From anyone else, this would have destroyed me. From Mamie, it was just what I needed to hear. My mother had been strong. Smart. And determined enough to get whatever she wanted, no matter how difficult it proved.

Like the quest I faced now. Bearing my mother’s face was a daily reminder that I could be as strong as she had been. And fighting for what I wanted most in life was the best way to keep her alive in my heart.

SIXTEEN

EVEN THOUGH VINCENT HAD TOLD ME HE WOULD pick me up later in the evening, I went straight to his place after school. He scooped me up into his arms when he saw me, and then put me down, worriedly running a hand through his hair. “I have to take care of a ton of boring stuff before tonight,” he said apologetically.

“I know. I brought homework.” I gave him a peck on the lips as I walked past him into the grand foyer. I had been here a hundred times already, and each time it made me feel like I was walking into a palace. Which is basically what it was. Vincent held my hand as we walked down the long hallway to his room, and crouched down in front of the chimney to build up the fire as I settled on his couch.

Truth be told, I loved watching Vincent get ready for dormancy. It made me feel more in control, like I was preparing for these hallucinatory three days myself. There wasn’t anything I could do to help, so at least I could observe.

It was easy to forget what he was as he finished answering emails and checked all the online bills and bank balances he handled for the kindred. He looked like an industrious, hardworking teenager—the rare kind who knows what he wants for the future and is doing everything he can to get it.

That illusion was burst when he put a bottle of water and bag of dried fruits and nuts next to our photo on his bedside table. And I was reminded that this was his future—exactly what he was doing right now—for the rest of eternity.

I watched him finalize his predormancy setup. Although Jeanne always made sure there was a tray full of food and drink awaiting each revenant when he or she awoke, Vincent had this primal fear that some catastrophe might happen and she and the others wouldn’t be there to leave this critical nourishment. By now I knew how important it was: Without something to eat and drink, the awakening revenant would expire. Meaning Vincent would go from a temporary death to a permanent one.

“So, mon ange, do we go ahead with our plans, or would you rather do something different tonight?” Vincent said, nuzzling my ear as I pretended to read my chemistry textbook.

This was my fifth month to experience Vincent’s dormancy. The first time I hadn’t known what he was, and finding Vincent apparently dead nearly scared me enough to send me to my own early grave. But on the bright side, it also led to my discovery of what the revenants actually were.

The second month was when we discovered that we were able to communicate while he was volant. And after that, we had fallen into a routine. We spent the night before his dormancy doing a pizza-and-movie night in the private cinema in their basement, after which Vincent would walk me home and we would say good-bye. I wouldn’t visit the next day—he didn’t like me seeing him dead when he couldn’t communicate with me. But during the following two days, with Vincent able to travel outside his body and talk with me, we spent every moment together that he wasn’t on walking duty with his kindred.

In the beginning I wouldn’t let him come to my house while volant. But now I was fine with it. As long as he let me know he was there, the idea didn’t creep me out. On the contrary, I loved going to sleep with him whispering in my head. What could be more romantic than hearing your boyfriend murmur beautiful words to you as you’re dozing off?

I swore I had better dreams when he was there. I was positive he was putting lovely ideas into my head all night long, but when I mentioned it to him, he said he would never take advantage of a lady while she was unconscious. His playful grin, when he said that, was anything but convincing.

“Movie night, definitely,” I said.

Vincent nodded, his face looking more strained than usual. Although he would fall into dormancy during the night, he began to feel weak a few hours before. But this month he looked worse than weak. He looked downright awful.

The dark circles under his eyes now looked like bruises. His skin was wan and drawn, and he seemed as exhausted as if he had just run a marathon. “Vincent, I know I promised not to dig for details on your ‘experiment,’ but if whatever you’re doing is supposed to make you stronger, it doesn’t look like it’s working very well. In fact, I would say it’s having the opposite effect.”

“Yeah, I know. Everyone’s freaking out about how bad I look. But, as I said, things are supposed to get worse before they get better.”

“Well, there’s ‘worse,’ and then there’s . . . a black eye.” I ran my finger lightly across the bruising.

“In three days I’ll be like new again, so don’t worry,” Vincent said, looking like he was having a hard time taking his own advice.

“Okay.” I shrugged in defeat and sat back, crossing my arms. “So . . . what’s playing tonight at Le Cinéma de la Maison?”

Vincent’s encyclopedic knowledge of movies had intimidated me until I reasoned that if I never slept, I would have seen as many films as him. “I was thinking that, since you hadn’t seen them, we could watch either Scarface or Wings of Desire,” he replied.

I peered at the backs of the two DVD cases he held out. “Well, since I’m not really in the mood for ‘bloody drug cartel warfare in 1980s Miami,’ an art-house German film about guardian angels sounds just about right.”

Vincent smiled tiredly and picked up the phone to order our pizzas.

I checked the time. We had a few hours together before he would take me home. After that, I had a whole day during which Vincent would have no idea what I was up to. Which was exactly how I wanted it.

SEVENTEEN

I STEPPED OUT OF MY BUILDING ON SATURDAY morning, ready for my weekly fight training, to see . . . nobody. And then I remembered Vincent couldn’t be there to meet me. Not even in spirit form. He was dead-as-a-doornail dormant today.

I typed in the digicode as I arrived at La Maison, letting myself into the courtyard, and knocked at the door as was my habit when Vincent wasn’t with me. Gaspard opened it with a look of surprise, and then fell all over himself apologizing. “Oh, dear Kate,” he said, stepping aside and ushering me into the house, “I completely forgot about our practice. I should have telephoned you to cancel. You see, Charlotte called this morning. Charles is gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” I responded.

“It seems that he waited long enough for Geneviève to get moved in before taking his leave of Charlotte. He left a note this morning telling them not to worry about him, but that he would not be in contact for a while. That he needed to go somewhere else to get his head ‘sorted out.’” Gaspard always sounded awkward when he tried to use contemporary phrases.

“Is someone going to look for him?”

“Where would we even start?” Gaspard replied. “Charlotte and Geneviève will stay put for the moment, in case he decides to come back. Otherwise, I’ve spread the word among our nearest kin, and I’m sure news will travel. Perhaps we’ll hear back from someone who has spotted him.” He stood for a moment, looking at the floor as if the tiles held the answer to Charles’s whereabouts, and then, shaking himself out of his stupor, said, “In any case, I have several calls still to make, so please excuse me.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, nothing to be done,” he mumbled as he walked toward the double stairway.

“I think I’ll stay, then,” I called.

“Yes, yes,” he said distractedly, disappearing down the hallway at the top of the staircase.

I stood there feeling awful for a moment, wondering what Charles could possibly be up to this time, and thinking of how Charlotte must be going out of her mind with worry. I would write her as soon as I got home.

Glancing down the hallway toward Vincent’s room, I had to almost physically restrain myself from going to see him. Even though he’d never know, I decided to be good. This time.

And then it dawned on me. This was the perfect opportunity to check out JB’s library. I waited for a few seconds, until I heard Gaspard’s door close, and then skipped up the stairs and made my way to the library.

For me, this room was like book heaven. I had never been in here on my own—only with the whole group during the couple of meetings I had attended in it. And now, here it was, all mine to discover. Thousands of volumes, many of which I assumed contained references to revenants, lined the walls in columns so high that the top shelves had to be accessed by ladders.

Where to even start? I knew what I wanted: the stash of newly acquired books that Vincent had mentioned—those that Gaspard, acting as the Paris clan’s unofficial researcher and librarian, hadn’t had time to go through yet. I was convinced that if he had seen Immortal Love—and had actually read it cover to cover—he would have checked out the guérisseur option and Vincent would have told me about it.

I took a few minutes to browse through the shelves, like I had in Papy’s library, situating myself in the maze of books. Although there was definitely some sort of order to them, I couldn’t tell what it was. However, the spine of each book held a little tag with a reference number typed on it, just like in a public library. After a quick glance around the room, I spotted something that warmed my heart: a big wooden cabinet inset with dozens of tiny drawers. Gaspard kept an old-fashioned card catalogue. I felt like kissing him.

There hadn’t been an author’s name on Papy’s book, so I skipped to the drawers that were catalogued by book title. And to my utter astonishment, there it was—Immortal Love—spelled out in old-fashioned typewriter letters. I stood there and gawked at it, incredulous that it had been so easy to find. Underneath the title, Gaspard had typed in French “Illum. manu. 10th century, Fr.,” with a Gaspard Decimal System number in the upper right corner. I memorized the number and went searching.

And it was . . . not as easy as I had thought. The book wasn’t on the shelf where it should have been, which was full of archival boxes, conceivably holding other illuminated manuscripts. And it wasn’t on any of the neighboring shelves. I worked my way around the room, trying once more to get a feel for Gaspard’s organization. Near the windows I spied a set of shelves that weren’t jam-packed full of books like the others. And upon closer investigation, I saw a small metal plaque attached to the front of the bookcase engraved with the words à LIRE. “To read.”

My heartbeat accelerated as I ran my fingers over the spines and noticed that they were organized by number as well. Thank the OCD gods, I thought, and then I saw it. The correct number—on the spine of an archival box. I opened it and there it was: bound in the same rust-colored leather as Papy’s copy.

I lifted the book out and carefully replaced the box in its spot. Then, carrying it to a small table stacked high with assorted volumes, I sat and opened the cover. There they were, Goderic and Else, holding hands in a portrait that was almost identical to the one in Papy’s book.

I had begun turning the pages, carefully, toward the passage about the guérisseur, when I heard footsteps approach and the doorknob begin to creak. Panicking, I dropped the book into my bag, grabbed another volume from a stack in front of me, and opened it.

The sparrowlike figure of Violette stepped through the door. “Kate!” she cried, and came over to where I sat to give me cheek-kisses. “What are you doing here?”

“Gaspard canceled my fight training, so I thought I’d just hang out and read.”

Violette looked over my shoulder at the book I had opened. “You are reading about snake anatomy?” she asked, confused.

I looked down to see that the page held an illustration of a dissected snake, with Latin terms identifying the different bones and organs. “Um, yeah. I find nature . . . fascinating!” I cringed inside. I sounded like the head of the Geek Patrol.

She closed the book and sat down on the table facing me. “So Vincent is dormant. Would you like to do something?”

I grinned. “I’m actually having lunch with Georgia, but I could meet you afterward for an afternoon showing.”

“We can both have a look at Pariscope and then telephone each other. Should we say around four o’clock?”

“Perfect,” I said, standing. Violette wasn’t going anywhere, and I was dying to have a look at the book. I could have read it there, right in front of her, but it would have seemed weird to be hiding something from Jean-Baptiste’s collection in my purse. I would just have to return it later. Gaspard had so many volumes on his “To read” shelves that I was sure he wouldn’t miss it.

“You are finished with your snake reading?” Violette asked jokingly.

“Um, yeah,” I said weakly as I headed toward the door. “See you later then. I’ll text you with my top movie picks.”

She smiled and waved before heading toward the card catalogue.

I closed the door behind me, my heart thumping away as I felt awash in a tide of guilt. What in the world was I doing? I was sure JB and Gaspard wouldn’t mind me using the library, but taking an old, valuable book home with me? I couldn’t imagine they would be very happy about that. I’ll bring it back tomorrow, I thought, and made my way out of the house of the dead and back into the world of the living.

EIGHTEEN

I SAT IN MY ROOM, STARING AT THE TWO OLD books that lay open side by side on my bed. The word that had been crossed out in Papy’s book was easily legible in Jean-Baptiste’s copy—it was “Audoniens.” However, the “Sign of the Cord” bit had been crossed out so thoroughly that it was impossible to decipher. Both books were needed to fit together the puzzle pieces: the guérisseur lived among the Audoniens and could be found under the Sign of the Cord.