Extraits

— Puisque la température s est rafraîchie, ça te dirait de goûter au meilleur chocolat chaud de toute la capitale ? demanda-t-il en enfourchant le scooter.

— On appâte les petites écolières avec du chocolat ? C'est mal, Vincent Delacroix, ironisai-je.

— Et accepter ma proposition, c est quoi ? rétorqua-t-il par-dessus le bruit du moteur.

— Délibérément naïf, répondis-je en grimpant avant de me serrer contre lui, les paupières closes pour mieux savourer l'instant.

-Aussi je te laisse le choix. Afin que tu décides par toi-même. Moi, je veux tenter ma chance. J'aimerais voir où ça pourrait nous mener. Mais un mot de toi et je disparaîtrai. Toi seule sais ce que tu es prête à supporter. A toi de déterminer ce qui se passera pour nous.

"Incapables de mourrir sont les êtres chers.

Car l'amour, c'est l'immortalité."

-Chouette, on commence par des questions facile ! s'exclame-t-il en écartant ses bras massifs pour se pencher vers moi. La vérité, c'est que nous sommes ... des zombiiiiies !

Il poussa un cri terrifiant, les doigts recourbés comme des griffes, et découvrit les dents. Devant mon expression horrifié, il éclata de rire en se tapant les cuisses.

-Je blague, s'exclafa-t-il avant de retrouver son calme.

Spoiler(cliquez pour révéler)Non, mais sérieusement. Nous sommes des zombies.

Vincent opened the ornately carved door and led me into an enormous entrance hall with a double staircase winding up either wall to a balcony overlooking the room. A crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen Beetle hung over our heads, and Persian rugs littered a marble floor inlaid with stone flowers and vines. What is this place? I thought.

I followed him through another door into a small, high-ceilinged room that looked like it hadn't been touched since the seventeenth century, and sat down on an ancient stiff-backed couch. Holding my head in my hands, I leaned forward and closed my eyes. "I'll be right back," Vincent said, and I heard the door close as he left the room.

After a few minutes I felt stronger. Resting my head against the couch, I studied the imposing room. Heavy drapes at the window blocked the daylight. A delicate chandelier, which looked like it had originally been set with candles instead of the flame-shaped electric bulbs it now held, threw out just enough light to illuminate walls that were crowded with paintings. A dozen faces of bad-tempered, centuries-old French aristocrats frowned down at me.

A servants' door hidden in the back wall swung open, and Vincent walked through. He set a massive porcelain teapot in the shape of a dragon and a matching cup onto the table in front of me next to a plate of paper-thin cookies. The fragrance of strong tea and almonds wafted up from the silver tray.

"Sugar and caffeine. Best medicine in the world," Vincent said as he sat down in an upholstered armchair a few feet away.

I tried to pick up the heavy teapot, but my hands were shaking so hard I only succeeded in making it clatter against the cup. "Here, let me do that," he said as he leaned over and poured. "Jeanne, our housekeeper, makes the best tea. Or so I've heard. I'm more a coffee man myself."

I blanched at his small talk. "Okay, stop. Just stop right there." My teeth were chattering: I couldn't tell if it was my shattered nerves or the dawning fear that something was very wrong. "Vincent . . . whoever you are." I'm in his house and I don't even know his last name, I realized in a flash before continuing. "Your friend just died a little while ago, and you are talking to me about"--my voice broke--"about coffee?"

A defensive expression registered on his face, but he remained silent.

"Oh my God," I said softly, and began crying again. "What is wrong with you?"

A motion at the top of the bridge drew my eyes up from the water's moonlit surface, where I had been watching for any trace of the girl. The man who had been trying to coax her down was now standing on the edge of the bridge, his widespread arms transforming his body into the shape of a cross as he threw himself powerfully forward. Time seemed to stop as he hovered in midair like a giant bird of prey between the bridge and the black surface of the water.

And in that split second, a streetlight by the water's edge flashed across his face. Recognition jolted through me. It was the boy from the Caf� Sainte-Lucie.

What in the world was he doing here, trying to talk a teenage girl out of a suicide attempt? Did he know her? Or was he just a passerby who decided to get involved?

His body sliced cleanly through the surface of the water and disappeared from view.

A shout erupted from underneath the bridge, and crouching silhouettes appeared in the murky blackness of the tunnel. "What the--!" Georgia exclaimed. She was interrupted by a flash of light and a sharp clanging of metal as two figures began to emerge from the darkness. Swords. They were sword fighting.

Georgia and I seemed to remember at the same moment that we had legs, and began sprinting back toward the stairway we had come from. Before we could reach it, a man's form materialized from the darkness. I didn't have time to scream before he caught me by the shoulders to stop me from mowing him down. Georgia froze in her tracks. "Good evening, ladies," came a smooth baritone voice.