Until I Die (12 page)

AS SOON AS I GOT HOME, I THREW MY HOMEWORK
on a chair and sat down on my bed with the book. In the beginning it was difficult. Like reading
Beowulf
in English—there were a lot of words I didn't understand. But gradually, the magic of the story pulled me in, and I felt like I was right there with the characters: Goderic, a nineteen-year-old revenant, and Else, the girl he married just months before he died.

It was Else who was there when Goderic awoke, the day he was to be buried. She gave him food and drink, and he attained his immortality. They learned what he was from a seer who had followed his light.

Else and Goderic became transients, moving every time he died so that the locals wouldn't become suspicious. As she got older, they had to change their story, claiming to be mother and son. After several years Else became sick. Goderic called a
guérisseur
to heal her, and the healer recognized what Goderic was by his aura.

Goderic pled with the man to find a way to let him age normally with his beloved—to resist the powerful desire to die. The
guérisseur
didn't have that knowledge, but told him of another healer who had great power in the way of the immortals.

The next part was full of words I didn't understand. It was phrased in a peculiar style—like a prophecy—but I tried to decipher it word by word. Still speaking of the powerful healer, the man told Goderic, “From his family will come the one to see the victor. If anyone holds the key to your plight, it will be the VictorSeer's clan. He lives in a faraway land, among
les
A . . . . . . . . . . 
, and can be found under the Sign of the Cord, selling relics to the pilgrims.”

My heart skipped a beat. There was a word crossed out. An essential word. After the capital
A
, a thick line of black ink had obscured the rest of the word, making it impossible to know among whom the healer lived. Someone had purposely drawn through it.
Someone who didn't want the healer to be found
, I thought.

I forced myself to keep reading, hoping that the word would recur later, but it didn't. Goderic and Else began traveling north, but she contracted another illness along the way and died in Goderic's arms. He was so distraught that he traveled to the city and hunted down a numa, who “delivered him from life.”

By the time I finished, it was two in the morning.

Who knew if there was even a grain of truth in the story? But if there was someone who could help me and Vincent, I wouldn't stop until I found him. However, before I could, I had to locate another copy of the book—a copy that hadn't been tampered with. And I knew just the place to start.

Although I slept only a few hours, I was wide awake as soon as my alarm sounded. I had set it early so that I could catch Mamie before she went up to her restoration studio and got lost in her work. But when I got to the kitchen, I saw I was too late: Mamie's breakfast dishes were already in the sink, and the white work apron she wore while restoring paintings was missing from its hook by the door.

I sliced a baguette in half, cut it lengthwise, and then smoothed a chunk of salty butter along my bread. A little dab of homemade jam from the quince tree in my grandparents' country garden, and I was holding a traditional
tartine
. Simple but delicious. I wrapped it in a napkin and carried it up the stairs with me.

Walking into Mamie's studio was like entering another world—an oil-paint-and-turpentine-scented world—populated by the subjects of centuries of paintings. Young aristocratic mothers with perfectly dressed children and ribbon-festooned dogs playing at their feet. Mournful-looking cows, cud chewing in the midst of a fog-blanketed pasture. Tiny saints kneeling in front of a cross, with a jumbo-size Jesus hanging on it, bloody and twisted. Anything and everything was in Mamie's world. No wonder I had spent my every free moment as a child up here.

My grandmother was brushing a clear liquid onto the surface of a time-darkened painting of Roman ruins. “Hi, Mamie!” I said, as I walked up behind her and plopped down onto a stool. I took a bite of
tartine
as I watched her work.

She carefully finished her brushstroke, and then turned, smiling brightly. “You're up early, Katya!” She made a gesture that indicated that if her hands weren't full, she would kiss me. I smiled. The all-important first-time-I-see-you-in-the-day cheek-kisses. I would never get used to letting someone get that near my mouth before having the chance to brush my teeth.

“Yeah. I had some stuff I needed to do before school. And I was just thinking about something I heard at the market the other day. I thought you could explain it.”

Mamie nodded expectantly.

“This woman was talking about finding a
guérisseur
. For her eczema, I think it was. And I've heard of
guérisseurs
—I know the word means ‘healer'—but I don't really understand how they work. Are they kind of like the faith healers we have in the States?”

“Oh, no.” Mamie shook her head vigorously and tsked reproachfully. She placed her paintbrush in a jar of liquid and wiped her hands on a towel. From this enthusiastic response, I knew I was in for a good story. Mamie loved telling me about French traditions that I didn't already know about, and the weirder the topic, the more she enjoyed it.

“
Pas
du
tout
.
Guérisseurs
have nothing to do with faith, although some claim that their healings are psychosomatic.” I laughed as I watched her become animated, warming up to her story. “But I, for one, know that's not the case.”

Voilà!
I thought.
Trust Mamie to have information on such a bizarre topic.
“What exactly are they, anyway?”

“Well, Katya.
Guérisseurs
have been around for centuries—from the time that there weren't enough trained doctors to go around. They usually specialize in something, like the healing of warts or eczema, or even setting broken bones. The same specialized gift is passed from one family member to another, and once the gift is passed, the previous healer no longer bears the gift. There is always only one
guérisseur
in a family at a time, and each must consciously accept the responsibility in order to inherit it.

“Which is why there aren't that many left. It used to be an honored profession. Now with modern medicine and rising skepticism, fewer people are proud to carry the gifts, and most of the younger generation refuse point-blank to accept it. And when that happens, the gift just disappears.”

“Sounds pretty awesome, actually,” I admitted.

“Even more awesome when you see it work,” Mamie said with a twinkle in her eye.

“You've met a
guérisseur
?”

“Why, yes. Twice, actually. Once was when I was pregnant with your father. I wasn't even three months along, and an old farmer who lived near our country home asked if I wanted to know if it was a boy or girl. Turns out he was a
guérisseur
, and that was his family's gift. That and curing nicotine addiction, if I remember correctly,” she said, tapping her lower lip and staring off into the mid-distance.

“And you didn't think it was just a lucky guess?” I asked.

“Out of more than a hundred babies, he was never once wrong. And your own Papy wouldn't have the handsome face he has today if it weren't for another
guérisseur
,” she continued.

“Once, when he was burning a pile of leaves, the wind changed and the flames hit him right in the face. Burned his eyebrows and the front of his hair right off. But a neighbor rushed him straight to his mother, and she ‘lifted' the burn. Strangest thing . . . she didn't even touch him, she just acted like she was sweeping it off his face and then throwing it away, flicking it off her fingers. And it worked. He had no burns. But it took a while for his eyebrows to grow back.”

“Well, that one's a little harder to dispute,” I admitted.

“There's nothing to dispute. It works. These people have some sort of power. Just don't ask why or how. It doesn't make any sense. But a lot of important things in this world don't.”

Her story complete, Mamie patted the front of her apron and came to stand next to me. “I have to work, dear. The Musée d'Orsay needs this by the end of the week.” She brushed my chin softly with her hand. “You know, Katya, you look more like your mother every day.”

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.

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.