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  Chapter 2—Under the Earth

  Sherry was friendly with some of the other fortune-tellers, but she didn’t feel like discussing her encounter with the strange boy. It was private somehow. Definitely something she couldn’t explain. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed him sitting at Sherry’s stall. Or if they had, they thought he was just another customer, no one worth mentioning.

  In the stall next to hers was Tierra, the striking young lady with the turban and leopard-print, ankle-length skirt. You didn’t need such colorful clothing to accurately practice divination, but customers often expected it. Sherry had a feeling Tierra wore the same attire whether she was reading fortunes or running errands; it appeared to be her personal style.

  Sherry knew that she herself was not a great beauty, so she didn’t like to wear anything that made her stand out too much. She was a little too plump by French standards. Then again, by American standards, Sherry considered the French too thin. She had a love-hate relationship with her curves: at times, she liked the grown-up way they made her feel. Other times, she wished they would disappear and never return. When working her tarot stand, it helped to play up certain features to her advantage. She had taken to wearing dark colors and hennaed hands, with plenty of earthy jewelry to bring out the hazel flecks in her eyes. That, combined with flipping her chestnut-brown hair and smiling (at least at the male customers) was enough to attract all the attention she needed.

  Except for the boy, who had been drawn to her for some mysterious reason that had nothing to do with how she looked or behaved. He had seen her first. Had he sensed that she had something to offer to him, even before their eyes met? Did he possess some special power, akin to her gift for tarot, which told him to approach her? If so, why had he advanced so slowly, like a wary animal? Why had he been so reluctant to sit down across from her?

  Sherry shook her head abruptly in an attempt to clear it. She called over to Tierra, making conversation about the new tarot reader who kept advising everyone that terrible things were going to befall them, no matter how often the cards said otherwise.

  “Yeah, looks like she’s not playing with a full deck.” Tierra laughed and gave a wink.

  Sherry groaned at the corny joke, but gave a little laugh anyway. Despite their gossip, there was a genuine solidarity here in la place among the various psychics, tarot readers, palmists, and I Ching experts. They were quick with advice and tips for bringing in business, as long as you didn’t interfere with theirs. They saw themselves more as a tough band of survivors than as hungry competitors. If someone gave you a hard time, they were on their feet in a moment, surrounding your stand, demanding the offender leave immediately. They’d done it just last week for Sherry, after she’d been roughed up by a guy who kept demanding her phone number. That was one customer she’d had to refuse, although she couldn’t afford to do it too often. But she thought she’d smelled alcohol on him.

  For better or worse, the legal age to buy alcohol in France was eighteen. The fact that she could now purchase her own liquor didn’t really matter to Sherry—she got no excitement from it, the way her older friends in the States had when they turned twenty-one. She’d been enjoying wine at dinner for several years, with her father’s blessing, just as many young people in Paris did. She couldn’t seem to drum up the urge to go out and overindulge, now that alcohol was so freely available to her. It just didn’t seem like a big deal.

  Strange. The more you could have of something, the less of it you wanted. The opposite certainly held true as well.

  ***

  That evening, Sherry walked home slowly. The heavy items she carried weighed her down: two folding chairs and a small table. Back she hiked towards her apartment, same as every night. The cafés and restaurants were setting out dinner menus, and sweet music wafted from their doorways, spilling onto the sidewalks. Sherry wondered what her father might be having for supper right about now, out in the countryside where he lived.

  Of course, he’d had a great many reservations about moving with his girlfriend to Provence, leaving Sherry in Paris all by herself. But she had encouraged them not to pass up the chance to live in a charming villa, the way his girlfriend had always dreamed, and get away from the hustle and bustle of city life. As her father grew older, Sherry knew it was becoming his dream as well—a quiet little place where he could enjoy his books and finally have a proper garden. After reminding them both that she’d turned eighteen over three months ago, at last they made plans to move.

  Sherry thought that after they left she’d be able to breathe a sigh of relief, to feel . . . free somehow. She loved her father, and his girlfriend was very agreeable, but having them always around meant hiding a part of herself. It was the part that wanted to be seen as something other than daughter, or child. And now, although Sherry had quickly settled into a comfortable daily routine, something was still missing. Something had always been missing.

  On the bright side, there was so much to love about Paris. The narrow, winding streets. The delicious, intimate bistros. The locals riding their bicycles throughout the city. The Métro. Flea markets every weekend in the summer.

  Other things about the city seemed strange if you weren’t used to them. Apartments called “flats.” Washing machines in the kitchen. Bidets. The homeless and the prostitutes, sitting or standing forlornly on many street corners.

  Tiny cars zoomed by, with barely enough room for one person inside. Often electric or solar-powered, they were better for the environment than traditional vehicles. Hopefully, the States would catch up and begin using them more often. When she visited there next, maybe her mom would have bought one. She was very active in environmental causes.

  Although Sherry probably could have moved back to Chicago after her father left Paris, she elected to stay in the 18th arrondissement. Montmartre was a wonderful place to live if you were an artist, a musician, or anyone else on the fringes of life, like a tarot reader. Plus, it was attractive to tourists, who made up the bulk of her customers. And she truly loved the adorable Paris flat she’d found for rent. It even came with a window box of flowers, which she kept forgetting to water. She adored the elaborately carved, nonworking fireplace. She loved her little Juliet balcony, which wasn’t really a balcony in the proper sense. It only consisted of two French doors that opened to the street, with a railing in front to keep you from tumbling onto the sidewalk below. Juliet would have had a hard time meeting her lover on that balcony—it was barely fit for one person. Still, that didn’t stop Sherry from keeping her eye out for her own personal Romeo.

  It was a walk-up, like most flats in Paris, but the view was fantastic. Montmartre was the highest area in the city. To her left stood the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. She remembered that when she first arrived in Paris, the Basilica had reminded her of a Russian palace, with its many round domes and pointed spires. Except those palaces were made of much more colorful globes, while the Basilica was grey-white marble. Across the way, she could see long rows of windows like the ones she enjoyed at her own flat, and above them, miles and miles of tall buildings leading all the way to the winding Seine.

  It was a charming place, to be sure, but Sherry did not often feel charming in it. Most days, she went about her routine, getting up early, going to the market, then the square. Sitting there all day, handling customers or waiting for them. Then back home in the evenings to spend another night alone. Her friends from lycée were off at universities. She had no current boyfriend, and the rest of her family (with the exception of her father) was back in the States. With her schooling over, Sherry found it difficult to make new acquaintances. Her fellow fortune-tellers were friendly enough, but they all had lives of their own after the working day was done.

  Sherry almost felt that the quiet beauty of the flat was wasted on her. A loving couple should be living here, or a small family who could enjoy its view with one another. Sometimes, Sher
ry felt like a human version of her empty apartment. Lonely. Hollow. A silent room, waiting to be filled with a familiar, soul-lifting voice.

  And making the rent wasn’t easy—Paris was an expensive city. She survived on money from her tarot readings, as well as a small allowance from her parents. One of the few times her father had spoken to her mother since the divorce was to negotiate how much they’d give her every month. At eighteen, she knew she should be focused on researching universities, or looking for a regular job. But she had no inclination to do so right now. Maybe next year. French high schools were so difficult, with standards much higher than the American ones she’d been used to. So much time was needed to study for le bac that she had few spare moments during her teenage years to actually enjoy the city. She’d planned to make up for that lost time after graduation, but spent most of the summer looking for a flat. Maybe in the coming weeks, she’d carve out more opportunities to have fun.

  Sherry did feel a little strange, accepting the allowance. She didn’t want to take advantage of her mother or father. Still, she’d had to live through their constant quarrelling and hellish separation, as well as an international move. She suspected their generosity was partly based on guilt. And for now, that was fine with her. She wouldn’t let the allowance become a permanent situation, anyway.

  She remembered when she and her dad had first arrived in Paris. She’d met his French girlfriend before, but this was Sherry’s first time being out of the country. There were so many things to get used to, starting with the language. Oddly enough, it wasn’t as difficult to overcome that barrier as she expected. She’d been taking French classes since she was eleven. To her, and thousands of others all around the globe, French was the most beautiful language in the world. Her father had a harder time of it, although spending every free moment with his girlfriend helped him learn fairly quickly.

  She still had the odd run-in with language difficulties. Her name was a problem. It sounded too much like chérie, which was French for “dearie.” Just today she’d stopped at an unfamiliar stall to buy lunch, and the shopkeeper became confused when trying to spell Sherry’s name on the order.

  “Chérie? Ah, très mignon! C-h-e-r—”

  “No, it’s Sherry. With an ‘s.’ Like the drink?”

  The woman’s brow furrowed for a moment. Then her mouth made an “O” of understanding.

  “Ah, vous voudriez une boisson?”

  “No, no, I don’t want a drink, I—never mind. It’s Chérie. C-h-é-r-i-e. That’s fine.” It happened all the time.

  But after a few weeks of enjoying constant meals out, Sherry learned the hard way why Parisians cooked at home most nights. In sixteen days she’d spent half her allowance on food alone, and had to beg her parents for an advance. She was careful not to make the same mistake twice.

  Like other year-round residents, she bought fresh food daily, choosing from the dozens of vendors in her arrondissement. She’d cut through a few side streets tonight to visit one of her favorites.

  “Monsieur Chevalier? Ah, mais non, pas aujourd’hui.” A neighboring vendor explained he’d left early because of a stomach flu.

  She asked the vendor to give Monsieur Chevalier her regards, then started for home. Damn. She was sorry he was sick, but she’d been looking forward to having some of his special cheeses with her supper.

  No matter. She’d make do with something in her cupboard. Her folding table and chairs were beginning to make her back ache more than usual. She decided to take a shortcut home through one of the other side streets.

  She knew well enough to keep away from the dangerous ones, where drug dealers and muggers were known to lurk. Most of the alleys in Montmartre were harmless, quiet places where locals placed their garbage and hung their laundry.

  Still, she hurried as quickly as she could, partly because you never knew who was waiting in those little alleyways, and partly because she was hungry and wanted to get home.

  She wasn’t expecting to hear heavy footsteps behind her.

  Probably just another local, taking a shortcut, same as her. Nothing to worry about. Even so, she quickened her pace just a bit.

  The footsteps quickened too.

  Crap. Was someone following her?

  She came to a complete stop and turned around. She’d once read that if you confronted a would-be mugger—just looked him dead in the eye—he’d leave you alone. Something about not appearing afraid.

  To her surprise, she was now facing the same group of locals she’d seen at la place. The boy wasn’t with them. But the five—or was it six?—others looked like him. Well, not exactly; they did vary in height, and age, and gender. But they had a similar appearance. The same pale faces. The same bruised eyelids. The same easy, relaxed movements.

  But they possessed one crucial difference from the boy. There was a cold and delicate sheen about them. Something that hinted at calculation, at brutal violence.

  They stopped when she stopped, and stared at her, smiling. They moved simultaneously. Their many pairs of footsteps sounded like one.

  Six. There were definitely six of them. Four men and two women. Why were they following her?

  “Can—can I help you?” she called out in French.

  A few burst into fierce giggles, but said nothing.

  Sherry tried again, this time in English.

  One stepped forward. She recognized him as the tall, dark-haired man who had grinned at her earlier in the day. The one who’d given her a case of the creeps.

  “Help us? Sweetheart, you can be of great help to us, if you’ve a mind. Or even if you don’t.” The entire group erupted in laughter. When it finally subsided, the tall one was standing right in front of her. She hadn’t even seen him move.

  “Look, just—just leave me alone, all right? I don’t want any trouble.” She knelt down and dropped her folding table and chairs, in case she needed to run.

  “Trouble? You won’t be much trouble at all, my love. In fact, I have the feeling you’re very, very easy.”

  Oh God. Her worst nightmare. They were going to rape her. Rape her and kill her and dump her body where no one would ever find it. She had been so stupid to take this shortcut. What had she been thinking?

  The others kept chuckling to themselves, and some of the men were making hooting noises. Sherry felt her face go warm, and her heart beat faster. Why would they rape her with the women there? Unless the women wanted to watch. Jesus, that was so sick.

  “Now, why don’t you come with us?” He reached down to brush a few strands of hair from her face, and she slapped his hand away. She was surprised at how cold it felt.

  The others were moving nearer. Their footsteps were so close together that they seemed to slide along the ground. But the group still managed to surround her much faster than Sherry expected.

  Maybe if she offered them money. Frantically, she dug in her pockets, forcing her shaking hands to grip several crumpled bills. She held them out to the tall man.

  “Here. Take it. It’s all I have. All I earned today. Okay? It’s yours. Just take it and leave. Please.” She tried not to cry, but her voice was starting to break. Maybe they didn’t want to rape her. Maybe they were just trying to scare her into giving them money. She didn’t see any of them holding a gun, or a knife. They probably didn’t even have weapons.

  The tall one didn’t take his eyes from hers. He merely shook his head, smiling. He folded her hands around the bills and lowered them to her waist.

  “You want something else? I don’t have anything else. I’m just a fortune-teller, okay? The rest of the stuff in here is crap. I swear it is.” She jerked her chin towards her rucksack.

  “Ah, but we don’t want what’s in the sack, darling, do we?” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We want what’s in you.”

  Sherry l
et out a little gasp and turned her head, repulsed. She managed to steal a quick glance over her shoulder. The end of the alley was less than twenty meters away. If she turned and ran now, she could make it. She could see the street lights, the passing taxicabs. They couldn’t hurt her if she were in public, could they?

  As if reading her mind, the tall man took a firm grasp of her wrist. The bills she held in her hands dropped to the ground. Trying to remember what she’d learned in self-defense class, she twisted her arm in a special way that would allow her to escape him.

  She couldn’t understand why it didn’t work. With the position her forearm was in now, she should be close to breaking his thumb. But the icy cold hand wasn’t moving. And his grip was impossibly strong.

  A fleeting thought went through her head. Was he . . . not human? But that was impossible. The pale skin, the sunken eyes, the superior strength—they were probably all on drugs. That was why they were laughing at nothing. And if they were high, there was very little she could do to reason with them.

  “Sad little thing.” Another member of the group spoke now—a woman, with dark, honey-brown hair that fell to her waist. “No parents or friends here at all. So pathetic. No one would even miss her if she was gone. But we’ll take care of that, won’t we now?” More laughter from the tall one, and the rest of the drug addicts. “She’ll have all the friends she wants, where we’re taking her.”

  Sherry’s eyes darted back and forth as she struggled uselessly to free her arm. “How do you know so much about me? I’ve never even seen any of you before today.”

  “Ah, that’s the trick, isn’t it, sweetness?” said the same woman. “We’ve been in your little square many times. We are only seen when we wish to be seen. If we desire to be invisible, then we are invisible. We’ve overheard your conversations with the other charlatans. We know all about you, Sherry.”