P.N.E. (The Wolfblood Prophecies Book 4) (17 page)

As Jo listened to Sheraleen, and thought about the wine and the kiss, and some of the conversations she’d been puzzled by, an unwelcome idea started to take shape in her mind. ‘Sheraleen,’ she said slowly, ‘all we do is dance, right?’

Sheraleen was so shocked by the question she was lost for words. Before she was able to form a reply, Mirabel’s voice could be heard outside. ‘Come along, gentlemen! Just a little peek to whet your appetites!’

Sheraleen moved swiftly, spraying the room with perfume, tidying Jo’s hair, arranging her gown. When Mirabel swept in, three men in tow, both girls looked as pretty as a picture.

The two older men wore long, dark robes, and moved slowly, with great dignity. Mirabel introduced Lord Mandrake and Lord Oleander. The third, younger man had an insolent, arrogant air, and he brushed Mirabel’s introduction aside as he walked up to Jo and pulled her to him roughly. He started running his hands over her body, ignoring Mirabel’s protestations, but Lord Oleander seized him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him off.

‘I suggest you put your head under the cold tap, my Prince. Now would be a good time.’ The voice was little more than a whisper; dry as old bones, cold as the tomb and haughtily commanding, brooking no denial. With unseemly haste the Prince released Jo from his unwelcome advances and slunk off. Jo stared at him in disbelief. Hawk, who she thought sometimes must be her half-brother. Where she had once known only fierce loyalty, determination and pride she saw instead the cruel contempt of the over-privileged. He was unrecognisable and Jo was unable to mask her horror. She looked at her rescuer to thank him, but the words froze on her lips.

Jo stared into the coldest eyes she had ever seen. She shivered involuntarily as her flesh began to creep.

‘Lord Oleander, at your service, ma chérie. I apologise for the boorish behaviour of that untutored pup. A young woman of your evident quality should not have to tolerate such clumsy, school-boy advances.’

With a supreme effort of will Jo pulled herself together and graciously thanked the skeletal, austere aristocrat.

His reply was deeply unsettling. He placed his hand under her chin, guiding her head towards him, then whispered in her ear. ‘In this charnel-house of depravity, ma chérie, your modesty and innocence are, to the true connoisseur, as refreshing as pure water from a mountain spring. Make no mistake, Angelina, I will be the winner of the auction. And then it will be my pleasure to gradually peel away your inhibitions, transforming your virginal trembling into shameless, wanton lust. You will learn to beg for my touch.’

He reached for her suddenly nerveless hand and raised it to his lips, taking the index finger into his mouth and sucking on it slowly before clicking his heels, bowing and moving away.

As the door closed behind the departing visitors Jo shook uncontrollably. Sheraleen looked at her with profound pity. ‘Does that answer your question?’ she said at last.

Jo was silent for a while. She knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her plan was just crazy – full of holes. How could she have mistaken a brothel for a dancing school? She wished she had talked it through beforehand with someone who could point out her blind spots, the gaps in her thinking. But she couldn’t completely trust Brenda, and Mandy was too young.

Sheraleen was watching Jo’s face as she grappled with her thoughts. ‘I think you’ll have to let me in on this,’ Sheraleen said finally. ‘I promise I will not tell anyone. It’s obviously really important to you.’

‘A matter of life and death,’ said Jo. She reached a decision. ‘OK. I’ll tell you.’

Sheraleen listened carefully as Jo explained.

‘I was right. You don’t want to be a companion.’ Jo shook her head. ‘And there’s no sick mother Overground?’ Again a rueful shake of the head. ‘You only want to go to the Ball to get close to the XXXIX so you can rig the vote?’

Jo nodded. ‘Really close.’

‘And you thought the best way to do that is to be one of Mirabel’s Molls.’

’I thought it was just dancing,’ said Jo ruefully. She felt so stupid.

‘And after the vote, once you’d ensured Ali and Quinn would be pardoned, what did you plan to do then?’

‘Scarper,’ said Jo succinctly. ‘Like Cinderella at midnight.’

Sheraleen looked puzzled. ‘Cinderella?’

‘Tell you later.’ Clearly the old story was not known in this reality. ‘Now Mirabel’s put me up for auction she’s going to watch me like a hawk so she can cash in on her investment. I’ll never be able to get away.’

‘You leave Mirabel to me,’ said Sheraleen decisively. ‘After the vote, the Ball will be officially over. Some of the guests will leave – but those in the know will wait behind for the orgy. People will be milling about. That’s when you’ll need to get away. I’ll create a diversion. Perform the Dance of the Seven Veils, perhaps.’

‘But when Mirabel finds out I’m missing how’s she going to explain that to whoever‘s won the auction?’

‘Not your problem. You’ll be long gone. But if I know Mirabel, and I do, she has a lot more than two things in
her
evening bag to help with tricky clients. If you’re gone, the auction winner will almost certainly be offered one of her famous cocktails, and after that he’ll be so befuddled he could probably spend the night with Mirabel herself and not know the difference.’

‘Eeek,’ said Jo, trying, and failing, to banish the vision that sprang to mind of Mirabel dancing seductively. Both girls started to giggle. Their laughter grew, bubbling over like spring water. They laughed until they cried, gasping for air as another wave of hilarity engulfed them. Almost falling over, they held onto each other for dear life.

Abruptly Sheraleen stopped laughing. Her voice was bleak. ‘And then I’ll never see you again.’

Jo held her friend as she sobbed. She stroked Sheraleen’s hair and whispered endearments and thanks, consoling her until the sobbing subsided.

Chapter Eleven– The Barabbas Ball

The evening of the Barabbas Ball arrived. Mirabel granted her girls no quarter that day; she rattled off orders like a machine gun and everybody obeyed without question. The girls were shining like new pins. They were dressed evocatively but not provocatively.

Their orders were to entertain the guests. This entailed dancing, companionship, attention, sophistication and all of their wits. They also knew that, when any of the guests decided to use them in other ways, they were not to resist. Jo intended to be long gone before it came to that.

And now they were waiting to be summoned, locked in a room in the Roundhouse. Some of the girls were chattering excitedly, but some, including Sheraleen, were silent. Jo’s heart ached to see her friend looking so sad, so she hugged her and led her to the small window overlooking the beautiful city lit before them and together they stood in silence, holding hands, taking in the view. You would never know that a few short miles beyond this utopia lay a ruined world of nuclear winter. Quinn had been right. The Vermin had the technology to save this planet, yet they were keeping it to themselves.

Jo watched as hordes of guests arrived in an endless fleet of sleek, silent cars until the door was unlocked and Mirabel stood there with an armed escort. ‘These fine lads is ‘ere to take you gels to the ball. You go with them and do us all proud now, and quick about it.’

Reluctantly Jo turned away from the window and was led down the staircase to the ball-room. She had never seen such luxury. An opulent colour scheme of cream and gold, illuminated by magnificent, dazzling chandeliers, dripping with crystal drops, and the rainbow reflections from gently spinning mirror balls made her feel dizzy. She felt utterly overwhelmed and just wanted to flee from her probably doomed plan and find her way back to her own reality, away from the callous contrasts of this dystopia.

Then on a podium she saw the cage. She watched in horror as Ali, emaciated, bedraggled, with dark shadows round her eyes, stood chained on a revolving stage, like a dancer in a musical box, taunted and goaded by the spectators
.
On the wall beside her hung Quinn, chained at the wrists and ankles
.
Despite clear evidence of torture, Ali’s eyes were fierce and proud.

On an opposite podium Lethe and Paul were seated on gilded thrones cushioned with scarlet velvet. They were clearly stricken by grief. King Paul wore a black armband over his tunic. Despite their horrific loss, they maintained their composure and dignity as they watched the proceedings with a regal air, occasionally deigning to wave at an acquaintance or smile at a particularly favoured courtier. Titus was seated behind them. From time to time the Queen sent a servant across to Ali’s cage to poke delicious morsels of food through the bars. Jo was glad to see that Ali refused the proffered tit-bits, although she was obviously ravenous.
It’s like feeding time at the zoo,
thought Jo, feeling furious.

With her resolve strengthened by Ali’s suffering, Jo looked out for the XXXIX. She concentrated on the older, affluent men; the ones dressed in floor-length ceremonial robes, radiating power and wealth. She noticed that some of them wore a discreet gold pin in their lapel, in the shape of the letters XXXIX. Now her efforts were more focussed. She was attentive without being sycophantic; she laughed sweetly; was coquettish without being cloying.  She danced decorously, touching her partners lightly with a beguiling innocence that entranced rather than offended. She took care to charm the formidable wives of these influential men, and as she applied the skills she had learned from Sheraleen, Mandy and Zebo the central part of her plan began to fall into place.

She also danced with the younger men who seemed to be queuing up to partner her.  Just occasionally she almost forgot her solemn purpose, enjoying the attention and the excitement. She glimpsed herself in a mirror, and marvelled at her reflection. The girl she saw was almost unrecognisable. Her gown was simply exquisite; her coiffed hair and flawless makeup subtly emphasised her youthful attractiveness, and her poise and deportment added a layer of sophistication that allowed her to pass as older than her years. As the enthralled men whirled her around, for the first time Jo sensed the power of her own beauty, and the potency thrilled her.

From time to time she caught a glimpse of Sheraleen, dancing with, among others, Lord Mandrake. Mirabel’s Molls were plying their trade enthusiastically.

The music seemed to be getting faster and Jo noticed that some of Mirabel’s girls were coping with dancing partners who were slowly becoming less courteous. Several of them were intoxicated, holding their partner tightly, breathing hot words of passion into ears that had heard it all before.

Now Sheraleen was dancing with Prince Hawk. He was pawing at her breasts, his jaw slack with desire, his eyes glassy. With fumbling fingers he tried to remove her gilded mask, but he swayed drunkenly and lost his footing. Sheraleen took the chance to try and slip out of his sweaty embrace, but he lunged for her, tightened his grip, seized her waist and started grinding her body against his. Sheraleen kept her smile fixed in place but Jo could see, and sense, the panic that swept through her. Then Lord Mandrake tapped the Prince on the shoulder, more forcefully than was usual. He gallantly steered Sheraleen away from the doubled-up drunken lout.

‘May I have the honour of this dance, Mademoiselle?’ The dry voice, scarcely more than a whisper, startled Jo. Before she knew it Lord Oleander held her in his bony embrace, and, with a decorum that was the polar opposite of his lechery when first they met, he steered her around the room as if she were made of the finest bone china. Jo observed that the desiccated desire that ‘Angelina’ inspired in him was totally absent now, in front of the Royal Family and other ruling Elite.

As soon as the dance was over, Jo excused herself. She wanted to wash away the unwelcome sensation of Lord Oleander’s hands on her skin. She went to a softly lit rest-room with sumptuously appointed toilet cubicles and wash basins with gold taps. Shelves of beautiful glass bottles of exclusive perfumes and lotions were there for all to use. Jo did her best to purge herself of Lord Oleander’s touch. She was so engrossed she didn’t hear anyone come in.

‘Smokey? What are you doing here?’

He was dressed as a royal lackey, carrying a mop and bucket.

‘I’m here to rescue Quinn and Ali. And I could ask you the same question!’

‘And you’d get the same answer! You should be in bed! You’re going to ruin everything!’ she snapped, panic setting in.

Smokey was thinking hard. ‘We can still use this to our advantage. There are other plans in motion tonight.’ But before Jo could react, Sheraleen came into the bathroom.

Smokey fell silent as he caught sight of her. She also appeared tongue tied. Jo smiled inwardly as she introduced them. They seemed unable to stop staring at each other.

The sound of footsteps broke the awkward silence.  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Jo urgently. ‘Smokey, disappear.’ But Smokey, transfixed as he was by the sight of Sheraleen, wasn’t quick enough.

The unmistakeable silhouette of Madame Mirabel blocked out the light. She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. ‘Oi, you – Romeo – scarper.’ Smokey picked up his mop and bucket and set to work in one of the cubicles. Mirabel glowered at him and then turned on the girls.

‘Don’t you go givin’ it away, Sheraleen; go back out there and earn your bleedin’ keep.’

Madame Mirabel grabbed Jo by the wrist and led her to the array of bottles and potions. She sprayed Jo and herself with the most expensive perfume she could find and said, ‘Right. Come along, dear. Let’s find an ‘andsome prince for you, not one of they common little frogs.’ She marched Jo back outside and hissed in her ear, ‘Now, Madam, get out there and act bleedin’ classy.’

While Jo had been away the mood of the revellers had darkened. The urbane, civilised masks of the dignitaries had started to slip, revealing a bestial cruelty that Jo recognised as the prelude to the blood-lust she had experienced while fighting for her life against Lucy in this same arena. People were circling the cage that held Ali, hurling crude insults, prodding her with silver-tipped canes, mocking her by offering food then snatching it away before devouring it like ravenous beasts. Throughout she ignored their jeers and taunts. Quinn just hung there, broken and motionless. Jo longed to make contact with Ali; to reassure her that help was on its way, but it was too dangerous. Not only that, she still had a task to complete.

As Jo sought out more of the XXXIX, the music suddenly stopped, and a fanfare rang out. The lights dimmed, and in the darkness, the orchestra started to play a sinister, slow tango. The air of menace was palpable. As the lights slowly came on, dark shadows were cast on the arena walls, and a procession of improbably tall young women, teetering on killer stiletto heels, scantily dressed in jet-black leather and blood-red lace, moved slowly towards the caged prisoners. They were led by a disturbing figure with an enormous head and a spindly body draped in a long, black velvet cloak. Each woman wielded a gleaming machine gun. They stood stock still in a half-circle around the cage, then as a drum roll sounded, slowly and theatrically took aim at the prisoner.

Jo was finding it hard to breathe. What about the vote? Was all her work wasted? Then the announcer declared, ‘Welcome to Sebastian and his Sultry Sirens!’ and the audience went wild, stamping their feet and baying like wolves. The drums were louder now; a throbbing, primitive vibration. A single spotlight shone on the elongated, spidery Sebastian; there was another drum roll and then firecrackers exploded all around the arena, making the watchers scream with terror.

With a dramatic flourish of his swirling cloak Sebastian was transformed into the Lord of Misrule – his face a white mask – his jester-like black and gold costume embellished with luminous, grinning skull and crossbones. As he raised his staff high above his head, a noise like thunder reverberated around the ball-room, followed by an eerie silence.

Jo was terrified. What was happening? The terrible silence continued, then Sebastian banged his staff three times on the floor and gave his command. ‘Ladies of the Night! Fire!’

There was a collective gasp as everyone’s eyes turned to the terrified woman in the cage, then Sebastian’s Sirens swung round, their guns pointed at the audience, and started firing into the crowd.

It was mayhem. People stampeded for the exits; a woman standing near Jo fainted; others swooned or screamed. Then the screams turned to Bacchanalian, manic laughter as instead of the expected hail of bullets, the guns fired silver confetti. The Sirens scattered, shrieking wildly, running into the spectators, firing off round after round of tinsel.

It was then that Jo spotted Lucy, a fierce and magnificent Siren in her high heels, leather and lace. The last thing Jo wanted was to come face to face with her old enemy. She moved as far away as she possibly could.

With the sudden release of tension the mood changed again – relief caused total strangers to embrace each other, their laughter wild, their eyes dilated. Jo wished she could just run away but she had to complete her mission. She hated the dangerous atmosphere; the feeling that events were spiralling out of control.

And then Sebastian declared, ‘Silence for the King.’

Paul rose slowly to his feet. He hesitated, then spoke quietly. ‘Thank you all for coming. And thank you, Sebastian, for that wonderful spectacle. Yes.’

Sebastian bowed low.

‘You all know why we are here.’ With that Lethe locked her gaze upon Ali and her countenance was dark. ‘Our once sweet sister Alithea has done the unthinkable. She has been a viper in our midst for all these years.’ His voice started to crack. ‘Not only is she a convicted traitor to the Realm but she is also named as a co-conspirator in the slaying of our beloved daughter!’ He looked upon Ali with eyes red with rage and grief.

‘That’s a lie!’ Despite Ali’s suffering, the words rang out clear and true. Jo’s heart rejoiced at the sound of her voice and the words gave wings to her woes. ‘I would never have done anything to harm Jo! I loved her as if she were my own!’

Queen Lethe’s jaw tightened. She gestured to Sebastian who delivered Ali an almighty crunch to her ribs with his staff. The crowd roared with malicious laughter, as the furious King and Queen turned to Titus. The noise settled as he waited patiently.

‘Reports of the interrogation of detainee #73492 a.k.a. Quinn, former leader of the Rioters, has yielded a full confession, your Majesties. He admits to both the plotting and the assassination of Princess Jocasta as part of a larger plan to make her aunt, Princess Alithea, the successor to the throne. You, my Queen, were to have been his next target.’