Taking her hand, I lace my fingers through hers. “Can’t blame me for trying,” I say, and watch her cheeks flare scarlet as my heartbeat accelerates. Her skin is soft. Warm. And I am touching her for the first time—our first connection—and it feels like the nerve endings in my fingertips are shooting off sparks.

“You’re incorrigible,” she chides, but she doesn’t pull away.

“And you’re blushing,” I respond. I continue flirting for a few moments, enjoying her reactions before forcing myself to come around to the point I’m there to make. I tell her that Vincent is pining away for her.

She looks down briefly, breaking eye contact. And then looking back up at me with eyes glistening with repressed tears, she says, “I’m sorry. I wanted to give it a chance, but after seeing Charles carried home in a body bag . . .”

I remove my hand quickly, and stare back at her, emotionless. I am no longer flirty Jules; I am Vincent’s ambassador. I must persuade her to give him another chance. A voice inside my head whispers, Are you doing this for him? Or for you?

“I can’t let myself fall for Vincent if it means having a constant reminder of death,” she continues. “I’ve had enough of that to deal with in the last year.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.” I turn my place mat over, fish a pencil out of my pocket, and begin to sketch her. That way I don’t have to look at her. To be undone by those warm, trusting eyes.

But with a few lines, I’ve transferred her beauty into a two-dimensional version of my dream girl. Kate has all of the grace and dignity of Botticelli’s Venus, and that is how I depict her. My fingers loosen on the pencil, letting the image flow from my mind to the paper, and I look up to check her real face against the one I’ve given her, and for the second that my eyes linger on her own, I feel a stab to my heart and know I am lost.

I’m falling for Kate. How could I? My best friend is in love with her. And she with him. You must never let them know—the words sizzle through my mind, and I feel like I am bleeding internally.

Kate drags me back to the here and now. “I saw Vincent yesterday sharing a very tender moment with a gorgeous blonde.”

I ignore her words and continue drawing. I can’t look her in the eyes right away. She will see it. She’ll know how I feel. “Vince wanted me to check on you,” I say finally. “He doesn’t dare approach you himself. He says he doesn’t want to cause you any more agony. After seeing you sprint out of La Palette yesterday, he was afraid that you might have drawn the wrong conclusion. Which you obviously did.”

I dare to glance up and see a flash of anger in her eyes. “Jules, I saw what I saw. How much more obvious could it have been?”

Part of me wants to shrug it off. To let her believe that Vincent and Geneviève are a couple. She is at a weak point—wounded and confused. From decades of experience, I know that this is the perfect time to make a move—right after a girl’s been hurt by someone else. I spend the next few months building their confidence back up, showing them a good time.

And then, before they can completely fall for me, I come up with something that will make them want to break up. I plant a seed of doubt, make them think that it’s their idea that we stop seeing each other. I act sad, but let them go their own way, and we both end up with a smile on our face, and our hearts a little warmer than before.

Kate is right there, ready to be scooped up and loved. And I’m so tempted. She is beautiful: not just her face—her entire being is lovely. I see why Vincent is drawn to her. I find myself imagining that I’m holding her, and it makes me feel dirty. If I follow my desire, I will betray the person I am closest to in the world. My best friend. My brother. And although I melt a little more each time I glance up at her, I fix her gaze in mine and tell her what Vincent wants me to. “Geneviève is kindred. She’s an old friend who’s like a sister to us. Vincent’s in love, but not with her.”

Kate draws a sharp breath, and I look back down at my sketch, breaking her magnetic hold on me. “He’s trying to figure things out,” I continue. “To find a way around the situation. He asked me to tell you that.”

I study the drawing I’ve made of Kate, and then tear the sketch off the place mat and hand it to her.

“I look beautiful,” she says in astonishment.

“You are beautiful,” I say, and leaning forward, allow myself to kiss her forehead. Her warm, baby-soft skin. Get out of here now, before you do something foolish, my conscience tells me, and I stand and book it out of the café. I breathe in the cold winter air, and my thoughts are immediately calmed.

Don’t look back, I think, and walk faster. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I cannot be falling for Kate, no matter how I felt in the café. No matter how I’m feeling right now. I can’t let myself.

Vincent’s waiting for me in the front hall when I get home. “What did she say?” he asks, just as Jean-Baptiste walks out of the sitting room.

“Same thing,” I say. “She can’t bear to see you.” Vincent nods grimly, as if he knew that would be her answer. He glances over at JB, who has stopped next to us and is unabashedly listening in on our conversation. “But I gave her your message anyway,” I say. I turn to JB. “I have important news—Kate saw Charles.”

“What? Where?” asks Jean-Baptiste, suddenly on alert.

“She saw him last night at a club near Oberkampf. Said he was standing outside. She couldn’t remember the name of the club. But at least we know he’s still alive and still free to come back home . . . if he wants to.”

“Did you ask who he was there with?” JB asks.

I shake my head.

“We need to get more information from her.” He looks solemnly at Vincent. “You look horrible,” he states.

Vincent shrugs, and turning, heads toward his room.

JB crosses his arms and watches Vincent leave. “I think it’s time that I pay Kate’s grandparents a visit.”

TEN

“WHY DO THESE SMELL LIKE AN OUTHOUSE?” I ask, holding up an old, crinkled parchment covered with scrawling in Latin. Gaspard, Vincent, and I are in the library combing through old documents that smell like they were left out in the rain and then shut up in an airtight box.

“Because they were not properly cared for before they came into my possession,” Gaspard replies curtly. “Just look for the words ‘tenebris via.’ You don’t have to try to read the whole thing.” He’s more on edge than usual, probably because he’s got two library neophytes handling his priceless documents.

Just then JB barges through the door, and Gaspard practically leaps out of his chair in surprise. JB calmly walks over, picks up the paper that Gaspard dropped, and hands it to him, then looks at Vincent with a concerned expression. “I had a conversation with your young lady friend and her grandmother, Vincent. And I have come to the decision that, as a family, they are trustworthy and can be taken into our confidence if necessary.”

Vincent stands, walks over to the elder revenant, and leaning down, wraps his arms around him, giving him a hug that is heartfelt, but obviously something JB isn’t used to. He pats Vincent uncomfortably on the back and says, “There, there. I did it for all of us, not just for you.”

“I know,” Vincent says, his voice choked with emotion. “But thank you. It means so much to me.”

“Of course,” JB says, extricating himself from Vincent’s arms.

“How is she?” Vincent asks him.

“As feisty as ever,” JB says, looking bemused. “She gave me a real telling off.”

Although Gaspard looks shocked, I can’t help a huge smile from spreading across my face. Of course she gave him a telling off. I can only imagine JB giving her attitude, and her giving it right back. That’s my Kate! I think with pride, and then do a quick auto-correct. She’s not mine. She loves Vincent. And remembering that makes me feel like someone dumped cold water over me. I have to stop thinking about her.

But that’s kind of hard when Vincent enlists me to come along with him that night on his daily lights-out-in-Kate’s-room routine. “You’re my best friend,” he pleads. “I need your support.”

“Vincent, I support you. I just don’t feel like going out and standing around in the pouring rain.” But one look at his drawn face and the dark circles under his eyes, and I grab my coat. “Let’s go.”

It never seems to really pour when it rains in Paris. You usually get a light sprinkle with an occasional shower. But tonight it’s coming down in buckets. We stand outside Kate’s building, Vincent staring up at her window, taking the rain full in the face, and me fitting as much of myself as possible inside the doorway, but still getting soaked.

“Oh my God, Jules,” Vincent calls. His voice is barely audible in the downpour. “She’s at the window. She’s looking at the sky—out at the storm.” And then he’s struck silent. He stares intently up for a full ten seconds, and then slowly lowers his face until our eyes meet. “Jules, she looked my way,” he says.

“That’s great. Can we go now?” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. Unless I’m swimming or in the shower, I hate getting wet.

“No, I mean she really saw me. And I think she’s coming down!” he says.

“Which is my cue to leave. Good luck, mon ami,” I say, dashing out into the rain and clapping my hand to his shoulder before turning to go. But something inside of me does this little leap, and instead of leaving, I walk to the corner and wait to see if she actually comes.

And then there she is, face radiant as she runs out the door, drops her umbrella, and throws herself into Vincent’s arms. He picks her up off the ground and clasps her so tightly I’m surprised she can breathe.

Suddenly I’m imagining myself in Vincent’s place, holding her warm body to me, nuzzling my face in her hair. And a jolt of emotion knocks me back a step. One look at their joy and my heart feels like it’s being pulled apart. Why am I so conflicted? I love Vincent like a brother. Being without the girl he loves has made him physically ill. So why does their reunion hurt so much?

That night, Kate stays at La Maison. Spends the night in Vincent’s room. Sleeps in his arms.

And something happens to me that has never happened before. I feel the acid burn of jealousy and it overwhelms me. I leave the house, jog the half-hour trek to my studio, and lose myself in my painting.

She wants to be with him, not with me. She thinks I’m a joke. A flirt. Of course—that’s what I’ve led her to believe. But she doesn’t see through it, like something in me hoped she would.

My feelings for her are laughable. Ineffectual. Never meant to be. So why am I cursed with them? Why can’t I forget about her? I have sacrificed my very existence to the whims and desires of fate. I am fate’s slave, and yet it is mocking me.

I look in despair at the mess I’ve made on the canvas, and sit on the ground, my head in my hands. I must get control of myself. If things continue as they have started, this girl is going to be a part of my life. A part of our clan’s life. And I have to learn to deal with it without showing my feelings. I have to get over her. I take my phone out of my pocket and call the first number that comes up: Evelynn.

“Hello, bella. I know it’s been a long time, but would you happen to have a pot of tea for a poor, lonely artist?”

I go to the only thing that I know will make me feel better. Another woman’s embrace.

ELEVEN

“CHARLES WAS WITH LUCIEN!” VINCENT SAYS AS he bursts into the kitchen, where JB and Gaspard are having a rare dinner with the rest of us instead of eating alone. Jeanne laid out the good china for the occasion, and left us with a feast of cochon de lait, an entire roasted suckling pig that would normally feed a dozen people, but with Ambrose eating for six, will only last the night.

Everyone stops eating and stares at Vincent. “What did you say?” JB asks in a strained voice. “I just came from dinner with Kate’s family. And she saw Charles with Lucien the other night. They were talking outside of the nightclub.”

Charlotte raises her hands to her mouth, and moans, “Oh no.” I scoot over and put my arm around her. But I know what she’s thinking: Charles has finally done it. He’s asked the numa to destroy him. I’m overwhelmed both by sadness that Charles’s depression has led him this far, and anger at the thought of a numa blade severing his neck.

“But there’s not only that,” Vincent says. “Kate’s sister is apparently seeing Lucien. As in, romantically.”

“What?” Ambrose roars, banging his knife handle on the table.

“Of course, she doesn’t know who he is. Or what he is,” Vincent says. “And he has obviously discovered our link with Kate’s family.”

Charlotte starts crying, and I pull her in toward me so that she’s sobbing into my chest. My eyes meet JB’s.

“I’m ordering an immediate general alert,” he says, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin and rising from his chair. “We’ll have the entirety of our Paris kindred out on the street looking for him. I promise, Charlotte. We’ll find your brother.”

But we find no trace of Charles or the numa, and two days later Lucien calls with an ultimatum. He has killed Charles and left his body in the Catacombs. If we don’t come get it that night, he will wait until Charles is volant and destroy his body, damning Charles to eternal disembodiment.

We know it’s a trap. But we go anyway. And although we manage to kill a few numa and rescue Charles’s body, Lucien uses the setup to act upon an even more diabolical scheme. He uses Kate’s sister to get into La Maison, and drags the girls to where Vincent’s body lies dormant and empty—his spirit is volant at the Catacombs with us.