House of Cards (3 page)

“Chérie? Ah, très mignon! C-h-e-r—”

“No, it’s
Sherry
. With an ‘s.’ Like the drink?”

The woman’s brow furrowed for a moment. Then her mouth made an “O” of understanding.

“Ah, vous voudriez une boisson?”

“No, no, I don’t
want
a drink, I—never mind. It’s Chérie. C-h-é-r-i-e. That’s fine.” It happened all the time.

But after a few weeks of enjoying constant meals out, Sherry learned the hard way why Parisians cooked at home most nights. In sixteen days she’d spent half her allowance on food alone, and had to beg her parents for an advance. She was careful not to make the same mistake twice.

Like other year-round residents, she bought fresh food daily, choosing from the dozens of vendors in her
arrondissement.
She’d cut through a few side streets tonight to visit one of her favorites.

“Monsieur Chevalier? Ah, mais non, pas aujourd’hui.” A neighboring vendor explained he’d left early because of a stomach flu.

She asked the vendor to give Monsieur Chevalier her regards, then started for home. Damn. She was sorry he was sick, but she’d been looking forward to having some of his special cheeses with her supper.

No matter. She’d make do with something in her cupboard. Her folding table and chairs were beginning to make her back ache more than usual. She decided to take a shortcut home through one of the other side streets.

She knew well enough to keep away from the dangerous ones, where drug dealers and muggers were known to lurk. Most of the alleys in Montmartre were harmless, quiet places where locals placed their garbage and hung their laundry.

Still, she hurried as quickly as she could, partly because you never knew who was waiting in those little alleyways, and partly because she was hungry and wanted to get home.

She wasn’t expecting to hear heavy footsteps behind her.

Probably just another local, taking a shortcut, same as her. Nothing to worry about. Even so, she quickened her pace just a bit.

The footsteps quickened too.

Crap. Was someone following her?

She came to a complete stop and turned around. She’d once read that if you confronted a would-be mugger—just looked him dead in the eye—he’d leave you alone. Something about not appearing afraid.

To her surprise, she was now facing the same group of locals she’d seen at
la place.
The boy wasn’t with them. But the five—or was it six?—others looked like him. Well, not exactly; they did vary in height, and age, and gender. But they had a similar appearance. The same pale faces. The same bruised eyelids. The same easy, relaxed movements.

But they possessed one crucial difference from the boy. There was a cold and delicate sheen about them. Something that hinted at calculation, at brutal violence.

They stopped when she stopped, and stared at her, smiling. They moved simultaneously. Their many pairs of footsteps sounded like one.

Six. There were definitely six of them. Four men and two women. Why were they following her?

“Can—can I help you?” she called out in French.

A few burst into fierce giggles, but said nothing.

Sherry tried again, this time in English.

One stepped forward. She recognized him as the tall, dark-haired man who had grinned at her earlier in the day. The one who’d given her a case of the creeps.

“Help us? Sweetheart, you can be of great help to us, if you’ve a mind. Or even if you don’t.” The entire group erupted in laughter. When it finally subsided, the tall one was standing right in front of her. She hadn’t even seen him move.

“Look, just—just leave me alone, all right? I don’t want any trouble.” She knelt down and dropped her folding table and chairs, in case she needed to run.

“Trouble? You won’t be much trouble at all, my love. In fact, I have the feeling you’re very,
very
easy.”

Oh God. Her worst nightmare. They were going to rape her. Rape her and kill her and dump her body where no one would ever find it. She had been so
stupid
to take this shortcut. What had she been thinking?

The others kept chuckling to themselves, and some of the men were making hooting noises. Sherry felt her face go warm, and her heart beat faster. Why would they rape her with the women there? Unless the women wanted to watch. Jesus, that was so
sick
.

“Now, why don’t you come with us?” He reached down to brush a few strands of hair from her face, and she slapped his hand away. She was surprised at how cold it felt.

The others were moving nearer. Their footsteps were so close together that they seemed to slide along the ground. But the group still managed to surround her much faster than Sherry expected.

Maybe if she offered them money. Frantically, she dug in her pockets, forcing her shaking hands to grip several crumpled bills. She held them out to the tall man.

“Here. Take it. It’s all I have. All I earned today. Okay? It’s yours. Just take it and leave. Please.” She tried not to cry, but her voice was starting to break. Maybe they didn’t want to rape her. Maybe they were just trying to scare her into giving them money. She didn’t see any of them holding a gun, or a knife. They probably didn’t even have weapons.

The tall one didn’t take his eyes from hers. He merely shook his head, smiling. He folded her hands around the bills and lowered them to her waist.

“You want something else? I don’t have anything else. I’m just a fortune-teller, okay? The rest of the stuff in here is crap. I swear it is.” She jerked her chin towards her rucksack.

“Ah, but we don’t want what’s in the sack, darling, do we?” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We want what’s in
you
.”

Sherry let out a little gasp and turned her head, repulsed. She managed to steal a quick glance over her shoulder. The end of the alley was less than twenty meters away. If she turned and ran now, she could make it. She could see the street lights, the passing taxicabs. They couldn’t hurt her if she were in public, could they?

As if reading her mind, the tall man took a firm grasp of her wrist. The bills she held in her hands dropped to the ground. Trying to remember what she’d learned in self-defense class, she twisted her arm in a special way that would allow her to escape him.

She couldn’t understand why it didn’t work. With the position her forearm was in now, she should be close to breaking his thumb. But the icy cold hand wasn’t moving. And his grip was impossibly strong.

A fleeting thought went through her head. Was he . . . not human? But that was impossible. The pale skin, the sunken eyes, the superior strength—they were probably all on drugs. That was why they were laughing at nothing. And if they were high, there was very little she could do to reason with them.

“Sad little thing.” Another member of the group spoke now—a woman, with dark, honey-brown hair that fell to her waist. “No parents or friends here at all. So pathetic. No one would even miss her if she was gone. But we’ll take care of that, won’t we now?” More laughter from the tall one, and the rest of the drug addicts. “She’ll have all the friends she wants, where
we’re
taking her.”

Sherry’s eyes darted back and forth as she struggled uselessly to free her arm. “How do you know so much about me? I’ve never even seen any of you before today.”

“Ah, that’s the trick, isn’t it, sweetness?” said the same woman. “We’ve been in your little square many times. We are only seen when we
wish
to be seen. If we desire to be invisible, then we are invisible. We’ve overheard your conversations with the other charlatans. We know all about you,
Sherry
.”

She was about to protest that she was no charlatan. Sherry knew that her gifts were genuine, her talent real. But she stopped herself. It made no difference if they believed her or not. What was more disturbing was how they knew her name. And that she was here with them. Alone. Trapped.

“I can carry her, Thomas,” called another one of the men. “She doesn’t look very heavy.”

“No thank you, Gavin. I’m sure I can manage.” The tall one (who must have been Thomas), flipped her over his shoulder in one swift, easy movement. Her rucksack, still on her back, fell over her head, and all she could see was the back of Thomas’s waist. Oh sweet Jesus, they were going to take her away now. And this Thomas was so strong, there was no way she could escape. He’d probably be the one to tear her clothes off. He wanted to carry her so he could be the first to—oh God, why was this happening?

But how were they going to get her past all the people who must be milling about outside the alley? It was a picturesque fall evening in one of the most beautiful parts of Paris. Soon there’d be tons of people out, taking their after-dinner strolls. Maybe she’d be safe.

“Put me down, you crazy-eyed son of a bitch! Put me down right now, and I won’t press charges.”

More laughter. “Oh, I’d save my breath if I were you,
Sherry,
” he sneered. “There won’t be much time for you to catch it while we’re moving. Hang on tight.”

She was about to respond by beating her fists fruitlessly against his back, when a sudden, jerking motion caught hold of her. She felt bounced and wrenched around until what he said was true—she could barely breathe. Why was he
shaking
her? It was probably all part of their perverted game.

She heard snatches of noise that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Car horns, maybe. Loud music? Shouting? But each note was gone too quickly for her to identify it. It was like someone was turning a radio dial past hundreds of stations as quickly as they could.

She opened her eyes. All she could see was Thomas’s black linen shirt. She lifted her head up, heavy with the weight of her rucksack. The scene that met her eyes was astounding.

It was a sheer ribbon of light. All different colors. Mostly yellow, red, and black. But she couldn’t make out any objects distinctly. Had they somehow slipped her drugs? But when could that have happened? Still, it would explain why she was feeling so weird.

She had the sickening sensation of her head being crushed. She felt vomit rising in her throat. She was definitely going to be ill. It would serve Thomas right if she threw up all over him. Of course, he was likely to take out his anger on her when he—

As abruptly as the episode began, it was over. She was standing next to Thomas and his companions on an ordinary Paris street.

Quite ordinary, in fact. Very familiar. Wait—she knew this place! She’d been here apartment-hunting with her dad when they first came to the city. She’d spent almost six months in this neighborhood before they’d found a permanent flat.

She was standing in Denfert-Rochereau
,
in the fourteenth
arrondissement
. Somewhere in her memory of French school was the fact that it had originally been called Place d’Enfer. Hell’s Place. But why had they taken her here? And how did it happen so fast? They must have gotten into a cab. That would explain the crazy noise, the headache, and the blurry vision.

But how could all seven of them have fit in a cab at once?

“After you, my dear.” Thomas held out his palm and gestured towards a railing in front of him, with steps leading down into the sidewalk.

Sherry peered into the darkness, where a spiral staircase descended. There was absolutely no way she was going down there with them.

“Ladies first,” sang Thomas, grabbing her hard by the back of the neck. Pushing her into the inky blackness, Sherry was forced to wind her way down the steps, followed by the rest of the cackling tribe. This staircase seemed familiar too. As if she’d heard someone describe it . . .

The catacombs. They were taking her into the catacombs that had lain for centuries beneath Paris.

***

They seemed so familiar because she remembered a classmate telling her about them. The girl and her friends had been what were called “cataphiles.” They visited the catacombs on nights and weekends, just hanging out, drinking and talking. For some reason, they liked the eerie atmosphere the subterranean graves provided. Sherry completely understood their need to do something that would appall their parents, but visiting the catacombs was not her idea of a good time. Strangely enough, though, they were a draw for many locals and tourists alike.

The group she was with now must be cataphiles. Raping, murdering, drug-addicted cataphiles. She still couldn’t believe this was happening.

Finally they reached the bottom of the staircase. Thomas gave her a rough push forward, to encourage continuous movement. But it was hard to see. There was no natural light in the catacombs, unless provided by its visitors. She heard a match strike something, and a dim glow emerged from behind her. The others must have lit a torch. Thomas shoved her in the back again—hard—and she began walking.

The walls were so narrow, there was hardly room for more than one person to walk at a time, so they marched in single file. And the ceilings were low. People had been shorter when these tombs were built. Sherry was clearly the smallest person here, so her head easily left seven or eight centimeters of clearance above her. Thomas and a few of the others, she noticed, had to stoop a bit. It was also many centigrades cooler down here than it was above ground.

It took great effort not to think about what the walls were made of. But deep in her heart Sherry knew, even if she couldn’t see. They were bones. Bones and skulls of millions of Parisians who’d been buried here for over two hundred years. And the crunching under her feet—gravel formed from bones, some ground down to dust, fine as sand produced from the most delicate seashells.

Every once in a while the light behind her would glint off the pale white surfaces, illuminating them just for a moment. Each time that happened, she forced herself to look deeper into the terrifying blackness ahead. It was better than seeing those dead bodies.

She tried pleading with Thomas again. “Please,” she begged, “please, you don’t understand. My parents visit me quite often. Every couple of days, in fact. They’re sure to notice I’m gone.”

More sarcastic laughter. She couldn’t tell who it was coming from. Their voices all sounded strangely alike.

“No—really, they do. And they have money. They’re quite well-off. I’m sure if you asked them, they’d give you as much as you wanted. As long as I was . . . unharmed.” Part of what Sherry said was untrue: although they would certainly give kidnappers whatever money was available, her parents weren’t wealthy. But she was not above lying if it would save her life. Or prevent . . . other things.

They ignored her. But they were stopping. Thomas grabbed Sherry’s shoulders and turned her around, holding the fortune-teller still. As if she had anywhere to go. Behind her, all was darkness, and in front of her were—

Vampires?

No. It couldn’t be. That was ridiculous. She was letting her fear overcome her good sense. Vampires did not exist. And yet . . . in this dim light, their white skin, their graceful movements . . .

She hadn’t seen their teeth yet. Not one of them had laughed with their mouths wide open. Not until they could get to someplace safe. Safe to reveal themselves.