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

by Silk, Avril

  ‘I was thinking about politics,’ confessed Jo.

  ‘Bad idea. Our gentlemen like companions who are light and bright and witty.’

  Jo pulled a face. ‘You mean they like bimbos,’ she said bluntly.

  Sheraleen looked offended. ‘Do you think I’m a bimbo?’ she asked, her face unsmiling.

  Jo apologised. ‘Not at all. But everyone’s always telling me I’m too serious because I enjoy discussing serious things…’

  ‘And so you can – just as long as you are vivacious and entertaining. And never forget that all the pretty clothes and witty words and beauty treatments are only part of what we do. Hopefully Lord Mandrake will chose you. He’ll be very considerate.’

  Jo picked up an underlying, unspoken warning. ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  Sheraleen hesitated before replying. ‘Worst case is Lord Oleander.’ Her face darkened. ‘He likes to hurt his companions. I don’t mean fooling around hurting; I mean really hurting.’

  Jo drew a deep breath. ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘Tell me all I need to know.’

  ‘Angelina! Stop daydreaming and concentrate!’

  ‘Sorry, Sheraleen. It’s just I never realised there were so many things to do with a fan.’

  ‘It will all add to your mysterious allure when you go to the Ball. So pay attention.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s all been so… intense.’

  ‘So what were you thinking about? Obviously not pleasure.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking about my idea of pleasure. I wish I was curled up on the window seat, reading a book and wearing my sensible old jeans instead of this corset contraption. With my cat, Calico.’ Sheraleen’s expression stopped Jo in her tracks. ‘What? Don’t you like cats?’

  ‘How would I know? I’ve never seen one. I thought they were extinct!’

  Jo cursed inwardly. How could she have been so careless? She had been at pains to distance herself from any rumours Sheraleen might have heard about the crazy girl from another dimension. She’d invented a whole life Overground, and this was a major slip-up.

  Jo thought fast. ‘Calico’s not a real cat!’ she laughed lightly. ‘Mum knitted her for me when I was little.’

  Sheraleen still looked puzzled. ‘What is knitted?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Jo reached for the chopsticks that had been an important part of learning about geishas and their years of training. A basket of rainbow ribbons served as yarn and she cast on a dozen stitches. She knitted a few rows and proudly displayed them to Sheraleen.

  Jo’s mentor was less than impressed. ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ she asked. ‘It looks very tedious.’

  ‘To relax and save money… you can make your own clothes…’

  ‘Like the ones you were wearing when you arrived?’

  Jo smiled, conceding the point.

  ‘I know a better way to relax,’ said Sheraleen, and she gently placed her hand on Jo’s thigh. Immediately Jo recoiled. Sheraleen sighed. ‘Still nothing?’

  Jo considered the question. It had taken a while, but she eventually realised that Sheraleen was attracted to her. She really didn’t want to hurt her feelings. ‘It’s me,’ she said at last. ‘I’m just not ready. I suppose I’m a late developer.’

  ‘No-one believes you’re sixteen,’ said Sheraleen bluntly. ‘So you’re not a late developer. And I can tell you don’t really want to be a companion. And I’m pretty sure you’re not called Angelina. So what’s really going on?’

  Jo longed to tell Sheraleen the truth, but it was too risky. ‘I have to go to the Ball,’ was all she would say.

  ‘Then you will need to act your socks off,’ stated Sheraleen, ‘and start believing the part you’re going to play.’ She grabbed hold of Jo’s arm, and led her to a full length mirror. ‘Do you remember what a mouse you were when you arrived? Now look at you.’

  The blonde hair still came as a surprise to Jo. But that was only a small part of it. Sheraleen was right. In just a few days she had been transformed. Her skin glowed and her eyes shone. Her movements were more graceful and her bearing was poised and elegant.

  Sheraleen watched Jo studying her reflection. ‘Look, Angelina,’ she said frankly. ‘Being shy will go down very well at the Ball. You’ll come across as innocent because you are. But once that’s gone, you’ll need to work really hard or you’ll be kicked out of here back to where you came from. Then what will happen to your mother? I’d rather make my living here, than in the factories Overground. The money’s good, and...’

  Jo interrupted. ‘I know – Madame Mirabel says it often enough. You’ll never go hungry if you know how to please a rich man.’

  ‘True, but I wasn’t just thinking about pleasing men. I was thinking about you. Who turns you on?’

  Jo blushed. ‘There’s a boy I know… Sm….’ Jo thought better of it and used Smokey’s real name. ‘Jacob…’

  ‘Did you think he would be your first one?’

  ‘Maybe. But not for ages yet.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for? Permission? Wedding bells? The Age of Consent? Is he a virgin as well, this Jacob of yours?’

  ‘Um… no.’

  ‘Just as well. Two clueless people – that’s a recipe for disaster.’

  ‘People can learn together,’ argued Jo.

  ‘They can. But it’s risky. Might get lucky, but might start out on the wrong foot entirely. Anyway in his case, that boat’s already sailed. So what else is stopping you?’

  ‘I like him more than he likes me.’ Jo’s words were hesitant. ‘There’s this other girl he fancies… Beth…’

  ‘I bet she can’t hold a candle to you,’ said Sheraleen loyally.

  ‘Maybe. But she is very pretty.’ Jo remembered a glimpse of Smokey and Beth on a bed in an underground city. ‘I saw them together once –‘

  ‘Oooh! A Peeping Tom!’

  Jo felt incredibly uncomfortable. Another image came back to haunt her; Lucy and Zebo falling into each other’s arms, half-crazy with desire. At the time she had turned tail and fled. The emotions were too raw; too complex. But if she was honest, she had felt excitement as well. And curiosity. She flushed at the memory, and her body grew warm.

  ‘I’m not a Peeping Tom. It upset me to see them together. But yes, Jacob turns me on.’

  ‘Then think of him when things get difficult. Whatever gets you through the night. Meanwhile, I fancy a drink. How about you?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  When she was alone Jo returned to the mirror. Her outfit for the Ball was lying on the bed and she picked it up, holding it against herself. Once again Madame Mirabel had surpassed herself. The dress was very simple; almost demure. It was made of pale cream shantung silk, edged with gold lace. The cut was Oriental – high necked and figure hugging, with a split from hem to mid-thigh that revealed and concealed in equal measure. A golden filigree necklace completed the outfit. As Jo twirled around she knew she could appear innocent, then wanton, and that this would make her irresistible to the men she needed to target.

  A matching evening bag contained perfume and cosmetics as well as two things Mirabel had described as indispensable. ‘Item one. A little pill in case the gentleman gets a bit over-excited and plays rough.’

  Jo had a question. ‘How do I get him to take the pill?’

  ‘It ain’t for him, stupid. It’s for you. To take the pain away so you can keep going. Item two. A dear little whistle to blow in case things go seriously wrong and the gentleman turns really nasty. But mostly I expect my girls to use their wits and charm to get out of tricky situations – if we starts embarrassing the customers willy-nilly, there’ll soon be nilly-willy and that’s not good for business.’

  Next to the bag was a silk fan and a gilded lace mask. ‘Practise using both,’ advised Mirabel, ‘but on the night stick to one or the other - the mask, probably. Lends a certain mystique. Keep the buggers guessing. There’s a lot of interest in you, my dear. And you’re turning into a cr
acking little dancer – one of the best. Nice and natural.’ Jo was flattered. She’d had ballet lessons when she was little, but had lost interest as she grew older. Now she was really enjoying the graceful, seductive routines Sheraleen taught her. ‘The bidding’s neck and neck at the moment between Lord Mandrake and Lord Oleander. You’ll have to make a special fuss of both of them, but I’ll keep them in the dark until the last minute, right after the votes have been counted and we knows whether the prisoner gets freedom or the firing squad. Then the party really gets going.’

  Mirabel had seen Jo wince at the thought of Ali and Quinn facing their executioners, but had misunderstood. ‘That’s right, dear. Act as coy as you like. They’ll enjoy that.’

  Sheraleen was back, with a decanter of ruby wine and two glasses. ‘Better hang your dress up – wouldn’t do to spill anything on it before Saturday. Madame Mirabel would go ballistic. Now – say when.’

  ‘When.’

  ‘Really? That’s just a drop!’ Sheraleen continued filling Jo’s glass. As Jo protested, realisation dawned. ‘Don’t tell me. You don’t drink, either. Were you a nun before you came here?’

  Jo laughed. ‘Wine’s expensive up there, you know. Dad tried making his own, out of potatoes, but it was vile. Gave me a terrible headache.’

  ‘Well, this is going to be a treat. Have a sip.’

  Jo had never tasted anything so delicious. Bursts of flavour filled her mouth. She tasted grapes and raspberries; chocolate and smoke. As she slowly savoured the wine a wonderful warmth spread through her body. She held out her empty glass. ‘Mmm. More, please.’

  By way of an answer Sheraleen drank deeply of the wine, then came over to Jo, drawing her close. She placed her lips on Jo’s and let the wine trickle into Jo’s mouth.

  ‘Looks like wine’s a non-starter, then,’ said Sheraleen stoically as she handed Jo a damp flannel. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  By way of an answer Jo was noisily sick again. ‘What happened?’ she gasped when she finally stopped retching.

  ‘You had some wine; we kissed; you threw up.’ Sheraleen was smiling ruefully. ‘I’ve had more flattering reactions.’

  ‘Sorry – I’ve never had wine before. Or, um, kissed a girl. And nothing else happened?’

  ‘Absolutely zero. I promise you.’ Sheraleen sighed. ‘So how we’re going to get you through Saturday night, I just don’t know. You can’t puke all over Lord Mandrake or Lord Oleander. So you mustn’t drink. But if you don’t drink you’ll be so uptight the client will want a refund. If they don’t get their money’s worth, there will be hell to play.’

  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 b
anish 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.