“God, that’s awful! Those poor girls!”
“Vasha didn’t see it that way. To her, they were just a commodity—objects to be used to further her own ambitious ends. Until the Master was overcome by her beauty, that is, and granted her the end to most mortal ambitions—immortality.
“Gavin was a mathematician who blackmailed others in his field. He’d procure evidence of minor illicit dealings, or he’d make them up entirely. These weren’t the worst of crimes, you understand, a little drunken brawl here, a slight gambling problem there. But in a world of appearances, public knowledge of such petty crimes would have meant their undoing. Gavin stole their work, their riches, and even a few wives right out from under them, all the while looking like the wunderkind who could do no wrong.”
“What an asshole.”
That made Lucas smile. “Yes, an asshole indeed, I’m afraid.”
“And Peter?” ventured Sherry. “What did he do?”
“Peter and Adrian are the worst kinds of hypocrites you ever saw. They routinely accused others of practicing sodomy while they continued . . . enjoying each other. The young men they charged with fictional acts were either hanged or burned at the stake.” Sherry’s eyes went wide. “That’s what was done in those days. Similar punishments still exist now for such ‘offenses,’ depending on what part of the world you’re in. Anyway, the two lovers helped themselves to the dead men’s horses, land and wealth, leaving the surviving families to starve.”
“What about Clara? She seems kind of . . . nice.”
Lucas snorted derisively. “Really? Well, let me tell you something you may not know about innocent little Clara. That boy she’s always trying to get over? The one who keeps showing up in her cards? She killed him, Sherry. Him and his entire family, and every other girl who ever looked at him, just because he refused to marry her. That was over four hundred years ago. And every time she finds another boy who resembles him, she does exactly the same thing. Finds out where he lives, who his friends are, his girlfriend, or fiancée, or wife, and murders them all in their sleep. All to get even with a man for scorning her half a dozen lifetimes ago.”
“Jesus. I had no idea.”
“And Thomas . . . are you sure you want to hear about Thomas?”
“I know about all the rest. I may as well hear about him too.”
“Thomas was an unrepentant rapist. When he was mortal, he only stopped the practice when he ran out of women in his small village to violate. But he has a pleasant singing voice, so the Master granted him immortality. Even after all this time, I still can’t stand the way he sings.” Lucas let go of Sherry’s fingers to rub his temples. She wondered if she’d ever get to hold any part of him again.
So she really had run the risk of being assaulted that night, when she’d been kidnapped and brought to the House of Cadamon. Sherry quickly thanked the heavens she’d been spared such a terrible fate. For now.
***
It was surprising how easy it was to get through the Louvre when there were no crowds, although the marble sculptures all around did make it feel as though they weren’t quite alone. Sherry marveled at the quality of the craftsmanship, the intimacy of the poses, especially the one of Cupid and Psyche. Where fabric was made to look draped over the subject’s body, it seemed as if the garment could be plucked off the person, leaving them naked and shivering. Everything about them seemed so real. Like someone could flip a switch and bring them immediately to life. They would complete their interrupted kiss, Cupid would scoop Psyche up in his arms, and they’d fly out the window into the blissful world of their imagination.
As she gazed at the statues, she felt a familiar sadness. Psyche looked adoringly at her lover, and he met her eyes with tenderness and peace. She would probably never know what that was like. She wasn’t going to get the opportunity to fall in love, to lie in her husband’s arms that way. Her almost-kiss with Lucas was the closest she’d ever come to being intimate with him. The best she might hope for was a cool hand to hold, once in a while. And that was if she was lucky. The only time she’d ever be embraced like that, with complete and utter abandon, was right before one of the vampires killed her.
A lump began to block her throat, and she swallowed it down, hard. At least she’d die in someone’s arms. At least she wouldn’t be alone.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” said Lucas, handing her a handkerchief. She’d forgotten he was right behind her. Thank God for the block on her thoughts. She’d be so embarrassed if he knew what she was thinking right now, she’d beg him to kill her, just so she wouldn’t feel so humiliated.
“Yes, er, of course. It’s so beautiful it’s . . . heartbreaking.”
“I’m so glad you can appreciate it. Most people just see a romantic statute. But look at the configuration, the elegant, flowing lines. Just breathtaking.”
“Absolutely,” Sherry nodded. She had no idea what he was talking about. Let him think she was a sculpture connoisseur. She didn’t want to say or do anything that would lower her in his esteem. Besides, who was to say that in another life, if she had time, she wouldn’t be a great pursuer of art? She loved museums, which she knew most girls her age did not.
With Lucas being a painter, they naturally had to visit the paintings next. Sherry tried to appreciate the pictures, but it was hard to find one that held her interest. She was so used to the photographic-like quality of Lucas’s work that all others seemed to pale in comparison. She wondered what the great masters’ work would have looked like if they’d had centuries, and not just decades, to develop their skills.
And of course, many of the paintings were ones she recognized from school field trips, or outings with her father and his girlfriend. She didn’t feel the need to stare at them intensely, the way Lucas did. Being the art expert that he was, he must find something new whenever he looked at them. Sherry realized for the first time that this must be his hundredth, or even his thousandth, visit to the museum. He’d probably seen these paintings so often he could draw them in his sleep. And yet, here he was, completely enrapt as if he had never set eyes on them before. She contemplated taking his hand again while he was absorbed in the images, but thought better of it. She didn’t want to seem desperate.
“It’s a shame my favorite painter isn’t here,” she commented.
“Your favorite painter?”
“Renoir. But his work hasn’t been displayed here for almost a hundred years. Isn’t that right?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “That’s absolutely correct. I’m impressed.” They walked on slowly, so Lucas could continue perusing the displays. “Tell me, what do you especially enjoy about his work?”
Finally. A chance to show him she knew something about art. Pierre-Auguste Renoir was one of the few painters who stood out to her when they’d studied Impressionism in school.
“Well, for one thing, he was just an ordinary man. Middle-class, like me. Not rich. He lived for a while in Montmartre, actually. He painted scenes of ordinary people doing ordinary things like fishing, boating, picnicking. You wouldn’t think such banal subjects could hold a person’s interest, but I loved his bright, vibrant colors. The way he suffused everything with light, or played with shadows. He also endured a great deal of suffering. He caught pneumonia when he was only forty-one, and it left him barely able to breathe for the rest of his life. He still painted even after he developed arthritis and had to have a brush tied to his fingers. He spent his final days in a wheelchair, but at least he got to see his work displayed here at the Louvre before he died. He knew he’d made it as an artist.”
“True.” Lucas nodded. “All very true. And his family was quite important to him as well. He had a beloved wife and several children, whom he often painted. I believe the female nude was also a favorite subject of his.” He glanced slyly over at Sherry.
“Yes, well
. . .” She couldn’t help but look back at him, and they both laughed. “I guess that was the porn of its day, wasn’t it?” she giggled.
“I suppose it was,” agreed Lucas, smiling. “But it doesn’t detract from the fact that although Renoir experienced so much loss and pain, his paintings are filled with happiness.”
“He didn’t live in a world of his creation, so he created the world in which he wished to live,” mused Sherry aloud.
“Why yes,” agreed Lucas. “I believe he did.”
“You know, I’ve often thought that if you were a . . . regular painter, you’d definitely have a place in here. I mean, you pretty much leave all these guys in the dust, art-wise.”
“I’m not sure I’d agree with you there, but I appreciate the sentiment,” he said with a wink.
They walked on a bit longer, but something was bothering Sherry. She sighed and stopped dead in her tracks. “Lucas, I have a confession to make.”
Lucas blinked. “You? A confession? My my, I wonder what it could be.” Apparently, he found the thought of her having anything to confess wildly amusing. “Have you been telling incorrect fortunes all this time?” His eyes were bright with mischief.
“Um, no, Lucas. Nothing like that. It’s just that I . . .” God, she really didn’t want to admit this.
He put his hands on her shoulders, and her heart soared towards the skylights. “Anything, Sherry.” The way he pronounced her name . . . she couldn’t tell if it was the French word for “dearie” or not. “You can tell me anything.”
“It’s just that I . . . I . . . I have no idea what you were talking about with the statue before.”
Lucas blinked again.
“With the artistry, and the flowing lines, and all that other stuff. I didn’t understand a word of it. I just thought the sculpture was kind of . . . you know. Sexy.”
The young vampire paused for a moment and took a step back, looking at her keenly. Then he laughed so hard, the marble floor almost vibrated, and Sherry thought the glass in the windows would shatter.
“You . . . just thought the . . . that it was . . . sexy?” Lucas was nearly doubled over now, his arms clutching his sides.
“I know, I know, it’s just that—” She wasn’t getting a word in edgewise, with his laughter echoing powerfully off the stone walls. Strange, the way it still sounded like music to her. She waited for him to finish.
“Ha, that’s—that’s the funniest damn thing I’ve ever heard.” He tried to catch his breath, and wiped tears across his sleeve.
“I just wanted you to think I really knew about art and life and stuff. The truth is, I’m sort of an idiot when it comes to those things.”
He looked straight at her, his smile filling every fiber in her body with an incredible warmth. “Sherry, you are definitely no fool when it comes to life. You’re one of the oldest, wisest souls I’ve met in a long time. As far as art, well, what difference does it make? It all comes with time, effort, and patience. And natural interest. You learned about Renoir, didn’t you?”
“Yes, well, I kind of had to. I had a book report due on Impressionism.”
That made Lucas start laughing all over again.
“Well,” he tried again to catch his breath, “I certainly hope you got an A. But you retained that information, didn’t you? And do you know why? Because it interested you. Because you saw in Renoir a part of yourself, perhaps. Or did you make all that up? About his life and the arthritis and the light and the shadow and everything?”
Sherry bristled at his last comment. “Of course not! All of that’s absolutely true! At least that’s what one of his biographies said . . . wait. You already knew it was true, didn’t you?” Lucas nodded and kept smiling. “Of course you knew. You could probably write truckloads of biographies on every artist here, couldn’t you?” She slapped her hand to her forehead. What had she been thinking? There wasn’t anything she could teach him, no information she could impart that he hadn’t already learned.
“Sexy.” He shook his head again. “You never cease to amaze me, Sherry. Always full of surprises.” That certainly came as a surprise to her. Hadn’t she just confirmed he already knew everything there was to know?
“You know what?” he said, taking her hand again with a wink. “I’ll bet the sculptor thought it was pretty sexy too.”
They made a quick stop to see the revolving collection of modern prints currently being exhibited. Sherry wasn’t a big fan of modern art, but it pleased her to see Lucas looking enrapt by today’s young artists. And it pleased her even more when he didn’t let go of her hand.
Her heart swelled to see him so at ease, fitting in naturally with his surroundings. He’d never been able to do that at Cadamon. He delighted in each new painting and sketch, thoroughly engrossed in the beauty all around him. Sherry was beginning to feel the same way. His happiness was her happiness.
Once again, Sherry found herself pretending that she was already a vampire, and Lucas’s consort. They had all the time in the world to explore the intricacies of art, and each other. They would always be as young and beautiful-seeming as the statues here, moving pieces of marble flowing effortlessly from one age to the next.
There was much more to explore, but it was nearly dawn. The incredible treasures housed here would take more than just one night to fully appreciate. Sherry got the impression that several lifetimes would be necessary before one could walk these halls and say they’d seen everything they needed to see at the Louvre.
Chapter 12—Confrontation
The fight occurred almost a month later, just around Christmastime.
Sherry should have known it all along. The cards had been predicting it for weeks. But in her blissful state, thinking only of her evening of handholding with Lucas, she’d ignored them almost entirely. And she did so at her peril, she knew.
But things had been going so well since that night at the Louvre. Lucas seemed distinctly happier, and it wasn’t just her imagination. Even the Master commented on it. And Lucas’s words and gestures were more and more of a romantic nature—lots of “honeys” and “sweethearts” sprinkled into his sentences, which set her heart alight. He hadn’t tried anything physical yet, though Sherry was eager to move beyond the handholding stage. She didn’t have anything to compare her desire to; she’d never felt anything like it. The underwater sensation that came when he touched her was like a deepening ocean current, pulling her to a wild, unknown shore.
She felt so wonderful that she hadn’t even been put off by Thomas’s lecherous glances, not the way she usually was. She just looked him straight in the eye and showed him he wasn’t going to get to her. Which only seemed to piss him off, but she was confident she could handle it.
What she almost couldn’t handle was the constant attention Lucas showered on her. It was even more than before, and Sherry hadn’t thought that was possible.
First, there was the Thanksgiving Day feast, just as she was hungering for comfort food, as well as time with her family and friends. Of course, he had to improvise a bit with the selection, since there was no Thanksgiving on this side of the Atlantic. But he came through beautifully, as usual. Butternut squash soup, garnished with apple rings. Cheese and garlic mashed potatoes, proudly prepared by Lucas himself. Although a turkey had been hard to come by, he’d made do with a skillfully cooked pair of Cornish hens. And Sherry was so full from the mountains of other side dishes that it made a perfect excuse not to eat the main course. She didn’t want to tell Lucas how the hens looked like tiny sleeping lovebirds. Otherwise, it was the best Thanksgiving she’d ever had, because she spent it with him.
Then there were the everyday indulgences, which she’d warned him against, for fear of spoiling her silly. Like tonight.
“Champagne? Again? What’s the special occasion?” she asked as Lucas pulled the expensi
ve bottle out of an ice bucket and started to uncork it. What a shame that he couldn’t join her in the libation. “Are we celebrating some vampire holiday that I don’t know about?”
“Well, it is the holiday season,” he replied as the cork popped and champagne started flowing out of the bottle. He began pouring her a flute-full. “And you are the special occasion. Every night with you is a celebration. Because you never know when it will end.”
It was as if he’d accidentally said the last sentence out loud. He stopped mid-pour to look at her, then quickly turned his attention back to the champagne.
She decided to turn his statement into something funny. “Yes, every night’s a celebration with Madame Sherry. Wait—no. That sounds like an advertisement for a hooker.”
A little laugh erupted from him, and she was glad her joke went over well.
“And why’d you get me more flowers?” she asked, taking the glass from his hand with an appreciative nod. “As if I don’t already have enough.” She gestured to the dozens of bouquets that dotted the room. There were no vases of any kind elsewhere in the House; they’d all been moved to Sherry’s room. Explosions of blooms poured forth from every corner of the suite: roses and stargazer lilies, gerbera daisies and tulips, orchids and gardenias. It smelled like a perfectly appointed royal garden.
“The reason for the flowers? Oh, I don’t know. It’s something living, I suppose.”
“You couldn’t have scrounged up a puppy?” She took a long drink of champagne.
“Well, you do have me.” He pouted and made pretend dog ears, holding his fingers above his temples.
She laughed and pointed at a footstool. “Sit, then.” He sat. “Good boy.”
“Shall I offer you my paw next? Or play dead? I’m especially good at playing dead.”
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