Die for Her A Die for Me Novella

ONE
    THE FIRST TIME I SEE HER, I PEG HER AS A JUMP risk.
    Vince and I are walking the quays, and there she is: long, dark hair whipping around her face as she stands on the edge of the cobblestone walkway looking down at the water, a mere five feet above the waves. The Seine is swollen from winter rains, so though the jump would be harmless from that height, the barely choppy surface could hide dangerous currents.
    We head toward her, my hand already extended to touch her arm. To pass my calm to her, one of our only real “superpowers” as a revenant (or, as Ambrose likes to call us, “undead guardian angels with a bad case of OCD”). But before we reach her she turns and walks away, heading for one of the quay’s stone benches, where she curls her legs up to her chest and ropes her knees in with her arms. She remains that way, hugging herself, rocking back and forth, and staring blindly across the river with tears coursing down her cheeks, as we pass unnoticed.
    “What do you think?” I ask Vincent, who pulls his scarf up over his nose and mouth, shielding himself from the frigid January wind.
    “I don’t think she’s going to jump,” he says. “But let’s circle around under the bridge to make sure.”
    We stride side by side until we get to the Carrousel Bridge. Even the indigents who regularly sleep under its arches have cleared out. It is one of the coldest days on record . . . at least since I moved to Paris a century ago.
    We good revenants, called bardia , are fated to watch over humans, saving them from premature death by suicide, murder, or accident. Our job is definitely easier in weather like this, with everyone staying indoors. But even members of the reanimated undead can feel the cold.
    Most of our work for the last few days has been rounding up the few remaining street people and getting them to care centers before they suffer frostbite or even death from exposure. Judging by her clothes and hygiene, this girl is definitely not homeless. Instead she’s pretty enough to add to my girls-to-ask-out list. However, hitting on someone who is crying isn’t quite my style.
    So if she’s not homeless, why is she here, taking a solitary stroll next to the river in the freezing cold?
    We confirm that there are no stragglers under the bridge, and then turn to head back to the bench. When we reach it, it is empty. A few yards away, I see the girl climbing the stairs to street level. Since there’s no one else around, we follow her at a safe distance, ready to run if she heads for the bridge. “Ambrose, use your foresight—do you see her jumping?” I ask.
    Naw . The word skips my ears and goes straight to my mind in Ambrose’s deep baritone. But she is about to sprint up the rue du Bac .
    “We should follow her,” I say to Vincent. “She’s acting bizarrely enough to merit a few more minutes of surveillance.”
    “Agreed. She could still throw herself in front of a car,” he says, concerned. “Something’s obviously wrong with her.”
    “I’m banking on it being the result of a bad breakup,” I reply. “That’s what happens when people get too serious. Feelings get hurt. Hearts get broken. Some people never learn. Don’t get serious. It’s my number one rule.” I rub my hands together and blow on them, trying to force hot breath through my wool gloves. “My fingers are icicles. And the streets are empty. Let’s head back to La Maison.”
    Wimp , taunts Ambrose.
    “Hey, if you weren’t currently disembodied, you’d be agreeing with me, ghost boy,” I say, and hear him chuckle. Vincent isn’t paying attention and picks up his pace. I glance ahead of us and see that the girl has started to run.
    We follow her, leaving a good half block between us: There is no traffic for her to throw herself in front of, and we don’t want to call unnecessary attention to ourselves. She jogs up the rue du Bac, crosses the boulevard Saint-Germain, and finally turns left at a square where old, stately apartment buildings are grouped around a small park.
    She walks up to one, and while opening the door, turns and casts a quick look behind her. Vincent and I duck our heads down and walk straight up the rue du Bac without her seeing our faces.
    But I saw hers. And her expression is one I recognize—I’ve seen it many times during my existence. Especially in the line of “work” I’m in. The girl is suffering from terrible grief.
    Vincent and I lock eyes, and I tip my head left. Toward