Die Once More by Amy Plum

Charlotte, provoking a stranglehold bear hug from her fiancé.
    â€œYou must be Mademoiselle Whitefoot,” says Gaspard, holding a hand out to Ava. But I miss the rest of that introduction, because in from the next room walks Vincent. And his eyes are fixed on me. There’s an expression on his face that I can’t read, and am not sure I want to. Anger? Disappointment? Betrayal?
    Although we spoke briefly on the battlefield, there were other things vying for our attention. Like swinging swords. And flyingarrows. I said good-bye when I left. Told him I couldn’t stay. But there was blood on our skin and ash on our faces, and I didn’t even look him in the eye.
    No, the last time we talked—truly communicated—was at the airport in New York. When I told him I was in love with his girlfriend and that it was tearing me apart to see them together. I admitted to my disloyalty. And then abandoned him.
    Ignoring the others, he walks straight up to me, eyes burning, and I think for a moment that he’s going to hit me. Punch me right in the face. But instead he grabs me and wraps me in his arms, squeezing the breath out of me. And speaking quietly enough that the others can’t hear he says, “All’s forgotten. There’s nothing left to say. I’m just glad you’re back. We missed you. All of us.”

EIGHT
    WALKING INTO MY ROOM IS LIKE TRAVELING back in time. It’s like nothing ever happened to drive me away. I breathe in the paper-and-ink smell of my workspace and realize how much I’ve missed my home. I brush my fingertips over my drafting table and know how much I love my kindred. I belong here, not in New York City. What the hell is wrong with me? I think, as I stretch out on my time-worn couch in the middle of my attic room. Surely this thing with Kate isn’t traumatic enough to keep me from all of this. My mind wanders and I begin to relax, cocooned in the safety of the familiar surroundings.
    And then there is a knock on the door and she walks in. And all those thoughts disappear like smoke in a gust of wind, and the full-on pain hits me square in the chest.
    She is ravishing. There is a wild look to her now that she is undead. The look all bardia have, the one that attracts humans, that makes them lay their lives in our hands. It’s a complete lackof fear of death. A recklessness coming from knowing we are almost impossible to destroy. And it has turned Kate’s natural loveliness into a savage beauty. The golden bardia aura surrounding her amplifies the effect, and my heart has no chance. I am once again lost.
    â€œI’m sorry to barge in on you,” she says, and her voice hasn’t changed and she is once again the Kate I knew.
    I prop up on my elbows and say, “That’s okay. Come in,” but immediately regret it. I want to see her, but I need her to leave. She sees the struggle in my eyes, and then looks down at the couch—the historic couch, where for a couple of wild, passionate moments she was mine—and her face turns red.
    â€œI didn’t try to contact you because I thought you didn’t want it,” she says.
    There’s no correct response to that, so I watch her, silent.
    â€œBut now that you’re here, I was hoping we could talk,” she says, still standing in the doorway. She waits, and I have to say something.
    â€œOkay, let’s talk.” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart is beating a million miles an hour, and I’m having a hard time breathing. “Let me just open a window.” I get up off the damned couch, throw open a couple of windows, and, returning to the rug in the middle of the floor, sit down on it, cross-legged. I motion for her to sit across from me, and she does.
    I wait for her to speak, trying to look her in the eyes without flinching. Those eyes. My chest hurts.
    â€œI want to apologize,” she begins.
    â€œYou don’t have to—” I say,