The Darkness Dwellers Page 15

  “Would you be planning to do much kicking tonight?” Etienne inquired as his driver pulled the family car to the curb.

  “Where I’m going?” Kiki smirked. “I plan to do as much kicking as possible.”

  “And where exactly is that? You still haven’t told me,” Etienne said, opening the car door for his female companion.

  “I didn’t know until now.” Kiki slid into the backseat. “Bonsoir, monsieur,” she said to the driver. “The Prince Albert Hotel, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Thank you for getting here so quickly, Jacques,” Etienne added. He turned to Kiki. “Are we going to pick up the cure?”

  “The cure’s useless right now, and I’d rather not have to baby-sit Betty. Would you mind texting her so she knows that the plan is on hold? Don’t bother telling Betty this next part, but I’m going to kidnap Sidonia. It’s the only way I can keep her mother from killing the woman who raised me.”

  “We’re going to kidnap Sidonia,” Etienne corrected. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

  “I thought you said you were a loner,” Kiki muttered.

  “People change,” Etienne replied. “I’ve come to enjoy your company. And I must repay you for exposing Marcel’s treachery.”

  “So you really never suspected Marcel was a traitor?”

  “Not for a moment,” Etienne admitted. “I thought he was trying to rebel against his father, not win the man’s favor. But it does explain Marcel’s behavior at the party in the catacombs last night. I couldn’t understand why he kept trying to convince me that the Darkness Dwellers shouldn’t be trusted to keep the ossuary safe.”

  “You know, maybe Marcel had a point,” Kiki said. “If people are disappearing in the ossuary, maybe the police should get involved.”

  “It wouldn’t do much good. The police don’t know the tunnels as well as the Darkness Dwellers. There are passages Marcel’s father and his men have never even seen. And let’s not forget that Philip Roche refuses to believe that the Darkness Dwellers exist. He’ll fire any officer who even hints that they might. So why would Roche ever believe there might be real criminals at work in the catacombs?”

  “I don’t understand why the man’s so stubborn,” Kiki said.

  “Because Philip Roche doesn’t want people to think that the police aren’t in complete control of the catacombs. If it ever came to light that some secret organization had free run of the place, it could cause mass panic. The city of Paris sits on top of the tunnels. A few well-placed explosives, and hundreds of thousands could die. Whoever controls the catacombs controls Paris. The Darkness Dwellers aren’t dangerous—but they could be.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Kiki said.

  “You’ve said that before,” Etienne observed. “Why does all of this sound so familiar to you?”

  “Long story,” Kiki said. “Now, please lend me your coat.”

  Wherever you go, you’ll find certain individuals who think they’ll look like the biggest fish around if they treat other people like pond scum. These poor, misguided ladies and gentlemen terrorize waiters, scream at their secretaries, and belittle anyone they believe is beneath them. The scientific term for such people is jerks, and I would imagine that most hotel employees are quite familiar with the species. But I doubt the desk clerk at the Prince Albert Hotel had ever encountered a specimen quite like the one that was heading his way.

  “I can’t believe you spilled wine all over my dress, you buffoon!” Kiki loudly scolded her escort as they made their way across the lobby. “Do you have any idea how many Pokrovian peasants it took to stitch all those beads? Do you know how hard it is to find bead-stitching peasants these days?”

  “Key!” she ordered in French when they reached the front desk.

  “Princess!” The clerk looked flustered. “I was certain I saw you go up to your room hours ago.”

  “You’ve been spying on me?” Kiki snarled in a perfect impersonation of her unpleasant cousin. “Who do you think you are? Give me my key before I have you fired.”

  “Yes, Princess. You must mean the spare key? I believe you already have the original. That’s why I thought …”

  “I’ll take as many keys as I like. Why am I even talking to you? Can’t you see that I’m wearing a man’s overcoat? I need to change my dress. Now!” She slammed her fist on the desk for emphasis.

  “Yes, Princess,” the man said, nervously sliding a key across the counter. He jerked his hand back, as if the girl might bite his fingers.

  As soon as they were in the elevator, Kiki returned Etienne’s coat.

  “Nicely done,” the boy remarked.

  “The show has only started,” Kiki said. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

  When the duo reached Sidonia’s room, Kiki silently slid the key into the lock and opened the door. The chamber was dark, but they could discern a human form tucked beneath the sheets.

  “Rise and shine, Princess,” Kiki sang softly, clamping one hand over her cousin’s mouth as she switched on the bedside lamp.

  Sidonia’s eyes were blinded by the light. Her arms waved uselessly in the air, and her scream never made it out of her mouth.

  “It’s probably in your best interest to shut up,” Kiki informed her. “Unless you can explain to the police why there are suddenly two Princess Katarinas. All they’d need is a blood test to know which one is real—and which is the imposter.”

  Sidonia glared back at Kiki, but she stopped attempting to scream.

  “You are in big trouble,” growled Sidonia. “When my mother finds out you’re here, she’ll shoot Verushka herself.”

  “That’s why we’re not staying,” Kiki stated. “Get dressed. We’re going to take a little ride.”

  Sidonia’s lip curled into a snarl. “I’m not going anywhere, elf—and unless you have a weapon you’d like to show me, you can’t make me.”

  “Wrong again. You’re still half asleep, and you’re not thinking straight. Here’s how it’s going to work, Sidonia. If you give us any trouble while we’re in this hotel, I’ll call the police and have your butt shipped to jail. You give us any trouble once we’re out of the hotel, and my fist will do things to your pretty face that you never thought possible. Understand?”

  Sidonia bared her perfect teeth at Kiki, but she slid out of bed and marched over to the room’s massive closet.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded. “I need to choose the appropriate attire.”

  “Just wear something warm and waterproof,” Kiki said, winking at Etienne. “And when you’re done, pick out something cute for me. And make sure it’s black, would you?”

  “What are you going to do in there?” Sidonia growled as Kiki strolled toward the bathroom.

  “What do you think? I’m going to freshen up. You’d better be on your best behavior while I’m gone. Etienne doesn’t like you much, either,” Kiki said as she closed the door.

  “I can’t believe you chose her,” she heard Sidonia whine. “Are you blind?”

  Once the shower was running, Kiki couldn’t make out another word. But she didn’t rush, and she didn’t worry. There weren’t many people she would have trusted to guard Sidonia for so long. And even fewer for whom she’d have bothered to shower.

  THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … THE SPORTING LIFE

  As you may have guessed, I’m not the most naturally gifted athlete. Any sport involving a ball is bound to leave me bored or injured. But I do believe that every twenty-first-century lady or gentleman should try to pursue the sporting life. Competition is healthy. Fresh air and exercise are even healthier. And fortunately for me, there are many “sports” that don’t require extreme height or huge muscles. A few can even teach you valuable skills.

  Clay Pigeon Shooting

  I would never dream of shooting a real pigeon. But clay targets are fair game. This sport will train you to have a sharp eye, steely nerves, and a steady hand. It also lets you destroy things, which is always great fun. The downsides? It’s expensive, somewh
at dangerous, and your family might not be fond of firearms.

  Archery

  A great alternative to clay pigeon shooting for people who don’t like guns. Not only will you improve your focus and concentration while learning a bit about physics, but you’ll also look super-cool.

  Animal Tracking

  This is more of an art than a sport. But you can practice it (for free) in almost any environment, and the skills it will teach you could one day mean the difference between life and death. You’ll learn patience, observation, stealth—and the ability to tell fresh wolf dung from two-week-old bear droppings.

  Martial Arts

  Perhaps you have no desire to compete in a ring—or register your fists as lethal weapons. That’s fine. Focus on improving your strength and mental discipline instead. And rest assured knowing that, should you ever find yourself under attack, you’ll be able to kick some serious butt.

  Poker

  Card games don’t qualify as sports, of course. But poker players know how to read other people. They also tend to be good with numbers, capable of keeping their emotions under control at all times, and able to make a quick buck when they’re on the lam.

  Track and Field

  If you can’t beat them, outrun them.

  Fencing

  You can now practice this formerly deadly sport without fear of mortal wounds. But if you can get your hands on a sword, your skills are bound to prove dangerous.

  Chapter 21

  The Bait Bites Back

  PARIS: THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 19, MORNING

  When the telephone in Betty Bent’s room rang at six thirty a.m., she answered it instantly. She had been up most of the night, staring at a little jar labeled LOTS O’ LOCKS and waiting for instructions from Kiki Strike. Just before dawn, Betty had briefly dozed off, only to be woken by the sound of hushed voices in the hallway outside her room. She thought she heard someone whisper the name “Katarina,” but the corridor was empty when Betty peeked out the door. She picked up her cell phone to get a sense of the time and noticed the message light blinking. A cryptic e-mail had arrived from Kiki’s French friend. The cure was no longer needed. Kiki was free, and her plans had changed.

  The news was a bitter disappointment. After the frenzy to cook up the hair-growing formula—and after all the dire warnings about Betty’s employer—it appeared that the most excitement France had to offer was the opportunity to judge a scarf-tying competition at L’Institut Beauregard. Betty braced herself for another dull day and answered the ringing telephone.

  “Good morning, Miss Bent.” The early-morning caller was Amelia Beauregard. “I see you’re an early riser. Most teenage girls are such slothful creatures. I’m delighted to discover that my assistant is not one of them. You and I have plenty of work to do today, so we must begin tout de suite. I have invited a gentleman to join us for breakfast. We will meet you downstairs at L’Imperatrice in forty-five minutes. Does that give you sufficient time to prepare yourself?”

  “Yes, Madame Beauregard,” Betty said.

  “Excellent. Please wear something fetching but age appropriate, if you don’t mind. And no high heels, my dear. You shall be walking a great deal this afternoon.”

  In every great city there are restaurants designed to intimidate anyone who wasn’t born into royalty, celebrity, or an organized crime family. L’Imperatrice, the opulent dining establishment at the Prince Albert Hotel, is one such venue. The main room is decorated in shades of ivory, gold, and gray—colors adored by the same French royal family that later wound up getting the axe. Potted palm trees shade L’Imperatrice’s diners, a magnificent chandelier sparkles overhead, and crystal glasses are filled with water from the purest alpine springs. You might spot a supermodel picking at her lunch while she flirts with the President of France—and conclude that L’Imperatrice is no place for mere mortals. But the truth is, it’s all just for show. The food on the plates may cost more than most Parisians earn in a month, but it will eventually reach the same sewer pipes as a four-euro Happy Meal. The crowd may seem impossibly refined, but most can trace their fortunes to dumb luck or dirty deeds. So, if you’re ever in the mood for some overpriced French food, pull out a chair at L’Imperatrice and give the waiter your order. Don’t ruin your appetite worrying that you might not fit in. Just chew with your mouth closed and follow this advice from the Irregulars’ master of disguise: No matter where you are, the best way to look like you belong is to refuse to believe that you don’t.

  Betty Bent scanned the restaurant. Seated beneath a palm tree were Amelia Beauregard and a mustachioed man in a dark gray suit. Betty wove through the tables toward the incongruous pair. She swerved to let a waiter pass, and her handbag thumped another guest’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed.

  The man swiveled around to give Betty a thorough once-over. His black hair was slicked back, and the fumes of his cologne could have overpowered an ox. “Yes, you are,” Sergei Molotov said with a sneer.

  He hadn’t recognized her. Nor had his heavily made-up companion.

  “Where is Sidonia?” Livia Galatzina sighed. “She promised she would be down at seven. We have another fitting scheduled for half past eight. Perhaps you could telephone her room and remind her?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Sergei tapped a number into his cell phone.

  “Outside the restaurant!” Livia commanded.

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Sergei rose from his chair and almost bumped into Betty, who remained frozen behind him. “Are you still here? Move along, peasant.”

  Betty would have tiptoed out of the restaurant to make a call of her own, but Amelia Beauregard had already laid eyes on her. The mustachioed man jumped up as Betty approached the table and pulled out a chair.

  “Miss Bent, please stop staring at the former queen of Pokrovia,” Madame Beauregard ordered as Betty took a seat.

  “Was I staring?” Betty had tried not to be too obvious.

  “Yes, you were making quite a fool of yourself. Whenever you’re with me, you will be traveling in rarified circles. Please do not embarrass me by behaving like a rube.”

  “Have you met Queen Livia, Madame Beauregard?” the mustachioed man inquired politely, clearly trying to shift the attention away from Betty.

  “Oh yes, she’s a lovely woman. Her daughter was once a star pupil of mine,” Amelia Beauregard replied. “A truly gifted girl, one of the lucky few who are born with natural grace and charm. She graduated with top honors in a single semester. Miss Bent, may I ask why you’re smirking? Is there something that you find amusing?”

  “No, Madame,” Betty assured her.

  “Good. Shall we get to work? Miss Bent?”

  Betty wasn’t listening. Sergei Molotov had bolted back into the restaurant, dodging waiters and sideswiping tables. When he reached Livia, he bent down and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was, the effect was immediate. Livia leaped up, knocking her chair over and spilling orange juice across the table.

  “Miss Bent!” Amelia Beauregard hissed. “May I remind you that you’re here on official business. You are not in Paris to ogle royalty!”

  In an instant, Livia and Sergei were gone, and two waiters were removing all evidence of their meal. Everyone else in the restaurant was whispering, trying to guess what had caused all the commotion.

  “Please excuse me,” Betty said. “I must make a telephone call.” Whatever had just happened, Kiki Strike was most likely involved.

  “You are not excused, Miss Bent,” Madame Beauregard announced. “If you take a single step out of this restaurant, I will have you booked on the next flight back to New York.”

  One look at the woman’s pursed lips, and Betty knew it wasn’t an idle threat. She settled back down in her seat and carefully folded her napkin across her lap.

  “I apologize, Madame.”

  “Very well,” Amelia said, composing herself. “Detective Fitzroy, I would like to introduce you to Miss Betty Bent.”
>
  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” the detective said, rising from his seat once more to deliver a bow.

  “I must apologize for Miss Bent’s behavior this morning,” Madame Beauregard said without giving Betty a chance to reply to the detective’s greeting. “I’ll let you decide whether I have made a mistake bringing her to Paris.”

  The man had been studying Betty’s face since she arrived at the table. Now it was Betty’s turn to examine his. Detective Fitzroy was in his mid-forties and had never been handsome. His watery blue eyes bulged and his nose looked a little too narrow. Whiskers sprouted from his nostrils and fanned out across his cheeks. Yet there was something appealing about his appearance. The way the skin crinkled around his eyes told her that Detective Fitzroy was a man who often wore a smile on his face.

  “Au contraire, Madame, you have made a splendid choice,” the detective assured her. He spoke English with a thick accent. “Miss Bent is just as pretty as you described. I think they will find her irresistible.”

  “Wonderful,” Amelia said.

  “They?” Betty asked. “Who are they?”

  The detective addressed the old woman across the table from him. “You have not told her?” There was a distinct note of concern in his voice.

  “I assumed she would be more cooperative once we were here on French soil,” Madame Beauregard responded tersely.

  “Excuse me, but what are you talking about?” Betty demanded.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” the detective said, though he himself suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “I will explain everything. But first let me ask: Have you heard of the Darkness Dwellers?”

  “No,” Betty replied, feeling even more on edge.

  “Then I must provide you with a bit of background information. Three years ago I was a policeman on the Catacomb Patrol. You are familiar with the Paris catacombs, oui?”