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    Die for Her
    Die for Her
    Die for Her
    Ebook97 pages1 hour

    Die for Her

    By Amy Plum

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Set in the romantic and death-defying world of the international bestselling Die for Me trilogy, this digital original novella follows Jules, a brooding, immortal French artist who has fallen in love with his best friend's girlfriend.

    Jules Marchenoir is a revenant—an undead being whose fate forces him to sacrifice himself over and over again to save human lives. He's spent the better part of the last century flirting his way through Paris, but when he met Kate Mercier, the heroine from Amy Plum's Die for Me trilogy, he knew his afterlife had changed forever and he had found the love of his life. Until Kate fell for his best friend, Vincent. Now Jules is faced with an impossible decision: choosing between his loyal friend and a love truly worth dying for.

    Epic Reads Impulse is a digital imprint with new releases each month.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperTeen
    Release dateApr 2, 2013
    ISBN9780062267702
    Die for Her
    Author

    Amy Plum

    Amy Plum is the international bestselling author of the Dreamfall series, the Die for Me series, and the After the End series. She spent her childhood in Birmingham, Alabama, her twenties in Chicago and Paris, and several more years in London, New York, and the Loire Valley. Now she lives in Paris and swears she’ll never move again. You can visit Amy online at www.amyplumbooks.com.

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    Reviews for Die for Her

    4/5

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    • 5/5
      Die for her was probably my favorite novella from any series I've read. It was so interesting to see the whole story through a different character's eyes. Jules' point of view was more interesting than the main characters' in my opinion. By the end of the book, I just couldn't help falling just a little bit in love with him. I can't wait to read the third book and see how things work out for him.
    • 5/5
      Oh Jules, come over here & let me heal that broken heart... <3
    • 4/5
      here we have Die For Me and Until I Die from Jules point of view
      haha I liked how he described his feeling of jealousy and those attitude from his opinion
      I think it is an important threshold for If I Should Die , but Amy why have you given us a peek from (Revenants 3#) :'( ?
      I Almost cried ..
    • 4/5
      Didn't love this as much as many others seem to. It was like a Spark notes retelling of books 1 & 2 from Jules point of view. Great to see things from his perspective but some parts moved so quickly through key events that it felt rushed and made it difficult to really feel Jules emotion through it.
    • 4/5
      It's always great to visit Amy Plum's Reveants world, so I was excited to see this novella told from Jules' point of view just in time to pique my interest for the release of the final book of the trilogy (like it needed it!). As the summary for the story says, we are treated to Jules' innermost feelings for Kate and learn he has fallen deeply for his best friend's girl. I did like seeing the story from this side of things, the only problem was the lack of actual interaction with other characters.Obviously Jules comes into contact with Kate, Vincent, and all the other Revenants, but it felt more like a quick overview of events from the first two books instead of an actual interaction between the characters. I don't know, maybe I just don't buy Jule's deep love for Kate - I just couldn't FEEL it. This wasn't a side of Jules I expected before this novella was promoted (I always felt he really liked Kate, but wasn't in LOVE with her) so this was a bit of a surprise. However, the execution just seemed to lack something; it was more like "tell" than "show" as they say.So, overall, this is a good entry for the series, just not as emotional as I would have liked.

    Book preview

    Die for Her - Amy Plum

    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 home. He understands and we walk to the end of the block, turning eastward toward La Maison. It’s not like we can read each other’s minds. But when you’re best friends with someone for over half a century, you start to recognize their every gesture. We’re like an old couple. Words are almost unnecessary.

    We walk for a while in silence, keeping an eye out for anything amiss. Ambrose doesn’t spot any activity at all in the neighborhood and is singing a Louis Armstrong song directly into my brain, probably to piss me off. Who is the lucky lady tonight? Vincent asks as he taps the code into our security panel. The gate swings slowly open.

    Quintana, I respond.

    From?

    New York, upstate somewhere. Over here doing an art degree.

    Blond? he asks.

    Negative, I respond. Dark hair with blue tips. Alternative chic.

    Sounds like your type, he jokes. We both know I don’t have a type. Female is my type.

    Like I said. We’re an old couple—we need few words. But we couldn’t be more different. Vincent stopped dating decades ago, not that he had been much into it before. What’s the point? he had said. This was around 1980, and that year’s bouquet of Parisiennes was breathtaking.

    "What’s the point? I exclaimed. They’re beautiful. And soft. And they smell good. What do you mean, ‘what’s the point’?"

    We can only go so far, and then we have to disappear from their lives. It’s not worth it if we can’t even get close, he sighed.

    Excuse me, but I make a regular habit of ‘getting close’!

    I don’t mean like that, he responded. "I’m talking emotional intimacy. And why risk exposure of our entire kindred for a girl you’re only going to spend a few nights with?" His expression was flat. Uncaring. But I knew there was an ocean of pain bottled inside him.

    "Man, no one will ever compare to Hélène. It’s been seventy years since you saw her murdered by those Nazis and you’re still hanging on. You’ve just got to accept that your first love is your greatest, and everything else is going to be second-best. But second-best is better

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