House of Cards

by Waters, Ilana

  “Lucas, that is just ridiculous. You know perfectly well that this life was not one you chose. It was something that was done to you. Maybe feeling guilty about things you can’t control is more palatable than feeling powerless. Maybe your mind is trying to protect you by choosing the lesser of two evils.”

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze. She knew he felt ashamed at how warm he was now, his blood heated by the mortal he’d just fed upon. At least he wasn’t turning away. At least he was listening.

  “Do you know how many times I felt like an idiot for ‘letting’ myself get kidnapped? How I wished I’d taken a different route home that night? That I had done something, anything to keep Thomas and the others from bringing me down here? But it wasn’t in my power to stop them. They’d been watching me. They wanted me. They’d have found me and dragged me into the catacombs no matter what.”

  He looked into her eyes from half-closed lids. Whatever she was doing seemed to be working. But then Lucas squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Sherry could see the light blue veins of his temples begin to throb.

  “You’ll never know how sorry I am for that,” he whispered. “Sherry, I am so, so sorry. If only it hadn’t been you. If only I’d . . . I don’t know, chosen someone else. Walked to another stand. Something. Anything.”

  Sherry began to reach for the sides of his face with both hands, holding her breath. She wanted so much to stroke his cheeks, his jaw, to wrap him in her arms. But she stopped, and slowly lowered her hands to his shoulders again. He hadn’t seen her hands reach up—his eyes had been closed the entire time.

  “But then I never would have met you,” she breathed. “And you’ve grown to be my friend . . . I think. Maybe there’s a reason I was called down here. Maybe there’s a reason you were made into a vampire, even though it was against your will. It could be we haven’t figured out those reasons yet. But we might be here to serve a greater purpose than we realize.”

  He opened his eyes again, smiling sadly. He took her hand and brought it gently to his lips, then lowered it again. “Sweet, sweet Sherry. I admire your idealism. It’s very . . . American.”

  But she hadn’t tried to kiss him since the night they’d sat together in his room. Sherry wasn’t sure if Lucas knew she’d been about to kiss him. Or had he been about to kiss her? She’d replayed the scene a thousand times in her mind. The Master’s “call” had never come, and she’d kissed him. Or the call didn’t come, and he rejected her. The call came, but he ignored it, threw her on the bed, and—

  No. Best not to think of that. But it was hard not to. Even after such a long while, Sherry still didn’t know how Lucas saw her. As a friend? A would-be lover? An eventual meal, even? He’d always been a perfect gentleman, a fact which both intrigued and annoyed her to no end. Was he afraid to get too close, lest she be one more mortal whose death he’d mourn? He played things so close to the vest, it was hard to tell.

  Besides, even if he could get the Master’s permission to turn her into one of them, which was unlikely, it was even less plausible that Lucas would follow through. Making her into a serial killer simply to satisfy his own need for a companion didn’t appear to be in his nature.

  Well, if she couldn’t be a vampire (and she wasn’t completely sold on the idea, not that anyone was offering), she was certainly getting to be a better psychic. She was becoming especially proficient at telekinesis. Just the other day she’d managed to lift the heavy round table in her room fifteen centimeters off the ground. Of course, afterwards, she was exhausted. Still, she found that psychic powers were like muscles. The more you used them, the stronger they got.

  Lucas possessed more than one hidden talent as well, she had discovered. He didn’t just do sketches, or drawings of vines—he was also an accomplished painter. Just the other evening, she’d been studying pictures in the hallway of each of the vampires. There was one for every member of the House of Cadamon, including the Master. There were also a few immortals she didn’t recognize. Presumably, these were members no longer with the group—she could only imagine why or how they’d left. Doubtful the Master would have let them go. More likely they’d died in one of the few ways vampires could. Or . . . the Master might have hastened their deaths, one way or another.

  The paintings looked to be roughly mid-seventeenth century. Each was rendered in exquisite, painstaking detail. They were so realistic, she’d swear the subjects’ eyes were following her. She actually imagined they might start talking and crawl out of their frames, if they had a mind to. The men wore wigs, curls cascading down their shoulders. The tops of the women’s dresses were covered in ribbons and bows. She could have giggled at the strange excess of the costumes, except the looks on the vampires’ faces prevented it. They stopped all laughter as soon as it rose in her throat.

  Cold faces. Immobile. All smiling with a sureness, a smug certainty. Most had their pale mouths closed, but Thomas dared to lift his upper lip just a bit, revealing his sharp teeth. Lucas was the last painting on the left. He was the only one not smiling.

  “Portraits,” came a voice from behind her.

  She turned around. Of course it was Lucas.

  “They’re beautiful. Perfect, in fact.”

  “I despise every one of them. If I could get away with it, I’d burn them all as the Master watched. He made me do them when I first came.”

  “You’d destroy your own work? Lucas, that’s terrible! You really shouldn’t say such things. You should be proud of . . . well, they’re wonderful, is all I’m saying.”

  “Your compliments are appreciated. But if you were forced to look at their obscene faces every night for hundreds of years, you might find that you felt otherwise.”

  She didn’t argue with him anymore about the portraits just then. And she never did ask him how old he was, or where he’d originally come from. She sensed that doing so would only make him uncomfortable. Besides, what difference did it make, really? She was here with him now, and that was what mattered. At least to her.

  Come to think of it, he wasn’t here now. The Master had requested a group portrait last evening. Lucas was probably painting it this very minute, and that was why he hadn’t come to visit her yet. Brushing cracker crumbs off the designer jeans he’d bought her, she combed her hair and spritzed a tiny puff of perfume around her head, then went to find him.

  Since it could be difficult, at times, to gather the vampires in one place, Lucas said he’d render the group portrait from the individual paintings. That meant he’d be in the hall, studying them. As Sherry made her way down the dark corridor, she hoped she didn’t run into any of the other vampires. But as she started to round the corner before the portraits, she heard the Master’s voice and stopped short. She peeked around the wall. Maybe, if she stood very still—and tried not to smell too appetizing—he wouldn’t realize she was there.

  “Excellent, lad, excellent. I must say, it’s one of your best renderings yet,” the Master complimented.

  Lucas’s latest work was indeed in progress. A paint stand, palette, and easel were set at an angle in front of his previous works. With his back to Sherry, she watched in wonder as Lucas deftly combined the vampire’s faces into one group scene. On a wide piece of canvas, she saw how the half-finished oil painting was a near-photographic image of them all. Minus himself, of course.

  How did that work, anyway? Would Lucas paint himself into the portrait after he’d completed the rest? How did it feel to stand apart from the other vampires that way? To a certain extent, it must be a relief, since he didn’t wish to share their evil natures or actions. But might it also be a bit . . . lonely? It occurred to Sherry that Lucas might never have had a conversation with another vampire who felt the way he did—that killing was wrong.

  Poor Lucas. Forced to stare for hours at faces he hated, but could not escape. What an unbearable fate. The Master merely watched the pain
ting process with satisfaction, proudly surveying his brood.

  “It’s a pity Vasha still doesn’t feel bold enough to leave her room that often,” the Master murmured. “At least she’s healing rapidly, the dear thing.”

  Sherry thought she saw Lucas’s hand pause for a fraction of a second over the partially completed painting. Then suddenly it was moving again, even more swiftly than before. Maybe she had just imagined it.

  Poor Lucas, Sherry thought again. And she was standing so close to him. So close. Yet he didn’t even know it. He didn’t know how she loved the way his shoulders moved under his loose white shirt. How she wanted to go up to him, wrap her arms around his waist and nuzzle his neck. He’d drop his brush and paints, place his hands over hers as they moved up and explored his stomach, his chest. Maybe he’d even let out a soft little moan . . .

  Jesus. What was wrong with her? Why not go molest a vampire in front of his evil maker? What a great idea. She really must be losing her mind. She’d have to save thoughts like that for when she was in bed, alone.

  “Speaking of women, there’s something I’ve been wanting to mention,” the Master said. “It’s that, well, I worry for you when you’re with that Sherry girl.” He frowned in a way that made Sherry nervous. “You dote on her a bit too much, even for a pet. It’s unnatural. You treat her like a lover, like a wife, even. Don’t forget that she’s merely an amusement. One whose time here will eventually come to an end.”

  This time it wasn’t Sherry’s imagination. Lucas’s brush definitely stopped for a moment, and she saw his shoulders tense. She longed to reach out and rub them, to stroke all his pain away. But was he upset because of the insult to her honor? Or did he really harbor such thoughts, and was afraid to admit them to himself?

  Lucas took a deep breath. “Master, I’m afraid I must insist upon silence at this point. Any further discourse would destroy my concentration.”

  To Sherry’s surprise, the Master did not appear affronted. “Very well, son,” he replied agreeably. “We don’t want to interfere with the artistic process, do we now? Though, to be honest Lucas, I don’t know what you see in her. She’s certainly not the loveliest female I’ve ever laid eyes upon. You should just take her and be done with it. Her readings for me are always the same, anyway,” he sighed.

  “Maybe that’s because certain people here are always the same,” said Lucas through gritted teeth. “They never change. They’re always thinking of the same things, and never bother to learn or grow at all.” Lucas put down his brush and balled one hand into a tight fist at his side. “And if I may beg your pardon, I believe I need a bit of fresh air.” He placed the palette on the stand and wiped excess paint off his hands with a rag. He didn’t bother cleaning the brushes. “I’ll complete this portrait another time, if it pleases you. It seems my muse has left me.”

  “Oh, I’d say she’s right behind you, my boy.” The Master turned around, smiled, and looked directly at Sherry. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Sherry drew a sharp inward breath. So he’d known she was there all along. Damn. That was startling. And embarrassing. Although why should eavesdropping on Lucas and that psycho make her feel embarrassed? Still, she was slow to enter the hallway, and annoyed at herself for blushing furiously.

  “Aren’t you a vision?” said the Master. Sherry stood there awkwardly in her wool miniskirt and patterned tights. Her off-the-shoulder sweater might have been too chilly if it weren’t for yet another cashmere scarf from Lucas. This one was in bright fuchsia.

  She stared at the Master with lips set in a firm line. Liar. Hypocrite. He didn’t think she was a vision at all. He didn’t even think she was worth keeping alive, a fact which made her hands start to shake.

  “We were just talking about you.” He smiled warmly at her. Jackass.

  “Well, better look at her all you can now, because it’s the last you’ll see of her this evening,” said Lucas. “Come, Sherry.” He covered his paint box and turned towards the drawing room door.

  “Won’t you stay for supper, at least?” the Master inquired. “Thomas will be bringing some . . . guests down later. Artists, like yourself. From various squares around the city. I think it will make for some fairly interesting discussions before we—”

  “No. My apologies, Master, but I will not be dining with all of you tonight. In fact, we were just leaving.” He motioned to Sherry.

  “Leaving? But my dear boy, where on earth are you going?”

  “Out. Anywhere but here.” He said the last part under his breath, but of course, he must have known the Master would hear.

  “Sherry, bring your coat.” He gently took hold of her arm before the Master could object.

  “Lucas, where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the Louvre.”

  Chapter 11—The Louvre

  It was a brisk fall evening, but Sherry’s new coat kept her quite warm. She felt a bit guilty that an animal had to die for the fur-lined gloves Lucas bought her, but she decided not to bring it up. She didn’t want him to think she was rejecting his gift. After all, it was a far cry from the rabbit coat he’d originally wanted to pay for. And the gloves did keep her hands feeling so nice and cozy. She said a silent prayer of thanks to the creature whose sacrifice made her comfort possible.

  The weather was noticeably colder than the last time she’d been out. The wind was picking up. Conversations between Parisians grew quicker, more brusque. No one wanted to suffer the chilly weather for longer than they had to. She saw more boots, fewer open-toed shoes. There were even several motivated merchants who’d begun displaying Christmas decorations.

  A pang of sadness suddenly rose from deep within her chest. It would be Thanksgiving in a few weeks, in the States. Her dad had always arranged the traditional meal with a few other ex-pats in the city, and his girlfriend was consistently gracious about helping to prepare it. Lucas had probably sent some excuse as to why Sherry wouldn’t be joining them in Provence for either Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. In fact, it was unlikely she would see them for any holiday meals ever again. Tears welled up in her eyes. It was strange that such strong emotions should take hold of her now, when she’d been fine for so many months. The change of seasons brought with it a finality, a realization of her predicament. Summer could turn to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to spring again, spring back into summer. The wheel could wind over and over, but nothing would change for her.

  She wondered if this was how Lucas felt, living so many years, so many seasons. Unchanging and unending.

  She shook her head quickly, shaking away the last vestige of her tears. She didn’t want him to know she’d gotten upset. It was ridiculous, really. Overly sentimental. Nothing was constant—everything changed, somehow, eventually. Besides, she was in the heart of one of the most beautiful cities in the world, with a handsome man at her side, about to enter one of the most famous museums in history. She’d been here before, of course, but never with Lucas. It gave her the feeling that she was setting foot inside the Louvre for the first time. She didn’t know why he’d chosen to visit here with her tonight, and she didn’t bother to ask. He was an artist, after all. Maybe, for once, he just wanted to be among his own kind.

  It was after-hours for the museum, but of course that didn’t stop them. Lucas’s power of being seen only when he wished to extended to any mortals in his company, as she’d learned a while ago. It was easy for them to pass unnoticed through the entrance on the right side, called Porte des Lions. The locked door undid its latch easily when Lucas willed it to.

  It felt so odd, traversing the enormous hallways and grand marble architecture without being under the watchful eyes of guards. Using more of his vampire powers, Lucas had silently convinced all those working inside till dawn to go home early tonight. There were no gawking tourists, no screaming children, no loud and obvious tour guides.
Just peaceful stillness and dimmed illumination as they walked silently along.

  Sherry hesitated, then reached up and silently slipped her warm hand into Lucas’s cool one.

  She didn’t even know why. Was it to comfort him? To declare her feelings for him? Friends sometimes held hands, didn’t they?

  Before she could wonder anymore at her own intentions, she felt Lucas squeeze his fingers around hers. Her heart leapt and her mind soared. He liked her! He loved her! He . . . didn’t want to hurt her feelings?

  Sherry chose not to overanalyze it, lest the precious moment be lost. For now, she just pretended they were lovers, with a moonlit museum all to themselves.

  Sherry cleared her throat. “So tell me more about the other vampires. Why do you hate them all? Is it because they seem to enjoy . . . hurting people?”

  “Part of it is their lack of respect for human life, yes. But each of them is despicable in their own unique way.”

  “How so?” It occurred to Sherry, and not for the first time, how little she knew about the other members of the House of Cadamon.

  “Well,” he began, “Vasha, for instance, used to be a courtesan. She often arranged for young peasant virgins in neighboring villages to spend the night with wealthy nobles. She promised the girls they’d become like her, living with freedom and security unknown to women at that time. In exchange for the pleasure of their . . . company, they’d be showered with riches and jewels, able to provide for themselves and their families. Nothing of the sort happened, of course. The night after their innocence was taken, they were deposited back into their filthy, poverty-stricken lives, unmarriageable now that their only value as women had been stolen. Vasha was paid handsomely by the nobles for this privilege, of course.”