House of Cards (14 page)

Lucas was now the main person in Sherry’s life. And though it seemed absurd, this was probably the happiest she’d ever been. Ever since Kaileen died, there’d been no one she could truly connect with. And without that connection to the living, continuing to sleepwalk through her days would soon have become unbearable.

She’d never really known what she was missing
until Lucas. Instead of feeling her heart pound, the way it had at first, she now got a warm, spreading sensation in her chest every time she felt his simplest touch. Sometimes he’d pat her on the back, and once, he brushed a stray hair out of her face. It was like diving into a strange and luxurious ocean—it always took a few minutes to get her bearings.

What amazed her most about other people was the way they took the simplest touch for granted. An affectionate rub on the arm. Putting a sweater around a pair of cold shoulders. Holding hands. Her parents had never been tactile people; Sherry didn’t remember getting many hugs or kisses as a child. But Kaileen never failed to express her feelings in a physical way. No one knew why. It had always been her style.

In fact, except for the awkward embraces of strangers at the funeral, Sherry didn’t remember the last time she’d been held in the arms of a living human being. She hardly counted her old boyfriend’s ineffectual attempts at an embrace; they felt forced, mechanical. Selfish. She hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been for the effortless, playful love that had existed between her and Kaileen. For the first time since her sister’s death, she’d found that easy kind of affection in Lucas.

But even if he granted her eternal life, she’d still have to kill to survive, as long as they stayed under the Master’s yolk. It was a disturbing thought. Her mind wandered back to the fur coat Lucas had wanted to buy for her soon after they’d met. She didn’t judge him for that. The way he was brought up, using animal skins had simply been par for the course. And she wasn’t working on vegetarianism the way she felt she should be—it would be hypocritical to look down on him where fur was concerned. But still, she’d had so much trouble contemplating a living thing being harmed so that she could keep warm. How on earth would she be able to take a human life every few days and not give in to despair? She had already seen the effect it had on Lucas.

Every few nights, the vampires left in a group, except for Vasha, who still refused to come out of her room. Apparently the others brought her sustenance of some kind, although Sherry never saw how. The Master usually stayed behind as well, although sometimes he went out alone after the others had returned. Perhaps, being as old as he was, he didn’t need to feed as often as they did. The group always returned in a jovial mood. They laughed, sang, and teased one another. They were even almost pleasant towards Sherry. Except Lucas. Whenever he came back, his face was an endless sunny day that had been rained upon. The last time she ventured to bring him out of his shell, the response had been less than positive.

“Maybe I don’t
want
cheering up, Sherry,” he’d snapped. “Did you ever think of that? That perhaps this is part of my punishment from above? That I
deserve
to feel miserable, for all the misery I bring to others?”

She’d pressed her hand gently against his arm in an attempt to soothe him. He shrugged it off roughly, but she wasn’t giving up. She put her hands up to his shoulders and forced him to face her.

“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 painting 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.