Die for Her A Die for Me Novella

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