House of Cards (15 page)

“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

I
t 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.”

“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.