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
The 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 h
ad 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.
It was awful. Not that the victims would know it, of course. They were beyond feeling, beyond hearing, beyond any sort of human pain. But the meaninglessness of all they had been through, of all they were now . . . it overwhelmed Sherry. Her heart ached to know their names, their stories, not just their fates. One set of bones was so much like the next, and somehow, that was even sadder than the presence of death all around her.
Lucas must have sensed her grief, because he cleared his throat and tried to distract Sherry from the grisly surroundings.
“Did you know that La Résistance had their secret headquarters here? I tried to assist them during the Second World War, but of course, Master quickly put a stop to that,” he said dryly.
Sherry’s ears perked up at the mention of La Résistance. She’d studied it twice, once in the States, and then again when she came to school in France. It had always been one of her favorite subjects, the secret army that helped defeat the Nazis. They had gone underground, both literally and figuratively, to attack the German’s military superiority with subterfuge and resourcefulness.
“Was that the regular Résistance or the Communist Résistance?”
Lucas stopped walking and turned to look at her, his eyebrows raised.
“Ah, it was the ‘regular’ Résistance, if you wish to call it that. I was never much for Communism, although I could see how certain aspects of it had merit. I’m surprised you were aware there was a difference.”
Sherry shrugged. “There was a conspiracy theory a few years back that the friction between the two almost brought down the entire Résistance operation across Europe. Not that I’m one for conspiracy theories, of course,” she added hastily.
“Nor I,” Lucas said warmly, and continued walking, careful to guide Sherry over a large puddle. “And I meant that I was pleasantly surprised that you knew. So few young people are interested in history nowadays, it’s quite a treat to find one who is.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“I don’t know, Sherry. You are a very unusual girl. I mean that as a compliment, of course.”
Part of Sherry felt warm all over when he praised her, and it wasn’t just from blushing. But she was still glad for the cover of darkness that hid her reddening cheeks. Except that Lucas could see her face anyway, without additional illumination. Oh well.
They talked a little about his take on history before finally climbing a ladder that led to a closed manhole cover. She was almost sad to see this part of the journey end. It was so fascinating, getting to know someone who had seen and experienced such amazing things in the past. It was like talking to a wise, endearing grandfather—if a grandfather could be in his twenties, and incredibly sexy.
Still, she was relieved when they climbed out of the manhole and into the open night air. Lucas had thought taking this way might be less crowded than the entrance in Montparnasse. Apparently, there were many entrances and exits to the catacombs, both secret and public, that Sherry knew nothing about.
She stood up and looked around. They were in an alleyway, similar to the one she’d been kidnapped in just last night. She could run now. She could run and scream and hide. But could she move fast enough so that Lucas would be too late to stop her?
He turned to her and said, “I’m truly sorry, but I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t help you escape. If that’s what you were thinking. The only reason I know it’s crossed your mind is because it would have crossed mine too, if I were in your position. You’re wondering why I can’t just let you go, and return back to the catacombs empty-handed. Believe me, I wish I could. If it only meant punishment for me, I’d do it without hesitation. And if I thought I could run away successfully myself, I would have done it years ago. I know it sounds hard to believe, Sherry, but I am as much a prisoner of the House of Cadamon as you are.” He replaced the impossibly heavy manhole cover with the ease of lifting a pizza box.
Sherry closed her eyes for a moment as a heavy feeling settled in her heart. So that was it, then. Her last chance at freedom: gone. But if she expected more tears from herself—or even impotent rage—they were not forthcoming. Instead, she actually felt grieved on Lucas’s behalf. If only there were a way they could escape together.
Still, now that she was above ground again, part of Sherry wanted to dash wildly into the nearest crowd, just to attempt an escape. But what had Lucas meant, that he’d let her go if it only meant punishment “for him?” Maybe it meant certain death from the vampires when they found her. And of course they’d find her—they were hunters by nature.
Part of her also felt the need to stay by Lucas’s side. It was inexplicable, but she felt she simply couldn’t leave him. A powerful force urged her to remain where she was. Was it boy-girl attraction? Vampire magnetism? Could it be the beginnings of . . . love?
Sherry gave a tiny shake of her head. “Love” was unlikely. After all, they’d only just met. Maybe it was sympathy. Abandoning Lucas seemed somehow . . . wrong. Then he’d be as trapped as she was by the House of Cadamon, with no one there who understood. He’d suffer a heartache she was loathe to inflict on anyone, especially a person as kind as Lucas. Then again, if she somehow got the chance to leave and didn’t take it, she might pay with her life.
She was shaken from these morbid thoughts by the sound of Lucas’s voice.
“So, we are finally above ground,” he was saying, “and I assume you are hungry.”
Sherry’s stomach growled as if on cue. Both of them smiled at the same time.
“So, a meal it is, then. And after that, young lady, we have to buy you a new coat. I saw you shivering down there in the tunnels. If you’re going to be staying with us for any length of time, we can’t have you freezing to death.”
That was fine with her. After all the vampires had put her through (as well as what they might put her through) the least they could do was see to it that she was kept warm.
To her surprise, Sherry found herself and Lucas in the first arrondissement, walking toward a group of buildings that looked very familiar. When Sherry saw the sign for the restaurant, she immediately understood why. It was because she’d seen this place dozens of times in the culinary sections of newspapers, and the page-after-page spreads of glossy magazines. He’d brought her to le Grand Véfour, one of the oldest and most expensive restaurants in Paris.
Le Grand Véfour. Unbelievable. An institution synonymous with the city itself. Sherry marveled at the entrance’s enormous white columns, faded to the color of old bone. As she and Lucas walked through the crowded archway, people seemed to step aside just in time to let them pass through. The vampire must have been responsible for that, but Sherry was damned if she could figure out how. It must have been more of his supernatural powers.
She tried to steal a discreet glimpse through the floor-to-ceiling arched windows at the other diners, already inside. Unfortunately, it was impossible: her view was blocked by small white curtains that covered the window bottoms. Oh well. She’d just have to wait until she got in the restaurant to see what it was like.
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If they ever got inside. It was no doubt a very nice gesture, offering to take her to le Grand Véfour, but Sherry didn’t see how they could pull it off. Reservations were needed here—weeks, sometimes months in advance. Unless Lucas had a standing order for a table for two, she’d be having her dinner elsewhere.
Much to her surprise, they were ushered inside by a gloved attendant and brought to the maître d’s podium.
“Avez-vous réservé?” The slight, dark-haired man behind the stand didn’t even glance up at them.
“I’m afraid not. We did not make a reservation in advance.”
“Non réservé?” This time the maître d looked up, with a distinct air of disdain. He pursed his lips and eyed Sherry up and down, as if she were a street urchin begging him for a crust of bread.
“Je suis desolé, monsieur, mais c’est impossible. If you would care to book a table, we have one available in November, I believe.” He went back to looking at his list of patrons who already had reservations, or whatever was so important he couldn’t make eye contact with those standing in front of him.
“My guest will need to eat before then,” Lucas said. Then he stared very hard at the maître d. Too hard. The man met his gaze, swallowed, and said in a voice barely above a whisper:
“Right this way, monsieur.”
Sherry’s mouth nearly dropped open. She hurried after Lucas and the nasty little man. Incredible.
Lucas turned his elegant neck, looking back at Sherry over his shoulder. “We could eat upstairs, if you like.” He made a graceful gesture above his head. “On the second floor.”
“Oh no, thank you—this is fine.” Sherry was trying hard not to ogle her surroundings, but it was almost impossible to stop staring. The lavishness of the restaurant was overwhelming. She marveled at the gilded frames encasing mirrors and paintings that covered entire walls. Most of the illustrations showed women wrapped in long skirts and shawls, poised with plates of fruits and other edibles on their heads. Floral patterns and elaborate designs swirled all around them. Sherry wondered if they ever grew tired standing there, year after year, doing their careful balancing act. Always holding delectable morsels, watching meals being eaten right in front of them, but never able to partake of these sensuous pleasures themselves.
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