House of Cards (5 page)

Chapter 4—Reprieve

“S
he can?” the Master exclaimed
. His hands fell away from Sherry’s face, while his own broke into a broad smile. It would have been a beautiful sight, except that it showed off his sharp, glinting fangs to perfection. Sherry tried her hardest not to look at him.

“Is she good? Very good? Very accurate?”

Sherry nodded vigorously to no one in particular.

“Absolutely. One hundred percent accurate. I can personally vouch for that.” It was her young savior who spoke again.

The other vampires looked skeptical.

Fortunately, the Master did not.

“Why, my dear,
dear
girl, why didn’t you say so? Such modesty.” He smiled warmly and cupped her chin with one icy hand. “And to think, it nearly cost you your life,” he said softly.

Sherry managed a terrified little smile. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of the tarot cards before. Maybe she’d been too frightened. Or, more likely, she didn’t think of them as talents similar to the ones mentioned by the Master. Ones related to art or science. She’d been reading them for so long, it just seemed a natural part of her, not something she’d learned. Except once upon a time, of course, she had.

“And she brings the cards with her?” It was one of the other vampires—the honey-dark-haired woman—who asked the question.

“Yes, yes I do! I have them!” With trembling hands, Sherry knelt on the stone floor and began tearing open her rucksack. She ripped through the worn fabric of the bag in a blind panic, desperately seeking her card-box.

“It’s here somewhere. I know it is.” Where the hell
was
it? She fumbled through the mess of now-useless items, frantically pulling them out. Her fingers wouldn’t seem to work. She couldn’t concentrate hard enough to use telekinesis. Tears began running down her cheeks again. Where
was
it? It had to be here. The Master lifted his chin and peered down at her.

She couldn’t have lost it. Please, dear God, not now. Anytime but now. Please, God.

Suddenly, a cool hand touched hers. She whipped her head up in sheer terror, ready to back away to—

Where? There was nowhere to go.

But it was only the boy. He gently removed her hand from the rucksack and searched through it until he found the card-box, which he handed to her.

She stood up, nearly tripping over the bag as well as her own feet. Standing next to her, the boy seemed much taller than she remembered, though he couldn’t be more than five foot eight to her five foot four.

“Here it is! Here it is, Mas—Sir. I found it!” Sherry cried.

With gleaming white hands, he delicately took the box from her. Opening it, he stroked the cards, cooing over them.

It filled her heart with rage to see him fondling them like that.
Her
cards. She couldn’t wait to be alone with them again, to cleanse them of all his negative, murderous energy.

“It’s settled then,” said the boy. “Sherry will stay with us.”

“For as long as her predictions are accurate.” The Master smiled at her knowingly.

“Agreed,” said the boy. “I’ll show her to her quarters then, shall I?”

“Wonderful! Then, after supper, we’ll have her read for us.” The ancient vampire clasped his hands together in childlike excitement. “Oh, this is so thrilling! It’s been
ages
since I’ve had my fortune told. Now, off you go, children.” He motioned to Sherry and the boy. “Mustn’t dawdle now.” He beamed at them, but Sherry noticed the other vampires were looking less than thrilled.

The boy helped her replace the contents of the rucksack, tying it up so it could be carried, rips and all. He put one hand on her upper back and guided her out of the stone hall.

They walked down a long corridor, lit with candelabras held by recesses in the wall. Sherry could hardly believe her luck. She’d made it. She was alive! At least for now. And she had this wonderful boy to thank for it.

“I just wanted to say . . . thank you. For saving me. I don’t know why you did it, but . . . I’m so grateful that you did.”

“You’re welcome. To be honest, I don’t know how long it will last. We vampires feed every three days or so; therefore, it’s entirely possible the Master might change his mind. But I’m glad you’re still . . . with us. As for why I did it, well, what you said was true. You didn’t deserve to die. Although, unfortunately, we do not always receive what we deserve in this world.”

Sherry remembered that when she first saw the boy, she’d pegged his age to be early twenties, at the most. But now, listening to him speak like this, he seemed much older.

“I’m, um, Sherry, by the way.”

“I know. You introduced yourself to me when you read my fortune. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am called Lucas.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucas. Again, I mean.” He didn’t look at her, but she saw him give a slight nod. She thought of offering her hand for him to shake, but then thought better of it.

They walked a few more steps before coming to the end of the corridor, where a wooden door with a large brass knocker stood. It looked like the entrance to someone’s house.

“This is where you’ll be staying. I think you’ll find everything you need inside. Feel free to . . . refresh yourself.”

“Thank you again. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” Working up her last nerve, she whispered to him, “He said after supper. Whose supper, exactly?”

“I’m fairly certain he meant his. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get something later. You don’t want . . . what he’s having.”

Sherry felt her entire body go cold. Then, inexplicably, she began shaking and perspiring heavily again. Mother of All That Was Holy. How was she ever going to get through this?

Chapter 5—Hôtel du Cadamon

I
t was one of the
loveliest rooms she’d ever seen.

Sherry had expected to be taken to a dungeon, or worse, a room filled with bones and grinning skulls like she’d seen in the catacombs. Instead, it looked the illicit lovechild of an expensive hotel suite and a Renaissance palace.

Finding long stick matches by the fireplace, she lit every candelabra in the room. There were quite a number of them, so when she finally finished, her surroundings looked much brighter, almost cheery. There was a thick, plush rug on the floor, covering the grey stonework. It was slightly darker in color than the one in the drawing room, and had intricate, swirling patterns. A long, oval mirror stood in a corner; a little too small to fit a person’s entire reflection in it. Several comfortable-looking chairs circled a large round table, presumably in case she had any guests. Sherry rolled her eyes—there was hardly anyone here she’d feel at ease with alone. Except maybe Lucas.

In the center of the room was an enormous four-poster king-size bed, with sheer red cloth wound all around it. A dark red and gold downy quilt rested on top, along with approximately ten thousand pillows of various shapes and sizes, and an even greater number of tassels.

There was even a crystal decanter and goblets on the nightstand. She took the top off the decanter and sniffed. Alcohol, obviously. She couldn’t tell what kind.

Oh, what the hell. I deserve a drink, thought Sherry. She filled the largest goblet almost halfway and downed the entire draught in two swallows. She hadn’t realized before how thirsty she was. Having your blood sucked out certainly was dehydrating. At least this would dull the pain where Thomas had bitten her.

A finely carved wardrobe, twice her size, had her stopping to admire it. Undulating leaves and branches formed part of the design, and she marveled at how long it must have taken the craftsman to complete this piece. It was so highly polished that she could almost
see
the gleaming green leaves as they wound their way across the top. They certainly didn’t have anything like this at the furniture stores her father dragged her to when they first moved to Paris. Trying to recall what she’d learned about period pieces from her father’s girlfriend, she estimated that most of the room’s furniture was roughly five hundred years old.

Opening up the wardrobe, she found the finest, softest linens she’d ever touched, all folded neatly in piles, along with a few dresses and coats hanging on the door. Some of them were decades old—she swore she’d seen a pair of bell bottoms. One blouse was made of delicate lace, perhaps from the Victorian Era? It should have been yellowed with age, but presumably the cold and lack of sunlight kept it perfectly preserved. A beautiful porcelain brooch, painted with tiny violets, was pinned to one side. Sherry brought the ornament closer so she could admire it, only then noticing the dark brown stain on the collar.

Blood. These were the clothing of people they’d killed.

Sherry backed away in horror and quickly shut the wardrobe doors. She’d try not to go in there again if she could help it.

What looked like a wall of latticed windows stood to one side, but they had all been painted black. Without the candlelight, the room would have been cast into eternal night. But the dark paint was fine with Sherry—she had no desire to see what lay beneath it. She had certainly seen enough dead bodies for one night, and possibly for a lifetime. Tapestries, rich with color and detail, hung on several walls from long iron rods. She was pretty sure they were from the eleventh or twelfth century. And perfectly preserved, away from dust and sunlight, like the clothing.

It was sort of like being a princess in a castle. Except it was a dungeon. And she wasn’t royalty. Other than that, it was a perfect fairy tale. She rolled her eyes at her own misplaced romanticism.

A hope chest sat at the foot of the bed. Curious about its contents, Sherry hesitated as she knelt down to open it. What if it was the corpse of someone they’d recently fed on? Or a collection of bones like those in the catacombs? Or more blood-stained clothing?

She took a deep breath, opened the chest, and gasped. It looked like pirates’ sunken treasure, the immeasurable wealth of a ransomed king. Gold coins, crowns, tiaras, necklaces, pins, earrings, bracelets, and rings. Diamond and rubies and emeralds—oh my! she thought. This truly was too much. Sherry gingerly picked up a string of pearls and held it up. It glowed with a magical sheen in the soft candlelight. All too soon, she realized that these priceless items must also have been stolen from the vampire’s victims. Their styles, different through all centuries, could not have been gathered from just one person at one time.

She wondered if the victims would be angry seeing her now, the way she fingered their treasures. Tears welled in Sherry’s eyes. Would her meager belongings end up here as well? The few rings she wore now, the silver chain around her neck? Perhaps her clothing, too, was destined for the wardrobe. Maybe in another hundred years, a girl like her would open that door and find Sherry’s jeans and shirt behind it.

All of a sudden, Sherry collapsed on the floor and started sobbing. She picked her head up for a moment, to look for any potential exits. But soon she was on the floor again, crying harder than before. What was the point of searching for a way out? The vampires would never put her in a room from which escape was possible. She quickly pulled her cell phone out of her pants pocket and turned it on. “No signal.” Of course she couldn’t get a signal underground.

It was all so . . .
unfair
! She hadn’t been doing anything wrong. She’d just been going home from her job, like always. Millions of people all over the world did that and never got kidnapped . . . or killed. The expensive carpet was growing damp with Sherry’s tears, but she didn’t care. She hoped her mascara would get all over and ruin it. It would serve them right. She was only eighteen, for God’s sake! That was far, far too young to die.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered to herself, her fist against the carpet. “I’m just not
ready
.” There was so much she wanted to see and do. And now she might not get to do anything, all because of a tiny group of loathsome, selfish people. Sherry lay on the floor and cried until she couldn’t cry anymore.

Eventually, she forced herself to sit up and pull her knees to her chest. She stayed like that for a long time, thinking. Better get yourself together, Sherry, she decided. Crying certainly wasn’t going to help. Besides, who knew what would happen in the future? Even psychics and fortune-tellers weren’t able to predict
everything
, she reasoned. By some miracle, things might still turn out all right. After all, she’d been saved by that boy. At least it was a start. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and turned back to the treasure chest. She gently closed the lid, shivering at the thought of the victims’ misfortune.

Wait. No. She was just plain shivering. The room was freezing cold. She hadn’t noticed it before, probably because the adrenaline coursing through her veins had kept her warm. Now that she was standing here, clothing drenched in perspiration, Sherry could really feel the chill. And she couldn’t go around smelling like a dirty pig. Vampire noses were probably more sensitive than those of humans. She didn’t want to offend them. And she really didn’t want to stink, just on principle.

There was a white door on the other side of the room—maybe that was the lavatory. She definitely needed to bathe. Making sure the locking bar was across the bedroom door, she stripped off her clothing. Of course, they could probably just ram the door down, if what she’d heard about a vampire’s superior strength was true. But Lucas at least might have the courtesy to knock. Hopefully.

She quickly built a fire in the fireplace to warm things up. There was a comforting sound to the crisp crackling of burning logs, as the flames danced and sparks occasionally popped out from under them. She took off her old clothes and left them in a pile on the floor. She had no idea what she’d wear after cleaning herself up.

She sighed. Forget about clothes for now. She’d figure that out later. She picked up one of the smaller candelabras, walked across the bedchamber, and opened the white door.

Well, Sherry thought as she entered, they’d brought the eighteenth century into the drawing room and a medieval castle into the “dining” room. Apparently, the bathroom was reserved for Versailles.

It was nearly the size of the bedroom, and the bathtub nearly the size of the king-size bed. The tub looked as deep as the shallow end of a swimming pool, and was surrounded by four enormous stone pillars. Blue-green mosaic tile covered the entire floor and all four walls, like a Roman bath. Motifs and patterns of painstaking detail graced almost every surface. Pictures of fish, oceans, and gardens whispered veritable stories in broken pieces of pottery. Sherry once again marveled at the extraordinary time and patience it must have taken to accomplish this level of artistry. And all for a bathroom!