Die for Her A Die for Me Novella

working out in the armory. Gaspard walks out of the sitting room and, seeing me, stops in place under the chandelier. “Must you insist on walking around the house naked, Jules? It makes me feel like I’m living in some kind of sordid fraternity house.”
    “I’m not naked,” I say, pointing to the towel around my waist.
    “A towel does not count as clothing,” Gaspard chides.
    “Whatever you say,” I respond, and, yanking off the towel, drape it over my shoulders like a scarf.
    Gaspard shakes his head mournfully and wanders off toward the kitchen, mumbling, “I am living with cretins.”
    Just then, Charles and Charlotte come bustling breathlessly through the front door like an angry mob’s chasing them with pitchforks. Charlotte takes one look at me and starts laughing. I return the towel to my waist and ask, “What’s going on?”
    “Remember that girl who Vincent was following?” Charlotte blurts out.
    “The one he talked to at the café last week? What was her name . . . Kate?” I ask.
    “Yes, well, now he’s gone and saved her.”
    “Where is he?” I ask, feeling a tingle of panic.
    “He’s volant, so he’s probably following her home. A big stone fell off the side of the building above Café Sainte-Lucie and nearly crushed her. Vincent foresaw it and told me. I gestured for her to come over to our table, and she got out of the way just in time. The stone crushed the chair she had been sitting in. She would have been killed on impact.”
    “So it was actually you who did the saving,” Charles interrupts. “Maybe Vincent won’t get the energy transfer.”
    “I definitely got some—I felt it. Look, I filed these down to the nub this morning.” Charlotte holds her hands out, displaying nails that have already grown past her fingertips. “But I didn’t get the full surge—just a bit. Some of her energy definitely went to him.”
    “Crap,” I say. “Whatever mystical forces created revenants, they sure complicated things by making us obsess over the people we save. That’s all Vincent needs. Even more of an urge to follow her around.”
    Just then I feel a presence enter the room. Only one of us is volant this week, so I know exactly who it is. “Vince, man, you are so exceedingly stupid,” I say.
    What was I supposed to do . . . let her die? he responds.
    “Of course not,” I concede. “But you know what this means. You’re playing with fire, man. And I don’t want to be around when you come home with third-degree burns.”
    I know what I’m doing , he insists.
    “Like hell you do,” I say. I want to shake him and remind him of how much Charles suffered the time he fell in love with a human. But Charles is standing right there probably thinking the same thing, so I just grab my coat and leave to go to the one place where I am completely in control: I go to my studio and lose myself in my painting.

FOUR
    AH, THE MARAIS. MY FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD in Paris. The vestiges of history within its two arrondissements span everything from the remains of a Roman wall to ultra-modern art galleries. Whenever someone proposes walking the Marais, they know I’m in.
    So when a volant Ambrose mentions patrolling from the river to rue Saint-Denis, I jump at the chance. It’s easy to talk Vincent into coming along because he’s still mooning about meeting the American girl two days ago. I know, because every time he thinks about her he gets this stupid grin on his face, and he’s got it right now.
    We start off at my gallery, where I show Vince and Ambrose some new figure drawings I’m working on, then zigzag down rue des Rosiers through the Jewish district, up rue Vieille du Temple past all of the trendy stores, restaurants, and bars, onto the rue des Francs-Bourgeois with its beautiful sixteenth-century mansions, punctuated by rows of fashion and cosmetic shops.
    We head north toward some shadier neighborhoods, specifically the rue Saint-Denis, where our enemies are involved in the thriving prostitution and strip-show businesses. And just as we’re passing the Picasso Museum, Vincent says, “Sorry, not interested.”
    “What’s Ambrose want?” I ask.
    I was just suggesting to Vin that we pop into the museum for a little lesson in Cubism , he says.
    Normally I would pass. I’ve seen every painting in there a million times. I saw several of them before their paint was even dry, since Pablo’s studio was down the hall from mine at the Bateau-Lavoir. But I have been