In The Paris Effect, Amy sneaks away to Paris without telling anyone, including her husband. While there, she agrees to go on an expedition into the illegal catacombs, which comprise hundreds of miles underneath Paris (seriously, look it up). However, as you can see in this excerpt, she definitely had second thoughts. Note: Balzac is the leader of the expedition; Kat is Amy’s best friend, whom she misses a lot.
“Madame,” Balzac repeats, sighing.
I consider my options. Or rather, lack thereof. Walking back to my hotel is impossible, because we are miles out somewhere in the suburbs. Calling a cab is impossible, because I don’t have a frigging phone. Waiting here alone is impossible, too, because this street is creepy and deserted.
I said I wanted to come. I said I wanted to do something different, out of the ordinary. And the new Amy, Amy 2.0, would go on just such a lunatic expedition as this.
So all righty then. I flash Balzac a toothy American grin, just to be annoying. Then I turn, kneel, locate the first rung of the ladder with the pointy toe of my boot, and start down. On the fifth rung, my eyes even with the level of the street, I pause to glance down. Nothing. I can’t even see my feet. The molasses blackness is swallowing me—calves, knees, thighs—like a ravening beast. This is truly insane.
“Dépêche-toi,” Balzac barks, his mud-caked boots inches from my face. Hurry up. That’s what that means—hurry up. Huh. If I stayed in France long enough I might finally become fluent in French.
I hurry down a dozen rungs, and then cannot help pausing to again look up. A perfect circle of ultramarine sky looks back down at me. It’s not too late. All I have to do is climb up instead of down, up into the open air, up into the still beautiful world. Not even Kat, much less the new and improved Amy, would do such a crazy thing, venture into catacombs, illegal ones at that, with a ragtag collection of bozos she’s known for five minutes. I rapidly move up seven rungs. This is better, go toward the light, not away from from it—but just at that moment the smooth ultramarine circle of sky is obliterated by the wrinkled brown lump of Balzac, who leaps into the hole like a mountain goat and slides the lid shut with an eardrum-piercing clang. Darkness rushes it on me from all sides.
Balzac has stepped on my thumb.
Buy the Book:
The book sounds fabulous! How could you not love a main character with the name Amy? (haha)
If you haven’t checked out her Author of the Week Page, you should, it’s HERE.
Check back on Thursday the 12th for a Guest Post by Karen!