and ironing. That would be about”—she did the math in her head—“thirty-nine years ago.” She leaned back in her chair, squinting her eyes as if trying to see back that far. “Vincent was the same as he is today. Plus or minus a year. And they all follow the fashions of the time, of course, so as to not stand out. So his hair was a bit longer the first time I saw him. Oh, I thought he was so handsome.”

She leaned toward me with a twinkle in her eye. “Still do. Even though he’s a mere teenager and I’m now a grandmother of four.” She sat back, smiling to herself.

“Anyway, there were more revenants then. They were scattered all over Paris in buildings that Jean-Baptiste’s family owned. Now, of course, since there aren’t many revenants left here in Paris, he rents out the places. Makes an absolute fortune off his real estate.”

She sighed and paused for a moment. “Anyway, I’ve known Vincent since the 1970s and he’s always been a . . . tortured kind of boy. I’m guessing he’s told you about Hélène by now?”

I nodded, and she continued. “Well, following her death—and his own death, of course—he kind of closed down emotionally. After Jean-Baptiste found him, he took on the role of foot soldier. According to what I’ve heard, nothing was too dangerous for Vincent. He literally threw himself in harm’s way. As if saving hundreds of strangers would make up for the one person he wasn’t able to save. And it’s continued like that. He’s been like this avenging robot. A beautiful robot, mind you, but still . . .”

She blinked and looked pointedly at me. “A few months ago he came home with a spark of life in his eyes. I couldn’t even imagine what had happened. And it was you.” Jeanne leaned forward and brushed my cheek with the edge of her hand, smiling.

“You beautiful girl. You’ve given new life to my Vincent. He might be strong of spirit, but he’s a tender soul. And you’ve touched him. For as long as I’ve known him, his only motivation has been vengeance and loyalty, which may be why he’s one of the few survivors. But now he has . . .” She paused, thinking twice about what she was going to say, and settled for, “You.”

Her smile was compassionate. “This won’t be an easy relationship for you, dear Kate. But persevere. He’s worth it.”

Jeanne tucked her apron into the handle of the oven, kissed me, and began to gather her things. “I’ll walk you out,” I told her, all of a sudden realizing that I was going to be in that huge house with no one but a 150-year-old revenant and my boyfriend’s dead body to keep me company.

“Are you going to be okay?” asked Jeanne.

“Yes,” I lied. “No problem.” We approached the granite fountain in the middle of the courtyard, and I sat down on its edge, waving good-bye as Jeanne bustled out through the front gate. It closed silently behind her. I gazed up at the statue in the fountain of the angel holding the woman.

The first time I had seen it, I had no idea what Vincent was. I had never heard of a revenant—either the murderous kind or the kind that spent their existence saving mankind. Even then, the fountain had already seemed truly creepy to me.

Now, when I looked at the ethereal beauty of the two connected figures—the handsome angel, with his hard, darkened features focused on the woman cradled in his outstretched arms, who was all softness and light—I couldn’t miss the symbolism. The angel was a revenant, but was he good or evil? And was the woman in his arms sleeping or dead? I stepped closer.

The angel’s expression seemed desperate. Obsessed, even. But also tender. As if he was looking to the woman to save him, and not vice versa. And all of a sudden, Vincent’s name for me popped into my mind: mon ange. My angel. I shivered, but not from the cold.

Jeanne had said that meeting me had transformed Vincent. I had given him “new life.” But was he looking to me to save his soul?

I looked at the woman. A noble strength radiated from her features, and the light of the moon reflected off her skin onto the angel’s face. He seemed blinded by the light. I had seen the angel’s expression before: Its face was like Vincent’s when he looked at me.

I was overcome by a rush of emotions: amazement that Vincent had found in me what he was looking for; fear of his expectations; concern that I wasn’t strong enough to carry that burden. Those were all there. But even stronger was the desire to give him what he wanted. To be there for him. My destiny might include helping Vincent to see that there could be more to his existence than vengeance. There could be love.

* * *

I almost ran back to Vincent’s room, pulling myself up on his bed until I was lying next to him. His cold features held no expression; his exquisite body was nothing but an empty shell.

I tried to imagine him as Jeanne had described . . . a violent, vengeful soldier. And though the picture that instinctively came to mind was the eyes-half-closed sexy smile he always gave me, I was able to imagine him as a furious avenger. There was something dangerous about him, as there was about all the revenants.

Just knowing that a fatal accident could be right around the corner must make humans more cautious, a trait that Vincent and his fellow revenants didn’t possess. Their lack of fear of injury, or even death, gave them a reckless confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying.

I traced his features with my finger and thought about the first time I had seen him like this. His dead body had repelled me then, but now I felt a growing certainty that I could handle whatever was given me. To be with Vincent I would have to be strong. Courageous.

I heard my phone’s text-message ring tone and jumped down off the bed to grab it. It was from Georgia:

Left party. I need to talk to you asap.

Me: Are you okay?

Georgia: No.

Me: Where are you?

Georgia: Outside Vincent’s house.

Me: What??? How did you know I was here?

Georgia: You told me.

Me: No, I didn’t.

Georgia: I need to see you. What’s the digicode?

Why was she doing this? And what could I do? She obviously needed me, but I couldn’t just give her the code.

Me: Can’t give it out. Will come outside to talk.

The doorbell rang. I ran down the hallway to the front door and pressed the button on the videocam screen. The camera light went on, and looking up into the lens was my sister.

“Georgia!” I yelled into the microphone. “What are you doing here?”

When she heard my voice, she cried out, “Oh my God, Kate, I’m so, so sorry!”

“What happened?” I asked, panic rising in my voice as I saw the fear and anguish on her face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wailed, raising her trembling hands to her mouth in terror.

“For what, Georgia? Tell me!” I yelled.

“For bringing me here,” said a low voice, and Lucien stepped into the picture and put a knife to Georgia’s throat.

“Open the gate or I’ll kill her.” The evil words affected me as much as if Lucien were standing next to me instead of across a courtyard behind a locked gate.

“I’m sorry, Katie,” Georgia cried softly.

I lifted my finger to the button with a key symbol under it.

Gaspard began running down the stairs behind me. “Don’t!” he cried.

“But he’ll kill my sister!”

“I’ll give you three seconds before I slit her throat,” came Lucien’s voice over the speakerphone. “Three . . .”

“I only have my swordstick . . . wait till I can get to the armory,” yelled Gaspard, reaching the bottom of the staircase and hurtling toward me.

“Two . . .”

I looked back at Gaspard in desperation as I pushed the button. The gate unlocked.

“Lock the door behind me, Gaspard, and don’t let him in. You have to protect Vincent!” I called. And then I leaped outside, slamming the door behind me, and turned to face the devil.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

LUCIEN STOOD IN THE COURTYARD BEFORE ME, holding the knife to Georgia’s back.

“Good evening, Kate,” he said in a cold, even voice. His expression was murderous, and his enormous frame seemed twice as big now that he was looming over me. How Georgia could ever have seen anything seductive in this terrifying monster was beyond me.

“Now be a good girl and take me inside.”

“I can’t,” I said. “It’s locked. I can’t do a thing for you now, so you can let Georgia go.” I felt like I had won this round, but had no idea what would come next.

“Gaspard, I know you’re in there,” yelled Lucien. “Now come out or you’ll have the blood of two humans on your hands.”

Before he could finish, the door opened and Gaspard walked out, holding the cane-sword before him.

“No, don’t, Gaspard!” I yelled. What is he doing? I thought wildly. He had to stay locked in the house, protecting Vincent. My sister was my responsibility alone.

Gaspard ignored me. Advancing, he said evenly, “Lucien, you vile leech. What brings your putrid corpse to our humble doorstep this fine evening?” He had recaptured the noble air he wore the day I saw him sparring with Vincent. The twitchy, stuttering poet had transformed into the formidable fighter.

Lucien stepped toward him, and I grabbed Georgia’s arm and pulled her away. “Let’s make a run for it,” I whispered, keeping an eye on the men.

“You seem to be sorely lacking in weaponry tonight, you sad excuse for an immortal,” Lucien growled.

“Mine seems a blade of equal merit to the bread knife you carry, you loathsome maggot,” Gaspard said, and lunged at Lucien with the sword, making a clean slice across the giant’s cheek.