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

by Silk, Avril

  ‘Jo! Are you alright in there? It’s three in the morning!’

  ‘Sorry, Brenda – I’m not feeling so good. The headache’s back and I’ve been sick. I’ll be better directly, I expect. Go back to bed.’

  ‘Time you had a break anyway. You’ve been working non-stop. I’ll get someone to sober Bobby up, and you have a lie-in tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Brenda! I’ll just clean myself up, and I’ll be back in bed directly.’

  It was the next day, and Jo had to set the next part of her plan in motion. True to her word, Mandy had proved a valuable source of information about the ancient art of stealing. Jo realised she was going to miss the work in the infirmary. She had grown fond of several of the patients, and they of her, but Mandy was her favourite. It was going to be hard to leave her behind.

  Jo worked as quickly as she could, but her task could not be hurried. It was almost daybreak when she quietly gathered her belongings, scribbled a quick note, and, without making a sound, crept away.

  She moved like a shadow along the maze of tunnels and stairways that led to the pillbox at ground level. To her great relief she didn’t meet a soul. She heard occasional scuttlings and tappings, rats and pigeons, she thought, and water dripping, but she did not allow anything to deter her from her purpose, until a blood-curdling shriek turned her blood to ice and stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘I know you,’ slavered Crazy Em, pushing her bony fingers into Jo’s cheeks. ‘I know what you want,’ she crooned, sniffing Jo’s hair. ‘I can read you like a book, you wicked, wicked girl. All your dirty little secrets. Mad Mary knows everything.’ Her skeletal hand gripped Jo’s face cruelly.

  Jo tried to stay calm. Shots in the dark, she thought. Nothing more. Then Crazy Em started to cry, slobbering and whining, her face contorted with terrible grief.

  Overcoming her revulsion, Jo tentatively stroked the old lady’s matted hair. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked.

  The answer was a terrible, long drawn-out wail. At first Jo could not make out the words, but they slowly became clear.

  ‘Help me die,’ sobbed Crazy Em repeatedly. ‘Save me from the Rainmaker. He comes to me, over and over, with his Needle of Death and his Needle of Life. “Which one will it be this time, Mary?” he says, and I pray for it to be Death. But it never is.’

  Jo was struggling to find a reply, when Crazy Em started to laugh manically. ‘Next time I’ll be ready,’ she cackled. ‘I’ll build a web to catch him in then I’ll stick him with his own needle… stick him like the pig he is. And I’ll watch him die and then I’ll be free of him and this cursed life.’ She thrust her face up against Jo’s. ‘Don’t tell anyone. If you do, I’ll stick you as well. Now get out of my way. And remember. I know what you’re thinking!’

  After Crazy Em had gone, Jo was trembling from head to toe. The old woman had unnerved and frightened her, but Jo had also felt pity. She concentrated on calming down, then steeled herself to carry on.

  When she reached the top of the spiral staircase the door to Overground was locked, as she had expected. She stood in the shadows inside the pillbox, and waited.

  Chapter Ten - The Queen of Tarts

  ‘Oi, Blondie! What brings you to my neck of the woods?’

  ‘I heard you can get a girl some well-paid work.’

  ‘Only if she’s blazing. Come out here so I can have a proper look atcha.’

  Darren gave a long, low and very appreciative wolf whistle. ‘You’ll do.’ Even so, he had a question. ‘So just how did you get in, missy?’

  The answer came readily. ‘There was a boy – about your age – thin; pale; all dressed in grey. He was outside, carrying something heavy. He had to put it down to unlock the door, and when he bent to pick it up again I slipped inside without him noticing.’

  ‘Ha! Trust Ashe-arse not to notice a pretty girl. He’s not right, that one. Now me – I’ve got an eye for the ladies. What’s your name, Blondie? The cold dank corridor echoed with ugly intent as Jo looked directly into Darren’s furtive weaselly eyes

  ‘Angelina,’ lied Jo. She smiled flirtatiously. ‘And what’s yours, handsome?’

  ‘I’m Darren, and I can help you go far, Angelina. I’ve got this friend called Sebastian…’

  Jo tried not to panic. She emphatically did not want Darren to take her to Sebastian. She frowned prettily. ‘I’ve heard Sebastian’s not very kind to his girls. I really wanted to study under Madame Mirabel. I hear she’s the best.’

  ‘Maybe. But Sebastian pays better.’ Despite his lazy smirk Darren’s hooded eyes were calculating and cold. ‘I’d be robbing myself if I take you to Mirabel…’

  Jo flashed what she hoped was a seductive smile. ‘Then I will have to make it up to you some way,’ she purred. As if from a distance she watched herself carrying on where she had left off with Zebo, flirting as if her life depended on it. ‘Just imagine, handsome, your own private dance…’

  For a moment Darren was slack-jawed with lust. ‘I’ll need a little something on deposit, Angelina,’ he leered, and he pulled Jo towards him. His breath was hot and his mouth wet on hers. Jo tried not to flinch.

  ‘Don’t play with the merchandise, Darren.’

  Jo had never thought she would be delighted to hear Madame Mirabel’s voice! Darren pulled away as if scalded. His expression was mulish as he glowered at his grandmother. Mirabel did not seem in the least perturbed. ‘I’ve climbed these bleedin’ stairs with an urgent message, Darren. One of Titus’s minions is sitting in my office. Wants to talk to you about the arrangements for the Ball. Better not keep him waiting. So off you trot.’

  Darren looked furious, but did as he was told. As he passed Jo he whispered lecherously, ‘Later, Blondie.’ Jo tried to arrange her features into a semblance of eager anticipation.

  In the gloom Mirabel’s blonde bouffant wig and silver eyelashes had an unearthly glow. She examined Jo carefully before pronouncing judgement. ‘You’ll do. Reckon you’ll scrub up a treat. And there’s summat of the Princess about you. The gentlemen will like that. My Darren done well. Now, come and meet the rest of the girls.’

  So saying she turned on her heel and tottered down the stairs for a short distance, before taking a turning Jo had not noticed before. Once they were out of sight of Darren a small silver hip flask was whipped out of nowhere and in the flash of an eye Mirabel took a tiny sip of brandy before secreting the flask deftly away. She casually eyed Jo briefly who fiercely spaced out and appeared oblivious to what she had just seen - no sense in training as a pickpocket if you are to become obvious to another one. Satisfied that Angelina was exactly what she appeared to be, Mirabel set off again, tottering deeper into the bowels of the Roundhouse, silently shadowed by Jo.

  It wasn’t long before they were standing in front of a heavily reinforced door.

  As Mirabel fumbled with the keys she noticed Jo staring at the myriad of locks. ‘Got to protect my beauties,’ she wheezed. ‘Can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry coming along and helping himself. My dancers are too valuable to throw themselves away on riff-raff. I treats them right, trains them up and pays them fair. In return they’re as hardworking a bunch of ballerinas as anyone could wish for. Come into my parlour, Angelina. If that’s your real name, which I doubt. Which reminds me. As a matter of interest, how old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’ The lie came easily enough.

  Mirabel gave a derisive laugh. ‘Yeah, right. Me too. Come and meet my harem.’

  Jo had become accustomed to the gloomy, drab and colourless half-light of life below ground. Mirabel’s parlour, by contrast, was sumptuous. Luxurious red velvet wall hangings with golden, beaded tassels hung from ceiling to floor. Swathes of scarlet silk, shot through with gold threads and decorated with tiny gold stars, billowed above their heads, like a Sultan’s tent from the Tales of the Arabian Nights. Chandeliers dazzled with their crystal drops and rainbow prisms. A dozen chaise longues upholstered in crimson velvet were placed around the sides of the room; a
ll bar one were occupied by barely dressed, blonde girls, lounging elegantly and chattering merrily.

  Gradually the chattering stopped. All eyes were on Jo as she stood awkwardly in the centre of the room. Mirabel chuckled.

  ‘Ladies – this here’s Angelina, and she’s come along in the nick of time, what with Lilac coming down with the blotch and all. We needs us a full team for the Ball, and we’ll have our work cut out getting young Angelina up to speed, but she looks like a quick learner.’

  Mirabel turned to a pretty, plump girl with cascading honey blonde curls tumbling onto a filmy dress of coral coloured lace. ‘Sheraleen, I want you to take her under your wing. If I’m not mistaken, she’s a fresh ‘un. Am I right, Angelina?’

  Jo looked baffled. Mirabel laughed unpleasantly. ‘Thought so. Need the money, do you? Someone sick and you can’t pay the medical bills? That’s usually what brings girls like you to Aunty Mirabel. Am I right, or am I right?’

  ‘It’s my Mum,’ said Jo huskily.

  ‘Very sad and all that.’ Mirabel did not seem overly concerned. Indeed, she rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘Well, well, well. What a stroke of luck. Been a while since we had the genuine article in here, eh, girls. I’m not counting you little minxes what can fool some of the less perceptive punters. One or two of our more discerning gentlemen are very partial to beginners, and they do pay handsomely. Might need to let word slip out that we’ve got a new girl, all daisy fresh, then we’ll see who is the highest bidder. Lord Mandrake, perhaps. Before that, there’s some basic training. Sheraleen, take her to room six and get started – you know the ropes. I’ll be along later with some gowns for our little maiden. Zebo’s last consignment had some very fetching little numbers…’

  At the mention of Zebo Jo realised she would have to be on her guard in case he recognised her and tried to take her back. She needed to be here, not back in the Underground Shelter.

  Sheraleen smiled at Jo and led the way. Like the parlour, room six was draped to resemble an Arabian tent, but the colour scheme was light and airy – soft shades of lavender and pink decorated with silver moons. A circular bed, almost surrounded by mirrors and covered with cushions and embroidered quilts, dominated the room. There was a massage table, covered in a snowy white towel next to a shelf of creams and oils. A sunken pool, full of gorgeously scented warm water, looked so inviting, Jo just wanted to plunge right in. She could not remember the last time she had taken a bath.

  To Jo’s embarrassment Sheraleen was stripping off. Completely nude, she carefully stepped down into the water, inviting Jo to follow. Jo remembered how she and Sam had always hated the school changing rooms, but she knew she had to get past her inhibitions if her plan was going to work. She pulled off her dusty old clothes and slipped into the water.

  Jo was aware that Sheraleen was surveying her critically.

  ‘They’re called Blaschko lines,’ Jo said defensively. Yet again she launched into an explanation of the whorls and spirals that covered her body – marks that were usually barely visible, although ultra-violet light made them glow. ‘I’ve got them because I was originally one of twins, but the other baby didn’t get born, and I absorbed his or her DNA.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ smiled Sheraleen, ‘but that’s not what I was looking at. We really need to work on you. We’ll start with those eyebrows. They are very bushy. And your cuticles need softening… plus there’s lots of hard skin on your heels. And your legs are very hairy. That’s all going to have to go.’

  Jo felt affronted and defensive. ‘I don’t normally bother with all that stuff,’ she muttered.

  ‘I can tell,’ laughed Sheraleen. ‘But Madame Mirabel sets high standards for her girls.’ She closed her eyes, and spoke reverently, as if reciting a mantra. ‘Glossy hair. Glowing, fragrant skin. Bright eyes. Sweet breath. Soft lips. Elegant hands with manicured fingernails. Feet like a baby. No bristles, hard skin, scaly patches, pimples, ragged cuticles or jagged nails.’

  ‘What about the dancing lessons?’ asked Jo. ‘I’m a bit out of practice, but…’

  Sheraleen gave her a sideways look. ‘We’ll talk about pleasing the punters later,’ she said briskly. ‘And some self-defence - just in case… But first you need to get used to being tweezed, plucked, creamed and oiled. You might even come to enjoy it. Most people Overground treat their body like an old workhorse. They don’t have much option. But we take proper care of ours, so we look as fabulous as possible. We’re highly trained and expensive Companions. Our clients are proud to be seen with us, and our brains are our main asset.’

  ‘I’m confused,’ objected Jo. ‘I thought it was all about how we look, not our brains.’

  ‘If you don’t have the brains to work out how to look after your body, and how to make a client feel special, you won’t get very far in this game. There’s a lot of hungry girls Overground. ‘Course, they work like dogs up there and most of them are tired to death, look like hell and are rough as guts.’ A thought came to Sheraleen. ‘How come you’re not?’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘Rough.’

  ‘Some of it’s luck, I guess. And genes. Mum was very pretty, before... And even up there I tried to look after myself…’ Jo tailed off.

  ‘Well, down here you’ll be pampered within an inch of your life. Have you ever had a full massage?’

  Jo shook her head.

  ‘Then that’s where we’ll start. Dry yourself, then get comfortable on the massage table. Later we’ll swap round so you learn to give as well as receive. But for now, just concentrate on relaxing.’

  As Jo climbed onto the massage table, holding the bath towel tightly round her, she felt tense, uncomfortable and very shy. She was a very long way from being relaxed. What possessed her to think she could be one of Mirabel’s girls? Then she remembered Ali and Quinn, awaiting the verdict that could lead to their execution, and her resolve returned. She lay face down and let the towel slip. She closed her eyes and gave in to the unfamiliar sensation of someone’s hands on her skin.

  Sheraleen was immensely skilful, using perfumed oil that felt like liquid silk. All Jo’s tension dissolved as her muscles unknotted and she surrendered completely to a floating, dream-like languor. Her mind drifted away. A distant recollection of Smokey holding her in his arms swam into focus, and then it was gone, as was a memory of Morten shyly kissing her. At one point she was vaguely aware that Madame Mirabel had entered the room, her arms full of delicate outfits. Jo heard her tutting about rough skin and hairy legs, but Jo was beyond caring as she floated on her very own Cloud Nine.

  Eventually Sheraleen changed the rhythm, replacing the deep, slow massage strokes with a rapid chopping motion, using the sides of her hands. Jo’s thoughts gradually returned to the moment and she sat up slowly, thanking Sheraleen. She felt wonderful.

  ‘My turn!’ Sheraleen shooed Jo off the table and took her place.

  ‘I’m not sure what to do,’ said Jo doubtfully. ‘I’ve never been trained.’

  ‘Just for now, do what comes naturally, Angelina. If necessary, I’ll tell you what I want, and we’ll do some proper studying later.’

  If Jo had felt shy before, she felt doubly so now. She had never before touched anyone who was naked. To cover her confusion she sang softly, and concentrated on responding to the messages from Sheraleen’s body. As she worked she realised that in her own reality, her closeness to others mostly occurred in the realm of ideas – usually experienced through emping and deep-reading. Here, she was amazed at how much information her hands could gather through touch alone.

  Just occasionally she had glimpses of Sheraleen before she came to Madame Mirabel. Knots of pain and fear, terror even, were held in the other girl’s body; memories of distress and suffering that Jo could only sense dimly. Normally Sheraleen’s suffering would have been an open book to Jo. She had not realised how much she missed her special abilities.

  Jo lost track of time. She knew that Sheraleen had fallen asleep when the occasiona
l small grunts of pleasure gave way to little snores. She carefully placed a warm blanket over the sleeping girl, and turned her attention to the pile of clothes Mirabel had left.

  Madame Mirabel’s sense for colour and cut was as evident in this reality as in the place Jo thought of as home. At first Jo couldn’t imagine herself in any of the flimsy, semi-transparent garments, so far from her normal jeans and tops as to be like something from an alien galaxy. But it wasn’t just the styles – it was the colours. Jo had never gone in for pinks, pastels and ice-cream shades, but when she tried some on and looked in the mirror, she realised they suited her perfectly. It was her newly blonde hair that made the difference.

  She slipped on a deep rose and gold crop top with matching harem trousers. The transformation was astonishing. She was unrecognisable as Jo Lakota, the rather serious-minded, high-principled girl who spent a lot of her life feeling like an oddity. Her own mother would not have known her.

  As she stared in the mirror, Jo realised that Sheraleen was awake and watching her with frank appreciation. Jo smiled. She warmed to Sheraleen’s sweet and generous nature. She felt a stab of disloyalty, though, when she thought about her friend Sam. Since her religious conversion Sam had become very judgmental, and since her father’s stroke, she had less and less time for Jo. It didn’t help that Sam’s family thought that Titus and Lethe, with the Glory Foundation, had brought stability and prosperity, whereas Jo’s family thought that it was because of their previous organisation, VergissMeinNicht, that stability and prosperity had been compromised in the first place. They were only re-instating what they had removed, using force and fear

  ‘That scowl has to go,’ observed Sheraleen wryly. ‘You will have to learn to think beautiful thoughts at all times.’