Vincents Point of View

I wrote the following after DIE FOR ME was completed. It is Vincents point of view, starting before the beginning of the books narrative. The first time I saw the girl, it felt like the earth had suddenly slipped one tiny notch on its axis and began rotating at a slightly different angle. Afterward, my world was off-balance, gradually wobbling away from its stable orbit to spin off in the direction of deep space. I couldnt figure out why the girl had thrown my thoughts into suc h chaos, but felt that if I could, my life would be restored to normal. Of course, in my case, the terms life and normal could only be used tongue-in-cheek. But this was no joke: I had spent decades carefully and methodically protecting my stabilityI had to end the emotional vertigo she was causing me. So I began to follow her. Following is a regular part of our routine. Its what we do. Thats why none of the others clued in to that fact that I was up to something. Hey, theres that sad girl again, Ambrose would say as, time after time, we trailed her down to the riverside. She would sit and stare at the churning water until it seemed like it was only the husk of her body that was there, in the middle of Paris, in the dead of winter, dressed only in a light jacket and acting like she couldnt be touched by the weather. By the world. Because someoneor somethinghad sucked the life right out of her. Thats the only place she ever went. To sit by the Seine. Besides the couple of times she ventured out of her buildinga mere five-minutes from our homeand began to head in another direction. For a few blocks, shed walk hesitantly, as if she were going somewhere on a dare, and then, hunching over like the sky had suddenly dropped down to head-level, she raced back to her building, slamming the door behind her. She looked like she was being chased by ghosts. Ive been on the street for what seems like forever, and Ive seen a lot of crazies. This girl wasnt crazy: she was suffering. Let me take a step back at this point and clear something up: this wasnt just a case of falling for a human. This was like taking a nosedive over Niagara Falls. Ive never felt anything close to it, even though Ive come into contact with a lot of girls over the decades, many of whom made it clear enough that they were interested. Not meaning to sound stuck-up, but revenants are attractive. Its part of what we are. Even if some of us arent what youd call classically handsome (or classically beautiful), when we animate that first time, physical allure becomes part of the package. And, like everything else in the package, its there for a reason. People look at us and they automatically trust us. With their lives. Which just makes our work all that much easier. But Ive never used that perk to my advantage. Only one girl has ever won my heart, and when she died, my heart died with her. Since then, it just hasnt seemed worth thinking about for all of the complications it would cause. Until now. Until the girls long dark hair, blue-green eyes, and dark shroud of misery became inexplicably etched into my brain, and I was helpless to do anything but follow her. To spend every possible secondor at least as much time as possible without arousing suspicion amongst my kindredinside her radius. And then, just like that, she disappeared. For months. For four months and thirteen days, to be exact. And during that time, I learned what it meant to be spun for a loop. To spend twenty-four hours a day with my mind wandering, wondering where she was and what she was doing. And most maddening of

all, obsessed over why thisyes, beautiful, but not in the usual waygirl had succeeded in doing what no one else had done in over half a century: she had utterly and completely mesmerized me. Although Ive seen eighty-some years pass by, I guess my communication skills got stuck at eighteen when I first died. Or maybe its just my prideIm so used to being the one in the House who doesnt need lovethat being indifferent to girls has kind of become a point of honor for me. Whatever the reason, I couldnt talk to my kindred about it. I mean, even if I had, they would have been horrified. Because if it ever got to the point where we became close, it would be too dangerous. Not only for us, but for her. Pulling someone like her into our world would be about the stupidest and most selfish thing I could do. Jules and Ambrose are both dating machines, but they both know what it would mean to seriously fall for a human. Charles has had his fair share of short-term romances, but hes so seriously messed up and angsty that girls arent exactly on his radar at the moment. And Charlotte has her unrequited love thing going on, so it would be cruel to bring the subject up with her. As for talking with Jean-Baptiste and GaspardI cant even think about going there. But I had almost gotten to the point of desperationI was practically on the verge of confessing to Juleswhen she came back. And my life, or afterlife if you want to get technical, suddenly made sense again. I began following her everywhere. Besides lingering shadows under her eyes, the dark circles were gone. Her sallow pallor had been replaced by a healthy glow. Her sky seemed to have lifted, because she now walked standing straight. And her hopelessness had turned into something else: defiance. As if she was standing up to something terrible and proving that it couldnt beat her down. I was even more obsessed with the girls new incarnation, and, although the others hadnt copped on to the fact that I was constantly trailing her (she lived in the neighbourhood, so it was normal enough to cross her path on a regular basis) they knew that something was up. Then one day I saw her at our regular cafthe Caf Sainte-Lucie. Jules was telling Ambrose and me some crazy story from his beatnik artist past, when I looked over and there she was across the terrace from me, reading a book. For once, I hadnt followed her: she was just there. I wasnt prepared, and couldnt tear my eyes away from her f ace. After a minute, she looked up and her crystal water-colored eyes met mine. From that point on I was lost. There wasnt a hope in hell of breaking the girls hold on me. I have been obsessed before. Its an occupational hazard. If a revenant takes a f all for someone, gets stabbed, burned, or goes as far as dying for someone, theyre going to want to know if their sacrifice has made a difference in the persons life. Following your rescues is discouraged, of course. But I must have a hundred names saved in my web browsers electronic alerts. Even if its been years since I saved them, I want to know how my rescues are doing, and if anything shows up about them on the internet, Im the first to know about it. This is different, though. I cant help myself. The girl leads me from museum to cinema to caf. I feel like I know her now. She likes all types of art, but gravitates towards paintings. Shes a regular at the old places that show classic movies, and always sits in the middle row: I know the back of her head by heart. And she barely even people-watches at the caf. Once she picks up a book, shes gone for hours. I know her expressions. Recognize her moods. I tell myself that I do know her. As much as I can safely know any human. But it isnt enough. Although Ive seen her a couple of times with other peoplea strawberry-blond girl who acts close

enough to be her sister, and an older couple that I would peg as grandparents Ive never heard them say her name. She is the centre of my universe and I dont know her name. Meeting her, touching her, spending time with herI know those are all impossible. About as likely as my transforming from undead back to human. But I feel if I could just know her name the sound that identifies herthe combination of letters that, if I were able to speak it to her (and Ive sworn I never would) would make her raise her head and look me in the eye if I could only own those precious few syllables, I feel like it would be enough. I could live with that.