The Darkness Dwellers

by Kirsten Miller

  “Gordon Grant may not have died during the war. There were whispers at the time—only rumors, of course. People said Gordon fell in love with a spy—a femme fatale—who persuaded him to betray his country. After the war, he stayed in Europe with her. Who knows? Perhaps he’s still there.”

  “He abandoned Amelia?”

  The principal nodded. “When she realized he wasn’t coming back, Amelia went mad with grief. Her parents were forced to send her away for a while. She spent several months at a mental hospital upstate. By the time she came back, she’d changed for good. I remember visiting Amelia’s house the day she returned. There was no life left in her. She refused to acknowledge that Gordon might still be alive, and it was as if she’d died with him.”

  “How terrible. Are you still friends?” my mother asked.

  “No. I tried to keep in touch with her, of course, but Amelia broke all connections to her life before the war. I still see her now and then at museum galas and charity events. But even though it’s been sixty-five years, she still avoids me.” The principal took in a deep breath and seemed to pull herself out of the past.

  “Now, how did I allow you to get me so sidetracked, Ananka? I believe you were about to tell us where you were today. I thought we had a deal. You’re supposed to inform me if you need to miss school.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a last-minute crisis. I had to visit Molly Donovan.”

  “At the Boreland Academy?” the principal asked.

  “In West Virginia?” my mother added.

  “I told you it was a long story.” I sighed.

  My father checked his watch. “Well, it’s eight o’clock now. I think we’ve got time to hear it.”

  “No more secrets, remember?” the principal added when I hesitated.

  “Make the story as long as you want, Ananka. The last one you told was quite entertaining,” my mother said.

  “Okay,” I muttered. I could already tell that my parents wouldn’t believe a word of what I said. “You know how Kiki Strike left to claim the throne of Pokrovia?” All three adults nodded gamely. “Well, the Irregulars have been working on something she might be able to use as a bargaining chip if she got captured by her enemies. It’s a cure for female baldness—androgenetic alopecia to be exact. DeeDee says it’s almost ready. …”

  “I think this story has already gotten a little far-fetched,” my mother scoffed.

  “Your friend has developed a cure for female baldness?” My father laughed.

  “That sort of thing would be worth a great deal of money,” the principal remarked. She always took me seriously, and I loved her for it.

  “If it worked,” my mother added sarcastically.

  “See? This is why I prefer to keep my mouth shut,” I complained. “Either you want to hear the story or you don’t.”

  “We apologize, Ananka,” my father said. “Please. Continue. You’re an excellent storyteller. Maybe you’ve finally found your calling. It might be nice to have a novelist in the family someday.”

  With that meager encouragement, I took a deep breath and began my tale. I told them about Kiki’s disappearance, DeeDee’s experiments, and Betty’s trip to Paris. When I’d finished, my parents’ eyebrows were frozen in arches of surprise.

  “What a fascinating story,” said the principal, as if nothing she’d heard had shocked her. “But what does all of this have to do with your trip to see Miss Donovan?”

  “Molly was part of the deal we made with Amelia Beauregard. She refused to give Betty the job unless I talked Molly into taking classes at L’Institut Beauregard.”

  “Molly Donovan? At Amelia’s Institute?” Principal Wickham didn’t seem too fond of the idea. “Why Molly? Did she say?”

  “Madame Beauregard keeps a list of girls that she wants to tame. She does it for the publicity. Every time she turns a notorious delinquent into another little robot, half the mothers in Manhattan sign their daughters up for classes. She showed me the list, and Molly was the only girl on it that I knew.”

  “And Molly agreed to go to the institute, did she?”

  “She thinks it will be fun,” I said. “I don’t think she understands what she’s getting herself into.”

  “No,” the principal agreed. “I don’t suppose she does.”

  THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … DELIGHTFUL DINNERS

  If you’ve ever skimmed an etiquette manual, you may have reached the conclusion that evening meals are fraught with peril. But the truth is, table manners are pretty obvious. Is it disgusting? (Blowing your nose on the tablecloth. Drinking straight from the gravy boat.) THEN DON’T DO IT. Will it make a big mess for someone else to clean up? (Putting your butter-covered knife back down on the table. Sticking your uneaten beets under the chair cushion.) THEN DON’T DO IT. See what I mean?

  So, let’s all loosen up a bit and start enjoying our meals. Here are a few Fishbein tips. …

  Seating Your Guests

  If you’re American, you probably throw at least one dinner party a year. And with a little forethought, your next Thanksgiving meal can be extremely entertaining. Simply offer to organize the seating arrangements. Then make a list of the people you’ve invited and ask yourself the following questions: Which guests are likely to hurl mashed potatoes at each other? Which will have the most scandalous gossip to share? Which need to kiss and make up? With a little planning you can start battles, end wars, or uncover your family’s juiciest secrets. Just place name cards at the appropriate seats and watch the fun begin!

  Knives, Forks, and Spoons

  At some point in your life, you will sit down to a fancy dinner and find yourself faced with more forks, knives, and spoons than you ever knew existed. Once again, there’s a simple solution to this dilemma. Every time a new course arrives, choose the fork and knife farthest away from the plate. Should you forget this simple rule, distract your fellow diners with fascinating facts. I like to discuss the dark histories of the utensils being used. (Did you know forks were once condemned by the Catholic Church?)

  Servers and Waiters

  Never, ever be rude to the people serving your food. (Whether it’s your dad, your butler, or a harried waiter.) Not only is such behavior a sure sign of bad character, it’s incredibly stupid. Give your waiter a hard time, and he may add a little something “special” to your spaghetti. Your dad is less likely to get his revenge in this way, but then again—you never know.

  Proposing a Toast

  Toasting began in ancient Greece as a way for hosts to prove they weren’t poisoning the guests. (Greeks and Romans, it seems, were very fond of poison.) These days, a toast is an excellent way to get something off your chest. All you need to do is stand up and get everyone’s attention. (Use a clean spoon to ding the side of your water glass if necessary.) Make sure you’ve practiced your speech—then let ’er rip. A well-delivered toast can express your gratitude, expose a rat, draw attention away from the liver you tried to hide under your plate, or explain how you arrived at the conclusion that one of your guests is guilty of murder.

  The Heimlich Maneuver

  Know it. Don’t practice the technique on small children or animals.

  Chapter 13

  Kiki Visits the Catacombs

  PARIS: TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 17

  Kiki sat in her frilly pink dress and watched a strip of sunlight slowly slide across the floor of her cell until it dimmed and disappeared. Finally she closed her eyes. Another day had come and gone. She’d waited for Livia’s visit, but now it seemed clear that her aunt wouldn’t be making an appearance. Which meant that somewhere in Paris, Verushka would be forced to spend another night in captivity. Kiki prayed that her guardian’s quarters weren’t as grim as her own. Verushka was growing older and frailer each day. She wouldn’t last long in an abandoned bell tower.

  Still, there was one thought that offered some hope. Verushka Kozlova hadn’t been executed. Livia was too smart to kill the old woman while the true heir to the throne of Pokrovia was
breathing French air. Verushka was Livia’s insurance that Kiki wouldn’t attempt an escape. And for the first time, she had read her niece well. In fact, there was little need for locked doors or guards. If Kiki saw the slimmest chance to keep Verushka alive, she would stay in the bell tower as long as it took.

  Fortunately, Kiki’s confinement wouldn’t be solitary for long. If Etienne was true to his word, the two French boys would return as soon as the guard downstairs left for his dinner at ten. Kiki might have been too worried to realize it, but she was looking forward to seeing Etienne again.2

  It was so dark inside the tower that Kiki barely knew she’d been napping. But the moment she heard footsteps on the stairs, her eyes popped open. Half a minute later, Etienne arrived with a large shopping bag. Marcel followed close behind, his lips wearing a goofy grin while his eyes carefully scanned the room.

  “Did you get word to my friends?” Kiki asked Etienne in French, not bothering with hellos.

  “Yes—they said to tell you that they’ll have the cure to you tomorrow.”

  “A cure for what?” Marcel inquired.

  “Nosiness,” Kiki replied. “I just hope we can treat it before it kills you.” She was glad she hadn’t trusted Marcel with any secrets. He seemed even shiftier than the first time they’d met.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked Etienne.

  “I brought you a few things.” He crouched next to Kiki and began pulling items from the sack. A baguette. A bottle of Evian. A hunk of pungent cheese.

  “Thank you.” Kiki tore off the top of the Evian bottle and gulped down the contents. “Why don’t you two share the rest when you need a snack? I’m afraid I have allergies.”

  “That’s American for ‘I only eat hamburgers,’” Marcel snorted.

  “Surely you can eat something here,” Etienne pleaded. “You must get some food into your stomach. The cheese tastes much better than it smells, I promise.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kiki said. Just the aroma wafting up from the cheese was enough to give her a case of hives. “I’m on a strict diet.”

  “I’ll eat it,” Marcel offered. “No reason to let it go to waste.”

  “Well, then, at the very least you can use these.” Etienne ignored his friend and pulled out a coat, scarf, and gloves. “They belong to my little sister. She’s ten, but I think you may be the same size.”

  “You’re very kind.” Kiki was genuinely touched. “But if I keep that clothing, the people who put me here will know I’ve had guests.”

  “Ah. I hadn’t thought of that.” Etienne sighed. Then his spirits seemed to rebound. “I have an idea. No one is going to pay you a visit before morning. So there’s no reason for you to sit here and stew. Put the coat on, and we’ll take you out for a night on the town. The guard downstairs won’t be back from his dinner yet. We still have a few minutes to sneak you out. Have you seen Paris at night before?”

  “Mais bien sur,” Kiki said. “Many times.”

  Etienne remained undeterred. “Have you seen the catacombs?” He let the word dangle like a carrot in front of her.

  “No,” Kiki replied with a grin. “I haven’t.”

  “The Darkness Dwellers are throwing a little get-together this evening. Perhaps you’d like to crash it?”

  “They are?” Marcel sounded outraged. “I’ve been begging you to introduce me for months! Why didn’t you tell me they were having a party?”

  “Because I thought we would be working tonight,” Etienne explained before turning back to Kiki. “So what do you think?”

  “I suppose I could use some fresh air,” she said.

  “Well, there’s not much of that in the catacombs. But I suspect you might enjoy yourself anyway. We’ll wait outside while you change,” Etienne said, pointing to the dress Kiki was wearing over her own clothes. “The catacombs are no place for pink.”

  They sat outdoors on the Boulevard St. Germain and guzzled café au laits as the traffic zipped past in front of them. It took three cups before Kiki felt her strength begin to return. As soon as she was ready, Etienne led the way to a shadowy side street that was littered with dead pigeons and dog droppings. While blasé pedestrians sauntered past, he and Marcel lifted a round metal manhole cover. A ladder led into the darkness. Without further discussion, Etienne began to descend.

  “Ladies first,” Marcel smirked. Kiki knew he was expecting to see some sign of fear, and she had no intention of humoring him. Without a second’s hesitation, she followed Etienne down the ladder. A few moments later, she heard Marcel sliding the cover back into place and the sound of his boots stomping on the ladder’s metal rungs.

  At the bottom, Etienne trained a flashlight on the brick tunnel that stretched out before them. It was perfectly round, roughly six feet in diameter, with a thin stream of chocolate-colored liquid trickling along its floor. Whatever the stuff was, it smelled nothing like chocolate. Hanging from a makeshift hook hammered into the mortar was a large black bag.

  “This isn’t the catacombs. It’s a sewer,” Kiki observed.

  “You just figured that out?” Etienne asked, unzipping the bag. “I was wondering if you’d lost your sense of smell as well as your appetite. There used to be entrances to the catacombs all over the city. My favorite was a few blocks away, but the police sealed it off last week. So we’ll just have to go through the sewers until I find a more hygienic approach.”

  “You’re aware this is extremely dangerous, right?” Kiki inquired matter-of-factly.

  Marcel hopped off the last rung of the ladder. “Just like a girl,” he said. “Afraid of a little merde?”

  “You must not have met many girls,” Kiki responded. “I was referring to sewer gasses. They’re difficult to detect and they can kill a person in minutes. Even a big oaf like you.”

  Etienne laughed. He seemed more lighthearted now that they were underground. “That’s why I always offer my guests one of these.” He passed Kiki a gas mask.

  “Impressive.” Kiki turned the equipment over in her hands. “These are manufactured for the COS and the French special forces. They’re state-of-the-art—no more than a few months old.”

  “You know a lot about military equipment.”

  “I was raised by a soldier. Which also means I know how much this kind of equipment can cost. I doubt most sixteen-year-olds could afford masks like these.”

  “And I doubt most girls are able to tell a gas mask from a hair dryer.”

  Kiki’s left eyebrow rose. “Next time you’re in New York, I’ll introduce you to some girls who can teach you a few things.”

  Once the gas masks were fitted securely over their noses and mouths, the trio trudged through the sewers. Rats scampered by while toilets flushed, sending streams of fresh filth gushing toward their feet. Etienne turned a corner, and Kiki followed, only to find the way blocked by a rusty metal gate. She watched as he pulled the gate out just far enough for the others to pass. Once they were all on the other side, he carefully pushed it back into place. They were inside a cramped, dry space. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to go until Etienne and Marcel lifted a thick sheet of metal from the floor, revealing a hole. At the bottom of the hole lay the catacombs.

  As the world’s greatest unsung expert on the subject of underground worlds, I feel it’s my duty to pause here for a brief history lesson. (One that’s filled with corpses, implosions, and hard-partying kings, of course.) The tunnels beneath Paris are far more ancient than New York’s Shadow City. Some may be more than seven hundred years old. Originally they were quarries where thousands of men labored in the darkness, cutting the stones that built France’s greatest monuments. At the time no one worried that those stones were being chiseled out of the very same rock that supported the city. Once the work was done, the maze of mines might have shared the same fate as New York’s subterranean world, forgotten by all but a handful of intrepid explorers. But in the eighteenth century, the tunnels began to collapse. Aboveground, entire streets disappeared. Houses plu
nged hundreds of feet into the earth. Worried that much of the city might be destroyed, King Louis XVI sent engineers into the old tunnels to keep them from crumbling. He also dreamed up a new use for the old quarries. The city’s graveyards had been overflowing for years. So millions of dead Parisians were exhumed and their bones given a new home. That’s when the tunnels beneath the city began to be called the catacombs.

  At least one king threw raucous parties in the tunnels. Criminals often used them to elude the police. Invading armies turned them into bunkers. By the time of Kiki Strike’s visit, the catacombs’ rough-hewn walls bore marks left by countless visitors. A blue-and-white sign identified the street far above her head. Multicolored arrows pointed in every direction. Black stenciled letters demanded SILENCE! in German. It was a dark, dank, airless world, but Kiki could tell it had never been empty.

  “I thought I’d at least get to see a few bones,” she joked as she took off her gas mask.

  “I’m afraid they’re all in a part of the tunnels called the ossuary,” Etienne replied. “I hope you’re not disappointed. I can take you to the ossuary some other time—or you can visit on your own. It’s the only part of the catacombs that is open to the public. The section we’re in now never housed any human remains, but it does have a rather interesting history. During World War II, the Nazis built bunkers just to our left. The French Resistance was hiding not far to the right. At times the two groups were less than a meter apart.” He pointed down another passage, but Kiki could see nothing but a pile of rubble. “In fact, I know an interesting story. …”

  They heard a thump in the distance that sounded as if someone had stumbled.

  “Let’s go.” Etienne lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell you the story another time.”

  “Who did we hear?” Kiki whispered.