Until I Die

Then, giving Papy a polite bow, he walked to the door, flipped the lock open, and disappeared onto the street.
My tears were falling in earnest as I felt Papy’s gentle hands on my shoulders. “ Ma princesse ,” he said mournfully. “Whatever have you gotten yourself into?”

THIRTY-THREE
     
    PAPY ORDERED ME TO SIT DOWN AND SPENT THE next fifteen minutes closing the gallery early. We were both jumpy on the walk home—waiting for the numa to double back and come for us. I felt like telling my grandfather that sending Vincent away before he could escort us safely to our house might not have been the smartest idea, but by that point I was keeping my thoughts to myself.
Then, halfway there, I saw Ambrose in a phone booth pretending to be deep in conversation, although I knew full well that he never left home without his cell phone. He winked as I walked by, and I suspected that Vincent had provided us with ample protection. When I spotted Gaspard sitting in a café reading a book, and he raised an eyebrow as we passed, I was sure of it.
Once home, Papy and I headed directly to his office. “Kate,” he said gravely, as I posed nervously on a leather armchair, “do you even know what Vincent is?”
I nodded. “I know everything, Papy. Or at least, I know a lot. But how do you know about them? You can’t tell me you just jumped from studying mythological beings to believing they exist. You didn’t even blink when Vincent told you what he was.”
My grandfather sighed, walked to his bookcase, and, after searching for a minute, pulled out the old bestiary. He laid it on the low, round table between us and opened it, flipping through until he found the right page.
“This, my dear,” he said, gesturing toward the book, “is the only record of a revenant in my entire library. I have seen them mentioned in other texts, but as soon as books or works of art concerning revenants come onto the market, they are snatched up for astronomical prices. The buyers are a secret network of private collectors using obviously fictional names and paying in cash. We antiquities dealers know to contact them if we come into possession of anything of that nature.
“None of the dealers talk about the revenant-theme collectors—not even among ourselves; our clients have made it clear that if we discuss their interest with anyone they will no longer do business with us. All literary traces of revenants have disappeared into these buyers’ collections. So of course it occurred to me that there might be a reason for the secrecy—beyond an extremely competitive market.”
I met Papy’s serious gaze with a determined look of my own. He wasn’t going to scare me, and he needed to know that.
“There are strange, mystical things occurring in our world that very few people know about. Because my profession necessitates constant detective work into the darkest corners of history, I unluckily happen to be privy to some of them. Most of my colleagues prefer to stick their heads in the sand and pretend that revenants are fictional beings. But I don’t agree with them—I suspected their existence. And after what I witnessed today, my suspicions have been confirmed.
“But Kate, these things should remain where they began—in the shadows. Not in my life, dating my granddaughter. I cannot let you see Vincent again. Your parents would have expected me to protect you, and barring you from seeing something”—he hesitated, registering the look on my face—“some one who means certain danger for you, is part of the responsibility I have accepted.”
“But Papy …,” I began, suddenly blinded by an onslaught of tears.
“You are seventeen and still under my guardianship. When you are eighteen you can do what you want, although I will hope that by then you will see things the way I do.” His words were delivered with firmness, but I saw his eyes cloud with emotion as he watched me cry. I leaned forward into his arms.
“Oh, dear Kate,” he soothed. “I hate to make you unhappy. But I would rather see you depressed than dead.”
    Back in my room, I picked up my phone and stared at it for an entire minute. For the first time in almost a year I wanted to tap in the number of one of my Brooklyn friends and hear their old familiar voice at the end of the line. But even though I knew I could do that—any one of them would be forgiving enough to pick right up from where we had left off—how could I even begin to tell them about my situation?