House of Cards (11 page)

He was a tall, light-skinned black man with freckle-like marks across his upper cheeks. She pegged him for mid-forties at the most, but it was hard to tell. He stood just slightly in the shadows, halfway between the entrance to the restaurant and its seating area. His tightly-coiled hair, graying at the temples, matched the threadbare tweed suit he wore. Sherry loved the tan patches at the elbows. You hardly ever saw those anymore.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Sherry cried. She’d hit him right in the chest with her elbow.

The man gave a tired smile and held up his hand in a forgiving gesture.

“That’s all right, hon. I’m fine. No harm, no foul.” He kept glancing around, as if to make sure he had the right restaurant. He seemed self-conscious, perhaps feeling out of place in such sumptuous surroundings.

Sherry was taken aback by his accent. She hadn’t expected him to be American.

“Most people are quite eager to get into le Grand Véfour, but my friend here is probably the first to try and push her way
out
.” Lucas chuckled. “Our apologies.”

The man smiled again, a hint of sadness in his warm brown eyes. “Like I said, no need. I’ve had worse. Actually, I’ve never been here before. Is the food any good?”

Lucas and Sherry looked at each other in surprise.

“I’m sure you’ll find it more than satisfactory, sir,” replied Lucas. “Tell me, is this your first time visiting Paris?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, it is. I guess that was obvious.” The man looked at his scuffed loafers, embarrassed. “I live just outside the city, actually, in the suburbs. A transplant from the States. My wife and I always wanted to come to this restaurant.”

“Oh, is your wife here? I didn’t see her.” Sherry tried to look over the man’s head at the thinning crowd outside.

The man bit his lip and shook his head. “No, hon. My wife died a little over a year ago. Heart attack. She was very young to go that way. We’d been married over twenty-five years.”

Sherry’s jaw dropped open. “Jesus. I am
so
sorry! My condolences—that’s just awful.”

“Yes, our condolences on your loss,” Lucas said sympathetically.

The widower ran his fingers through his short hair. “That’s okay. Death happens,” he shrugged, as if trying to be stoic. “What can you do? I’ll just try to muddle through without her.” There was an awkward pause before he said, “It’s the strangest thing, though. A few months ago I was feeling really down—I mean, more down than usual before she—before it happened. I found a gift certificate on my doorstep to le Grand Véfour
.
I’d been working at home all day, and I know I would have heard someone come up the walkway. But I didn’t. I
know
no one came up to the door. Yet, there was the certificate, sure as you’re born. Funny.” He scratched his head. “I don’t remember ever discussing coming here with anyone except my wife. I’ve no idea why anyone would think I wanted to, or why they left me such a lovely gift.”

“Well, it
is
a French institution,” said Lucas. “Doesn’t everyone want to come here, at one time or another?”

“That’s true.” The other man nodded. “But it still doesn’t explain why someone would do something so generous for me.”

“Maybe you have a secret admirer!” piped up Sherry.

The widower gave a weak smile. “Yes hon, maybe that’s it. Anyway, I made a reservation back in July for tonight. So here I am.” He stepped further into the restaurant, towards the maître d’s podium. For the first time he was standing in enough light to see Lucas properly, and stared at him for a moment.

“That’s so odd . . . have I seen you somewhere before, son? You look kinda familiar.” His eyes searched the vampire’s face.

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Lucas warmly. “I’m sure I would have remembered having the pleasure of meeting you. Now if you’ll excuse us, we need to make the shops before they close.” He wrapped his arm around Sherry’s shoulder. “Someone here needs a new coat.”

The widower gave a start, as if being pulled away from a very intense dream. “Oh, of course! So sorry,” he said. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Have a nice evening, you two.”

“Again, our condolences on your loss.” Lucas patted the man’s arm as he walked past.

“Yes, we’re so sorry,” added Sherry.

“Thanks—it’s okay. Enjoy your night.”

“Fuller? Monsieur Fuller?” the maître d called out as he looked over his list. The widower

tightened his tie nervously and cleared his throat before approaching the maître d, who would lead him to his meal. Sherry and Lucas walked out of le Grand Véfour
into the crisp air of the early fall.

“Lucas—you put the gift certificate on his doorstep, did you?” she teased.

“I wish I had,” he replied. “But as I told Mr. Fuller, I never saw him before in my life.

“Of course. I completely understand.”

Sherry was still fairly certain Lucas had planted the secret gift certificate. That had been nice of him. But she couldn’t bring herself to press the point and make him confess. She was exhausted from trying to both contemplate and digest her meal. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing in Lucas’s arms. Which might not be such a bad thing, if it happened.

***

After Sherry’s sumptuous dinner, she definitely needed to walk off her sleepiness, and possibly several thousand calories. She traveled with Lucas all the way to l’Avenue des Champs-Elysées
,
in the eighth
arrondissement.
Most of the stores had closed by that time, but they found one still open. In the window was their brand-new winter line. Lucas tried to steer her towards a coat made of snow-white rabbit’s fur, but when she recoiled, he gently suggested an ankle length camel-hair coat instead. As he held it out for her to slip into, she’d never imagined anything could feel quite like a second skin the way this coat did. She forgave him for the fur faux-pas; back in his day, people had to wear animal skins if they expected to survive the winter. He paid in cash again, of course, and her eyes widened as he nonchalantly peeled off more crisp bills like he’d given her in the square. Of course, this time they were hundred euro notes.

She hadn’t been to this part of the city in quite a while. For one thing, it was a bit of a hike from her flat in the 18th
arrondissement
. For another, it was home to some of the best-known and most expensive shops in Paris. Haughty mannequins, holding their shiny baubles out for all to see, appeared to beckon from darkened store windows. Carefully displayed merchandise promised a life of ease and contentment, at least as long as the purchases lasted. Several other individuals and couples were also walking along the avenue, gazing at the rich, enchanting worlds inside.

It was so ironic, like many events of the past few days. Above, a stunning, glittering metropolis full of life and love. Below, a dark, unfathomable world of unspeakable evil. What a difference a few steps could make. A short walk through the catacombs during the day, and she would easily emerge into the sunlight, in her old familiar square, full of people and faces that she knew. It would be so easy. Except that it wasn’t.

As they strolled along l’Avenue, with Sherry in her new coat, she summoned up the courage to ask Lucas more about his life.

“So, your leaf-paintings in the library—do they mean you’re an artist?”

Lucas smiled wistfully. “I
was
an artist. I was fortunate enough that my father approved of my aspirations. Many other young men in my position weren’t so lucky, and of course, no similar opportunities existed for women at that time. I was on my way to study art in Paris when I got . . . sidetracked.”

An uncomfortable silence pressed down on them. It made Sherry almost hesitant to ask her next question.

“Lucas? How does one get side—I mean, turned into a vampire? Do you just, you know, bite them on the neck?”

Lucas closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple. First, we must drain all the blood out of their body. Which, yes, usually involves biting them somewhere.”

Sherry swallowed hard.

“Then, we must replace the stolen blood with our own. So it’s more of an exchange, really.”

The idea of actually drinking blood was enough to make Sherry feel very, very queasy. Did it taste different if you were a vampire? It must. It had to taste good, or else every vampire on earth would starve to death. Sherry didn’t want to think of how many undead monsters there might actually be in existence. With the exception of Lucas, they seemed like a pretty horrid group. Especially the leader of the House of Cadamon.

“Right. Er, so—the Master. What’s his story?”

“His story? What do you mean?”

“Who is he? Where does he come from?”

“He was a crusader. On his way back from fighting the ‘infidels’ in the Holy Land, he was turned into a vampire. I don’t know why or by whom. After that, he settled in Paris, never returning home. I believe he was born in England, although he’s never gone into great detail about it. The sword he used during the crusades hangs in our drawing room, just above the fireplace.”

“What’s his name?”

“The sword’s name? Oh—you are referring to the name of our Master. I don’t know. He didn’t tell us. I don’t even know if he remembers. He is nameless, unchangeable.” Lucas’s tone took on a dull, monotonous quality.

“Nothing is unchangeable.”

“He is.”

“I repeat,
nothing
is unchangeable.”

Lucas smiled. “I always defer to a lady in an argument. However, it does call to mind the old adage, ‘A man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.’ ”

They continued walking in a comfortable silence for a while.

“Lucas, forgive me, but I’m wildly curious to know—how did you become a vampire?”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“But Lucas, I must know! Was it your choice? Did the Master do it? Was it someone else?”

He spun around and was suddenly standing six centimeters from her face. Her heart caught in her throat, and for a moment, she thought he might actually kill her. Right there in the street, in front of everyone.

“No, it was not my choice. Yes, it was the Master. And no, we are never going to talk about it again.” Then he turned back just as abruptly and continued walking.

Sherry took a moment to get her bearings. She hadn’t expected he’d get so angry. Although she was fairly certain he wouldn’t harm her, being so close to him certainly brought to mind that possibility. Seeing the light blue veins at his temples, the tiny glint of his fangs, his full lips, so pale and lonely. The threat of death could easily have turned into a passionate kiss, at least in her mind.

She ran to catch up with him. Sherry hated to ruin whatever camaraderie they had so far, but for some unknown reason, she was feeling very bold. Another question was now burning itself on her tongue, one that must be answered. Even though his outburst had been intimidating. Even though she didn’t want to hurt Lucas’s feelings, or cause him any more pain, she simply
had
to know.

“Lucas, do you—do you kill people?”

He closed his eyes wearily, and neither of them breathed for several seconds. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

“But why? You seem so nice. You must know it’s wrong. Is it . . . is it because of the blood? Is it as irresistible as they say?” Sherry felt her stomach turn again with the very thought of it.

Lucas gave a small, sarcastic laugh. “The blood? Hah. That’s rich. Others may have trouble with their insatiable appetites, but not I. The blood I can resist. The Master I cannot.”

“The Master? I don’t understand. The Master makes you kill people?”

“He does not take kindly to his children feeding on animals. He thinks it makes you become one yourself. Of course, if he took a closer look at his own actions, he’d realize he’s the worst kind of animal to ever walk the earth. But he would never do that. He would rather revel in his hypocrisy, and in the misery it creates.”

“But what happens if you refuse?”

“I tried that at first, right after I was turned. He had a family—very similar in looks and composition to my own—tortured and murdered right in front of me.”

Sherry gasped. “God, that’s awful!”

“Indeed. And he said more would meet the same fate if I defied him again. Or tried to run away—in any form.”

It took Sherry a moment to understand what he meant. “Suicide.”

“Right. Even the sweet release of death is denied me. But I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else suffering on my account. Better only one suffer—myself—than hundreds, or even thousands, of innocent mortals. At least when I . . . take them, it is in the quickest and least painful way I can.”

“But why won’t the Master let you go?”

“Like many of small minds and even smaller hearts, he sees people as his possessions. Mortal or immortal, it makes no difference. He wants them to serve him with utter loyalty and devotion, unquestioningly. He fears any kind of change, especially that which reflects poorly on him. Like one of his creations running away.”

“Is there any way to stop being a vampire? Like a cure or something?”

Lucas gave another short, harsh laugh. “A cure? Not likely. Vampirism isn’t a disease, Sherry. It’s something that invades you and takes over. It changes who you are.”

Sherry had a horrible vision of another vampire—not Lucas—sinking his fangs into her throat and draining her dry. Then she saw herself doing the same—to a helpless mortal this time—before she shook her head free of the disturbing images. They weren’t psychic visions. She didn’t really get those. They were just her fear and anxiety breaking through. Showing her what she might endure, might become.

Awful. Having to hurt people almost every night. People you never met, and had nothing against, but you wouldn’t be able to stop. But if it was the only way to avoid dying . . . to be with the one you loved? What decision would you make then, if those were the only options?

“So there’s no way to be cure—er, be changed back?”

Lucas sighed. “None that I’m aware of. Of course, I haven’t had much chance to search, what with the Master’s interference. Besides, it’s not being what I am that wears me down so. It’s those with whom I must endure my existence.” He looked quickly at Sherry. “I was referring to the others at the House of Cadamon. Not yourself, of course.”

“Oh, I know.” Sherry smiled sweetly.

“Well, here we are.”

They had returned to the alleyway with the secret manhole cover.

“Do you think Vasha will still be mad at me?”

“Oh, I imagine if she had any liking for you at all, it has long since vanished, never to return. But do not concern yourself with her. I am more powerful than she is, being older, and she knows it. If she were to give you any trouble, she’d have me to answer to.”