She stood atop the Eiffel Tower, and looked down.  The satin Seine gleamed as it flowed, ruffled by its currents, under the bridges and through the city.  There was a breeze; and it carried up the scent of the flowering trees that lined the avenues which glowed in ribbons, beaded with brilliance.

With her hand on the great painted iron lattice, she raised her eyes to the horizon.  Paris stretched for miles, dimming into the night.

“C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

She turned her head.  Janette was staring out at the view, smiling, balanced lightly at the very edge as if about to take flight.

“Your home town.”  There was a pause.  “I’ve never been here before.”

“I suppose,” said Janette, a little distant, not looking round, “you and Nicolas always planned to come here together.”

There was a longer pause.  “No,” said Natalie finally, thoughtfully.  “Actually, it never came up.  We were focused on a cure, not what would come after.”

“Bien sûr,” said Janette ironically (and this time she did turn to her companion), “il deviendrait mortel.”

This was too obvious for comment.  “We never looked beyond that moment,” repeated Natalie, and bit her lip.

“To marry, have children?  This was not a wish of yours?”

“In general,” said Natalie, steadying her voice.  “And with Nick, I suppose, if I had found a cure.  Family is its own immortality.”

“We had family,” said Janette.  She could have said more:  words were on her lips:  we were family—until you came along.  (But it was not entirely true.)  So she simply sighed, turned back to the panorama of Paris, and murmured, “Eh bien, il y a toujours de Paris.”

“So am I to say, ‘There’s always Toronto’?” said Natalie sharply.  “That there’s always the future, always eternity?  That’s the way you vampires think, isn’t it?  No going back, but always on—even if ‘on’ does, in fact, circle back and back, over and over.  How many times have you returned to Paris?  There’s nothing more repetitive than Nick’s history, as far as he ever told it to me.”

“Yes, well … history repeats itself, as they say,” snapped Janette.  She stepped lightly off the great beam and flew away, not too fast.

Exasperated, Natalie flung herself into the air.  And followed.

The paramedics unloaded the gurney from the ambulance, plasma bag swinging as they rushed their patient into the Emerg.  The triage nurse, already warned of their arrival, met them with her clipboard to note details; a doctor came in a hurry to evaluate the woman’s condition.

After that, there was organized order—though it would have seemed confusion to the onlooker—until the patient was sufficiently stabilized to transfer her to surgery.  Her injuries were less severe than her condition warranted; but the blood loss had been acute.

Belatedly, there were notifications:  to the next of kin; and, when her identity was clear, to her employers, who, in turn, told sundry of her colleagues.  There were ramifications, of course; but of these she was unaware, being unconscious under the knife when the first calls were made and in post-op recovery thereafter.

“This is the real Paris, isn’t it?” said Natalie.  They were walking along one of the narrow streets of the old city.  It was, of course, well past sunset; but there were many people outside, enjoying the evening.  “Funny.  I’ve always heard so much of the Champs Élysées; but it’s so wide and so straight that, after a while, it’s almost boring.”

“There was a time,” was all Janette replied.  Her tone was wistful; but she added dismissively, when Natalie shot her a glance, “It’s all tourists now, anyway.”

They passed a café, its small metal tables and chairs spilling outside, couples sipping and chatting.  At the corner was the entrance to a Métro station.  They did not go down the steps, but walked the length of its elegant Art Nouveau railing and into the small carré beyond.  (One could hardly call it a square, thought Natalie, given the irregularity of its shape and the number of streets that ran into it.)

“I always dreamt of visiting Paris some day,” she said.  “To travel, see the world.”  She smiled wryly.  “Not that I could afford it.  I went straight from my medical training into paying off student debt.”

“So you see, there are advantages to being a vampire,” said Janette.  There was a twinkle in her eye.

“Well, the air rates are cheaper, that’s for sure.”

The patient was restless in her sleep, but did not wake.  The nursing staff checked her vitals, which were as steady as could be expected.  Her condition was upgraded from critical.  This was a great relief to those who knew her; but still … she did not wake.

What had happened?  That was the question that everyone wanted to have answered.  Of course, the official investigation was ongoing.  The crime scene had been taped off; and Ident personnel—gowned, gloved, and booteed—flashed photographs, dusted for prints, and bagged up anything they hoped might prove to be evidence.  Witnesses, however, seemed to be in sadly short supply, save for the one, critical voice that remained silent.

Eyelids shut, the patient saw a woman enter Intensive Care, unseen and unheard, to stand over her bed.  She looked up through the thin veil of flesh, and was transfixed by blue, blue eyes.  In return, the woman considered the unconscious patient, divining mind and soul … and the past day.  Neither spoke.

It was dream or it was nightmare.  She was there or she was not.

The patient did not wake.

The Mona Lisa’s smile was, as ever, enigmatic.  They had the Musée du Louvre to themselves, for it was long after hours.

“I thought it would be larger,” said Natalie.  “But it doesn’t disappoint.”  She lifted herself lightly over the barrier and looked La Gioconda in the eyes.

“I met the artist,” said Janette.

“Of course you did.”  Natalie turned, with a wry smile.  “And Nick knew Beethoven; and both of you, no doubt, saw Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe.  You walk through history, don’t you?”  She flipped a flippant finger over her shoulder.  “She has her own immortality.”

“C’est vrai,” Janette acknow­ledged.

“So has Leonardo.”  Natalie thought briefly of the technically competent, amateurishly awkward art in the loft.  Nick’s immortality was of the flesh, not the spirit, not the soul.

“He painted me, you know.  I commissioned the portrait for Nicolas:  Lacroix did not object.”

“I saw it.  Nick had it in the loft—though he did not tell me at the time who had painted it.”  Natalie hesitated.  “So, you have a double immortality, then.  Should I be envious?”

“Oh, no doubt there will be portraits in your future, should you choose.”

The alarm sounded when the patient arrested; and they came running with the crash cart.  Eventually, after she had been shocked twice and injected with adrenaline, her heart began to beat.  But irregularly:  her status was downgraded.

Outside in the waiting area were those still in ignorance, who believed her well on the road to recovery.  In time they would be notified, and their worry would deepen again.  For now, the medical staff had her to think of, not those who loved her.

Briefly, her eyes flickered and opened.  “She’s coming back!” she heard faintly, and saw torsos in blue, masked faces bending towards her, a hand shifting suddenly close to adjust a tube.

Her attention was caught by a lack of movement … over in the corner, at the back of the room, unnoticed by those who thronged so busily nearby.  There was a woman—that woman—the one with the piercing blue eyes.  She watched, merely watched, with a close interest.

What am I doing here? thought the patient vaguely.  She tried to think, and then it came to her that she was—she must be!—in a hospital.  (She could not think why that should be; but she realized that she was familiar with the manner and dress of those who attended her.  She was in hospital, yes.)

Hand on hip, the model stalked down stage to stare blankly over the near-empty salon.  It was a private showing of an avante garde collection from one of the most fashionable designers.

“If you see something you like, it will be adjusted to fit,” said Janette prosaically.

“Oh, I can’t afford anything like this!” Natalie said.  She was careful not to raise her voice loud enough to be heard by anyone else.  She did not want them summarily turfed out.  Quite apart from the embarrassment, it was obvious that her companion was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Janette’s eyes danced.  “But we shall not pay, ma chère Natalie,” she replied.  “We simply ask and we receive.  It is one of the perks of our kind.”

Such blithe theft lay at the heart of more than one of Nick’s tales; yet it was so far from the way that Natalie herself had been raised that she found herself momentarily speechless.  “They are only mortals?  Is that it?” she finally said.  “What of the cost of the cloth, the labour?  Not to mention opening the building for us, putting on this display, paying the staff—!”

Janette made a little moue of distaste.

A vampire did not consider such things, Natalie supposed.  (A mortal did.)

With a lithe Gallic shrug, Janette dismissed the objections and rose.  She strode towards the stage, and clapped her hands imperiously.  “Assez bien,” she called.  “I shall take that black-and-gold one and the one with the red feathers.”  She turned.  “And you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Natalie.  “Not really my style.”

The patient woke briefly to see a woman.  For a moment, she thought it the mysterious well-coiffed woman who had been standing before in the corner; but then the figure shifted into focus and she recognized the uniform of a nurse, injecting something into a transfusion line.  The patient—once a doctor—tried to open her mouth to ask what it was.

The nurse must have heard some faint sound, for she turned and saw the open eyes.

“Back with us again are you?” she said in a firm, comforting tone.  But the effort to speak was too much.  The patient sighed, and shut her eyes.  A little while later she heard footsteps and the swish of curtain round the cubicle.  A little while after that, she slipped into sleep.

A little while after that, she saw, once more, the dark woman back in the corner.

Below them lay the Île de la Cité, the ancient heart of Paris.  The great bulk of the cathedral glowed, the flying buttresses spidering out dark against the illumination.  Ahead was their destination:  La Rive Gauche, with its cafés and bookshops, where artists still sold pictures along the walk by the river.  Janette had memories—fond memories—of the bohemian ’80s and les années folles of the golden ’20s.

Yet they lingered, hovering, over Notre-Dame.

“Do you think I could go in?” asked Natalie wistfully.

There was only a little breeze today to blow away her words.  “If you wish,” said Janette, flying closer.  “We have all the time in the world we want.  The Left Bank will wait.”

“But may I go in?” asked Natalie, remembering her grammar.

“All may enter the House of the Lord,” said Janette, in a faintly mocking tone; and the words did not turn her tongue to ash in her mouth.  “Tourists come from around the world,” she pointed out more cogently, “and every religion imaginable.  What will you be, after all, but yet another of them?”

She lay immobile and monitored.  Now and then someone came to check her; once or twice a shattered friend was permitted a few minutes.  She did not respond.  Each sat for a while, waiting and hoping; finally, they would leave.

She was alone.

The cubicle had no window; but there was light in the room beyond, glowing through the curtain.  The voices were dim; her ears heard only a murmur, but no words.

Natalie’s nose was pressed to the glass like a child’s.  Inside, the dainty confections were arrayed in rows of chocolate and mocha, lemon and orange—cake, mousse, jelly, and cream, dipped and dusted and decorated.  Culinary jewels.

“I always thought,” she said wistfully, “that—if I ever did come to Paris—the food … French food, you know … would be one of the best parts of the trip.  Buying a ‘yard of bread’ and some cheese and a piece of fruit, and walking along the street eating lunch; or maybe sitting in some café with a cup of espresso and one of those—”  She pointed through the window of the pâtisserie.

“Food,” said Janette blankly.

Natalie straightened and turned round.  “Yes,” she said defiantly.  “I miss food.  I miss my morning coffee, and hamburgers, and pizza, and ice cream, and crullers from Tim Hortons.  I miss chocolate.  And popcorn.  And I never had the chance to eat one of those.”  And once again she pointed at the window.

“Ah,” said Janette smugly.  “Well, let me tell you the news.  You may not be able to eat them any more; but that is no reason why you cannot taste them.”

Natalie looked puzzled.

“No, indeed,” Janette assured her.  “I mean it, let me show you.”  She pulled open the door of the shop, and a bell tinkled inside.  She was about to go in, but then turned back and beckoned.  “Come on,” she said.  “You can’t enjoy dessert out there, you know.”

Uncertain what was to happen, Natalie hesitated for a moment, but then nodded and went inside.  The shop was small and the hour late.  The serried ranks of cakes and pastry in the display case showed many gaps; but there was still a fair choice.

They were the only customers.

As Janette approached, the clerk behind the counter came over to serve her.  In moments she had the young woman fixed in thrall to her eyes; and, as she spoke, Natalie could hear thrumming, compelling undertones to her voice.  Finally, the girl stood, obedient and unspeaking, as Janette turned to Natalie.  “So which one do you fancy?”

“What are you doing?”

“You wanted dessert.  Pick a pastry.  She eats it; you taste—”

“No.”

“Fresh in her blood.”

“No!”  It was a horror:  a horror made for her.

Janette cocked her head to the side.  “Are you sure?  It will be … delicious.”

“Yes,” said Natalie thinly.  “I’m sure it would.”

There was a midnight quiet even in Intensive Care.  Patients slept; uneasily or deep, they slept.  The dark-haired woman slipped past the curtain and approached the bed.  She was dressed all in black, with a veil flung over her coiffure.  Her shoes made no noise as she approached the bed.  She settled herself at the foot; and there was no dip in the mattress under her weight.

Am I asleep? thought the patient.  Do I dream?

“So shall you live or shall you die?” said the woman.  Her voice was low but clear; yet there was no alarm from the nurse on station outside.  “You drift towards eternity.”

They sat and sipped their drinks, which looked so much like a good French wine.  It was not the Raven, of course; but a place much the same.

“It’s been a wonderful holiday,” Natalie said at last, “but all good things must come to an end.”

“Must they?”

Janette’s tone was arch; and Natalie responded with exasperation.  “I have to get home, you know.  I have a job.  And I can’t leave Grace to take care of my cat forever!”

“Ah, well,” Janette shrugged.  “As to the cat, you would not be the first to take a pet with you.  By all means, return to Toronto to wind up your affairs:  that makes sense.  But as for a job!  You are a vampire, Natalie!  You need no job.”

“What about the Raven?” came the pointed response.  “Would you simply abandon it?  And Nick has a job.”

“Does he?” asked Janette.  The arch tone returned, deepening Natalie’s annoyance.

“Yes, you know he has.  What do you think being a police officer is?  A game?”

“Mais oui!  Il joue à être un détective.”

“He is not ‘playing’!” said Natalie indignantly.  “Any more than I play at being a doctor.  These things matter.”

“Ah, oui,” said Janette dismissively.  “And yesterday some other ‘job’ mattered; and tomorrow it will be something else.  Have you never listened to the tales of his life?  Toujours il doit jouer un rôle.”

“Ça, ce n’est pas ce que je disais.”  Though it had been years since her high-school French, it did not occur to Natalie to wonder at her sudden fluency.  “Obviously, we must move on: I know that.  But, whatever career Nick has, he always chooses one that matters—one that does good in the world.  It’s not a game.”

“That is the game, Natalie,” said Janette gently.  “Perhaps neither of you sees it yet.  But later, if not sooner, you must learn what it truly means to be a vampire.  And so must he.”

“Do you think Nick will ever forgive me?”

“Why?” asked Janette, in a voice too bland.  “Have you done something to forgive?”

“I can help you to eternal life,” said the woman with the veil, “if that is what you wish.  I will do this for his love, and for what I know of you as well.  We can be friends, I think, you and I.”

Am I dying? thought the woman in the bed.  Is this Death come for me?

She saw no sickle to reap her life, no shears to cut her thread, no door into Heaven, no pit to Hell.

Am I awake? she thought.  Or fast asleep?

“Do you want to live?”

Is this a dream?

Is this a nightmare?