House of Cards (9 page)

“Well, I certainly love what you’ve done with the place,” said Sherry. The warm red bindings of the books combined with the green leaves made her think of Christmas. Books were everywhere, packing the tall shelves, displayed behind chest-high glass cases, or lying open on side tables. She didn’t bother peeking behind the floor-to-ceiling drapes this time, although she longed to stroke the soft, thick velvet. She’d learned her lesson all too well from the drawing room experience. No need to risk accidentally brushing the curtains aside and encountering another nasty surprise.

Lucas had got a good fire going now, and she sat with him in one of the two wing-back chairs across from the wooden mantle. Maybe now was a good time to ask him—

“You know, we have quite a number of rare books here. I believe we even have some of the first books on the tarot ever published.”

Her backside had barely touched the seat before Sherry was on her feet again.

“Where are they? You have to show them to me!” She might never have another opportunity like this again. Surely her request for help could wait five minutes.

They examined some of the rarer volumes on tarot. Well,
she
examined them. Lucas had read every volume in the library several times over. She’d assumed as much.

“Just out of curiosity, where does your interest in the tarot come from?” Lucas asked, carefully turning pages on the illuminated manuscript of an ancient deck. “Is reading the cards a common pastime for American girls?”

“What? Oh, no, it isn’t.” Sherry was busy concentrating on the book’s beautiful illustrations. She’d asked Lucas to turn the pages for fear her clumsy mortal hands would tear them, or that the oil from her fingers would damage the fragile paper. “It was sort of a . . . um . . . family hobby.”

“That’s an interesting family you have, then. Tell me, are all of them occult practitioners?”

“Huh? Oh, no. It was really just my sister, and me, and my gran . . . say, how many books do you have in here?” Sherry didn’t want to talk about tarot anymore. Thinking of how she’d learned it only led her to memories of Kaileen, which saddened her. Best just to change the subject. Then she could ease into a discussion of how he might help her.

“Well, let’s see.” Lucas’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never actually counted. I’d say, at the moment, we have at least fifty thousand.”

“Fifty
thousand
?”

“Not all in this room,” he added hastily. “I meant fifty thousand disbursed throughout the entire House. The library itself only holds about thirty thousand.”

“Only thirty thousand or so, eh?” she teased.

“Yes, well, just how many books were in your home as a child? And did you read them all?”

“Hmmm . . . probably only about two thousand. And I did read most of them. My folks were big on books. History, travel, art. And novels.”

Lucas’s eyes widened for a moment. “My, my. Two thousand?”

“It’s nothing compared to what you’ve got here.”

“True, but still.” Lucas closed the tarot book and replaced it on the shelf. “That’s no—how do you say it? Small potatoes?”

Sherry tried not to laugh.

“I thought reading for pleasure had fallen out of fashion in the modern family. I’m pleased to see it alive and well in this particular daughter. You must be an even brighter girl than I imagined. But of course, if these ancient tomes aren’t your taste, I believe Vasha keeps some romance novels in that corner over there.” Lucas motioned to a small bookcase covered in dangling roots. “You know—in case you should need to have your bodice ripped or something.” There was a distinctly playful element to his voice.

Her face burned. She’d have to sneak a few of those paperbacks into her room later.
If
she was staying. For now, she feigned indifference, and pretended to be occupied with a tenth-century illuminated manuscript. “I’ll thank you not to take such a keen interest in my bodice, Monsieur Lucas, ripped or unripped.”

Okay, he seems to be in a really good mood, thought Sherry. I’ll just quickly ask if there’s any way he can—

Suddenly, they heard yelling and sobbing from down the hall. Lucas was at the door in an instant. “Stay there. I’ll return momentarily.” Before Sherry could protest, he was gone.

Dammit! She’d finally gotten a solo audience with Lucas and hadn’t asked for his help! How was that possible? She hoped it wouldn’t be her last chance. She paced the floor, anxious for him to come back.

She could hear angry shouts from far away, and then the Master’s calm, steady voice. Above all, there were the wailings and gut-wrenching sobs of a woman in pain. After what seemed like an eternity, Lucas returned, looking paler and more haggard.

Sherry rushed over to him. “What happened? Lucas?
What happened?
”

“Vasha,” he replied dully. “She was above ground, teasing a less-than-perfect-looking young woman about her clothing choices. She was so busy tormenting the poor mortal that she didn’t see the flaming baton of the street performer until it was too late. He was standing behind her, and she spread her arms wide suddenly, knocking the baton out of his hand. It set her hair on fire, and with it, half of her face.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Sherry sucked in her breath.

“The others have given her some of their blood to speed up the healing process, but the burns are extensive. It will be months before she’ll feel comfortable being seen in public again. Maybe next time she won’t fall victim to her own vanity,” he commented wryly.

Sherry looked down at the floor and said nothing.

“Sherry? Sherry.” He cupped her chin with his hand. She felt a little electric shiver run through her body. “Don’t feel badly about this, all right? She’ll be fine. And frankly, Vasha is an arrogant, bitter caricature of a woman. I think she deserves whatever she gets. As do most of our kind,” he said quietly.

“It’s not that, really. It’s, well . . . my prediction.”

He nodded. “It came true.”

“And quickly, too. I just hope Vasha doesn’t—”

As if on cue, Vasha stumbled into the room. She pointed a long finger at Sherry.

“You!” she hissed. “You evil, stinking little mortal
bitch
!”

Sherry’s jaw dropped. It looked like the left side of Vasha’s face was melting off. Long, red folds of skin drooped almost down to her collarbone, and what was left on her face bubbled over in angry-looking wart-like domes. The hair from the left side of her head had been removed entirely.

“
You
made this happen! You did this to me! With your filthy magic cards! And now you are going to
pay
!” She rushed at Sherry, sharp nails outstretched.

Sherry managed to take exactly one step back before she saw Vasha slammed by an unseen force against the opposite wall.

“Vasha, it’s not her fault,” said Lucas firmly. He was holding her back, his arm barring her way to Sherry. “She only reads the cards—she cannot alter the events of our lives. Just go back to your room and calm yourself. Expending your energies this way will only impede the healing process. You don’t want to look this way any longer than necessary, do you?” He didn’t appear the least bit fazed by her new deformity. Sherry was trying hard not to look, and even harder not to vomit.

Vasha glared at Sherry with white-hot fury in her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Glaring at Lucas, she pushed his arm away. 

“This isn’t over,” she growled to Sherry, then gave Lucas one last merciless look. Sherry blinked, and Vasha was gone.

Lucas turned back to her with a sigh. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Perhaps it would be best if we ‘made ourselves scarce.’ And I wouldn’t approach her for a nice, long while if I were you.”

“Definitely not planning on it.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Shall we?”

Chapter 8—Field Trip

T
he door to the outside
was yet another she hadn’t noticed earlier that day, but for good reason. It was a trap door under the rug in the salon. A piece of stone, too well-fitted and certainly too heavy for her to lift, led to a set of stairs that took her and Lucas back to the catacombs. Lucas had no trouble removing the stone, of course, and then replacing it after they’d gone through.

“Um, where are we going?” she asked timidly.

“I’m not sure. Above ground, naturally. We’ll decide when we get there. I rarely go above ground, save when feeding requires it, or the Master commands it. I find it too . . . difficult.”

Sherry didn’t ask why he found it difficult. But she was relieved he wasn’t secretly taking her to a part of the tomb in order to enjoy her blood all for himself. He still might do that, of course, but her psychic nature told her it was unlikely. At least this time she had a flashlight; Lucas handed one to her after explaining how his exceptional eyesight would not require it. On the night of her capture, the lighted torch carried by the others must have been for her benefit.

The catacombs. 185 miles, or roughly 300 kilometers, of dark, twisting tunnels fashioned from the city’s ancient quarries. Sherry had learned about them mostly in school, with a little knowledge garnered from her cataphile classmates. When the Romans first built Paris, they’d used stones from these quarries to make some of the most beautiful buildings and edifices of the world at that time. Unfortunately, more than eight hundred years of their digging had hollowed out most of the ground underneath. Over the centuries, weight built up by the constant creation of new structures proved too much for the weakening soil to hold. Many buildings collapsed into the empty quarries, swallowed up by the very earth from whence they came.

There wasn’t much risk of that happening now. Construction codes in Paris were very strict, and receiving permission to put up new buildings took years of begging and bribing council members. Even when developers succeeded, they often found their original plans had to be scaled down. A necessity, so that no new buildings would be substantial enough to cause an unexpected descent into . . . hell.

As Lucas helped Sherry navigate the subterranean labyrinth, she couldn’t help but notice the astounding array of femurs, tibias, and skulls that lined the walls. Some bones were arranged in the shapes of crosses, hearts, and other macabre designs. It reminded Sherry of her grade-school project where the class made sculptures out of seashells. A great deal of care and attention had gone into the lifeless compositions here, and they would have seemed very beautiful. If only she could forget that they were formed from the remains of once-vibrant, living human beings.

She was surprised to find that many parts of the catacombs were quite damp. She recalled the fact that water from above, whether the source was a broken sewer pipe or puddle of collected rain, often made its way down to the tombs below. Suddenly the phrase “watery grave” took on a whole new meaning.

Please, God, please don’t let me die here, she pleaded silently. She found herself asking that no harm befall Lucas as well. He was taking so many risks for her. She wondered if they placed him in danger of losing his life at the hands of his companions and Master. The fact that he was willing to draw such dangers near to him—for her sake—made her want none of them to touch him.

“Wait a minute.” Sherry stopped. “I just thought of something. Isn’t it illegal to traverse the catacombs without a permit? Don’t they have special police who patrol the area?” How could she have forgotten? If only she’d called for help when she’d first been kidnapped, maybe she would have escaped becoming the eventual dinner of vampires. Maybe if she called out for help right now . . .

“There are no police the way we’re going. We’ll be traveling a bit off the grid.”

“I thought the catacombs were all mapped out. Parts that were damaged or no longer used were sealed off, weren’t they?”

“Not all of them. There are many that mortals do not know of. And while it may be difficult for someone of human strength to unseal them, I assure you, it is quite an easy task for vampires.

“You see, in 1777, Paris formed the Inspection Générale des Carrières in order to close off the more dangerous sections of the tunnels. Clearly, l’Inspection neglected to close all of them, because it was around that time that the catacombs became attractive living quarters for our kind. They provide a quiet, peaceful place, away from prying human eyes and exhausting sunlight. There is a steady supply of rats if human blood should run low. And since everyone has long since forgotten that the closed-off tunnels even exist, we can live there comfortably with little fear of ever being discovered.”

Or rescued, Sherry thought bitterly.

“Speaking of rats . . .” Sherry was getting a bit nervous as they made their way through the tunnels. She could hear the not-so-far-off squeaking of vermin, and the scurrying, scratching sound they made as they chased one another around the catacombs. Instinctively, she grabbed Lucas’s arm and held it tight in fear and revulsion.

Lucas laughed quietly, as if reading her thoughts. The sound echoed ever so slightly throughout the chamber, like a song she’d been waiting all her life to hear.

“Don’t worry, they won’t bother you when you’re with me. They keep away whenever blood-drinkers are near. They’re cunning, and learn fast not to provoke their natural predators. Of course, that makes hunting them all the more fun.”

“Well, it’s good . . . it’s good to have a hobby.”

They came to a wider area within the tombs, with several different routes tunneling off the one from which they’d come. Sherry shined her flashlight down dark alleyways of bones and skulls. It was only slightly less terrifying with Lucas at her side, but no less chilly, even with her new thick, purple scarf. She shivered and rubbed her arm with her free hand, using the other to steady the flashlight as she peeked down one of the tunnels.

“Don’t go down there,” he called. “That’s not the way.”

“Well, how would I know?” Sherry shrugged. “I’ve never been here before, remember?”

“Yes, you have,” Lucas replied gently. “But you were unconscious.”

Sherry’s skin froze. She’d forgotten that she must have been carried here by the other vampires when they brought her to the House. She had come very close to joining the unfortunate citizens of Paris now lining the walls. She might yet still be forced to join them.

Who were they? What had their lives been like? What were their secret hopes, dreams, desires? What made them laugh? What had caused them to double over in unbearable anguish, and sob until they no longer had strength to stand?

How many children had they had, and how did it feel when they died? How many times had they looked up to the unknowable stars above the city and prayed for their wishes to come true? Just as she wanted to do now. Her only wish was to continue living.

What a terrible fate for the six million Parisians who had found the catacombs to be their final resting place. Of course, not all the bodies buried here died in the tunnels. And they hadn’t all expired at once. Over the centuries, they succumbed to the usual causes of death—disease, war, childbirth, murder. During the last years of the eighteenth century, Paris eventually ran out of cemeteries in which to place them. But to be displayed here, your once precious life reduced to a mere tourist attraction, to be gawked at by those who cared nothing for your existence, only for the decoration provided by your demise.