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.
And Thomas said they “wanted what was inside her.” She assumed they meant . . . but maybe it was really . . . blood?
“We can’t feed on her ourselves, Thomas. Remember, we have to take at least one back to Master. And we finished off all the others.”
Others? thought Sherry. Holy Christ. What others?
Thomas turned his evil eyes toward her, a menacing look that chilled her blood.
“Well, le
t us not keep him waiting, shall we?”
Their laughter was positively hysterical now. And then she saw them. Long, white, and sharp, reflected perfectly off the torch held by the honey-haired woman.
Fangs. Every single one of them had fangs. Two pointed canine teeth distinctly longer than the surrounding ones.
Terror seized her heart and she tore herself away from Thomas. She had no thought but to get away from them, and if that meant going further into the catacombs without a light, then so be it.
He grabbed her shoulders again and held her back easily. Suddenly, she found herself soaked in perspiration, and frantic, but he was perfectly dry and calm.
“Silly girl. She can’t get away from us, can she, my friends? Doesn’t she even know where she is?” Thomas pointed to the wall above Sherry’s head.
Struggling desperately in her captor’s arms, Sherry looked up to where he was pointing. Between two large pillars of stone sat a great slab of the same material. Etched into its surface, in neat, unassuming type, were the words “ARRETE! C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT.”
Confused, she kept staring at the words, begging them to make sense. A wave of horror spread across her body as her panicking brain finished the translation.
Stop! This is the Empire of the Dead.
She felt Thomas’s grip tighten around her, and his head leaned close to her throat. A sharp stabbing pain, a spreading warmth, and the whole world turned black. The last thing she heard was the maniacal laughter of the vampires resounding off the bone walls.
Chapter 3—The House of Cadamon
Sherry couldn’t believe how hard it was to open her eyes.
It felt as if they were being pushed down by something, as did her entire head. Like someone was sitting on it. She was lying on her side on some type of cushion, her rucksack beside her. Pressing both hands against the soft surface, she managed to sit up rather quickly.
That was a mistake. The nausea was unbearable. She struggled to swallow the bile that came up in her mouth, which was so dry she’d swear it was stuffed with a hundred cotton balls. She took a few deep breaths, and looked around.
Was she still in the catacombs? It was hard to make out anything in such dim light, but she appeared to be above ground, in a room with all the makings of an elegant French salon. She was sitting on a very expensive eighteenth-century settee, with the original fabric still intact. Having learned a little about antiques from her father’s girlfriend, she hastily concluded it wasn’t a reproduction.
The rest of the furnishings were just as grand, with elaborately carved side tables and chairs, also covered in sumptuous fabrics. A grand piano stood off to one side, next to a fireplace with an enormously ornate wooden mantel. Above it hung an ancient sword that looked as if it had been plucked directly from the hands of a Round Table knight.
She felt a flicker of light dance across her eyes, and looked up at the largest chandelier she’d ever seen, including those she’d come across during a field trip at Versailles. She didn’t know how she could have missed it. It dwarfed everything else in the room. There were only a few candles lit on it now, which explained the dimness all around her. She noticed several crystal sculptures on the tables, and one on the piano, all crafted in the same style as the chandelier.
As if there were no end to the extravagance, a magnificent Turkish carpet was laid out on the floor, matching the damask draperies on the windows—
The windows! She clambered to her feet and tried to run, but she was so weak, she fell with a thud to the floor. Crawling on her knees and elbows, she made her way across the room. Windows! She could get outside! Maybe there was a balcony. She could call for help. Hell, she’d jump if she had to. Maybe they were only on the first or second floor. Maybe she’d been rescued by some mysterious aristocrat. Those degenerates who kidnapped her might already be on their way to jail.
She pulled herself up by grabbing the long drapes, tearing them aside with both hands.
Staring down at her were at least thirty grinning skulls. They filled the window from top to bottom, where an exquisite view of Paris should have been.
Sherry screamed and fell back, landing on her tailbone. She crawled to the next set of windows, and the next, but she knew what she would find. She only had to peek through the drapes to confirm her suspicions.
She was still underground. She hadn’t been rescued. She’d never left at all.
What was this place? She’d never heard of chambers like this anywhere in the catacombs. They were just enormous caverns in which the dead were stored. Was it possible someone lived down here?
She looked up, and nearly fell backwards again. Thomas was standing directly above her. She hadn’t even heard him enter the room.
She opened her mouth to say something, but the giant vampire spoke first.
“Come along, my dear. You’ve had enough of a rest. Mustn’t keep Master waiting.” Again, that evil, malicious grin.
“Please, just listen to me—” He grabbed her arm and began dragging her towards the door. She made a desperate attempt to snatch at her rucksack as they passed it.
“You won’t be needing that.” He gestured to the bag with his free hand.
“Please, I do need it. I want it with me when I—please.”
Thomas rolled his eyes and motioned for her to take the sack, quickly.
***
She appeared to be in some sort of medieval baronial hall, with wood-paneled walls and a long, sturdy oak table to one side. Near the end of the table was a great stone fireplace even larger than the one in the drawing room suite. This one had an actual fire roaring inside it. Coats of arms, too many to count, were displayed around the walls. A chandelier hung from a triangle of chains fastened at the ceiling, like an enormous wheel. Dozens of candles stood interspersed among the spokes.
Did they have a different room for every century?
She only had a moment to take all this in because her gaze soon became fixed on the fireplace. Before it stood the five other vampires who’d kidnapped her that evening. They were all staring at her, smiling as if she were something delicious. All except the boy. He was standing slightly apart from them, avoiding her gaze. She saw the same hardness in the others now that she’d originally noticed about him. Hard, shiny eyes. Hard, shiny hair. And bodies that she was fairly certain were indestructible.
Another man, one she’d never seen before, was centered in front of the fireplace. His palms were on the mantle, his back to her. Somehow, Sherry didn’t need to ask who he was.
“Master!” called Thomas, his voice echoing off the stone floor. “Here she is, just as I promised!”
He caught her by the nape of the neck, and forced her to walk toward the fire. The Master turned around.
“Welcome, my dear girl! Welcome to the House of Cadamon.”
His voice sounded soft and relaxed, but with a rigid quality beneath it that she didn’t care to explore. His white hair was almost shoulder-length, curling just slightly at the base of his throat. He had small, watery-blue eyes that creased down at the edges, as if someone were holding his eyes half-closed. Sherry hated their color. It reminded her of old people she’d seen with eyes like that. She knew it was a mean thing to think about the elderly, but that didn’t erase her revulsion. When she saw the Master, her mind kept conjuring up the type of sick people you saw in nursing homes, the ones who had nothing left to look forward to in life. Just an endless, heartbreaking wait for death.
“Well, don’t just stand there, young lady!” He smiled even more broadly, revealing what she now knew to be fangs. “Come closer, so I can see you.”
With one hand at her neck and the other at her waist, Thomas walked behind her toward the older man. The Master moved in a circle, examining her closely.
“Ah, very nice. Just right, in fact. Well
done, Thomas.” The tall vampire smiled with satisfaction. “But what’s this I see?” The Master moved her hair back slightly, exposing her throat. Now that it was drawing attention, she became aware of a terrible soreness. Like someone had punched her in the neck. She hadn’t been thinking about it before now. Too busy looking for a way to escape.
It was where Thomas had feasted on her blood.
“Thomaaaaaas . . .” The Master eyed him with feigned disapproval. Thomas cast his glance downward in mock shame.
“Forgive me, my Lord. I was starving. I could not resist.”
Peals of laughter escaped from between the Master’s lips. “Oh Thomas, you rapscallion, you! You feed more often than anyone I know. Starving indeed!”
Thomas looked up, grinning, at Sherry.
“Ah well, I swear, if you weren’t one of my favorites . . . but never mind now. There’s still plenty left for me.”
There was no way they could drink any more of her blood without killing her. She was going to die tonight.
She gave begging one more try. “Please sir, I know you must be hungry, and you’ve been waiting patiently—”
“Very patiently,” he murmured, stroking the side of her head.
“Yes, very patiently, I understand, but is there anything I can say that will convince you not to kill me? I’m a very good person and . . . and I haven’t done anything wrong.” To her chagrin, she was perspiring again, despite the chill in the air. Hot tears began running down her face. “I know that doesn’t matter, but I’d really, really like to keep on living, if you don’t mind . . .”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know, dear. You don’t seem particularly strong . . . or beautiful.” From the corner of her eye, Sherry thought she saw the boy flinch. “Although I’m certain you’re reasonably bright, you’re not a prodigy, are you, like Gavin here?” Sherry turned to see another one of the vampires smiling smugly at her. That must be Gavin. “Did you know he solved Panack’s Compendium by the time he was only five years old? It had eluded even the greatest mathematicians for centuries! We’re quite proud of him.”
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