Paper Children (Phoebe Harkness Book 3)

by James Fahy

  “Girls,” Coldwater smiled in greeting as she reached us. She was also the kind of woman who called other women ‘girls’. She shivered a little. “So awfully cold this morning, it’s simply unbearable isn’t it? But look at you two, already here, you eager beavers.” She tilted her head at Cloves, an oddly birdlike movement. “What would I do without you, Veronica? Never has a finger been more on the pulse of our city.”

  Cloves smiled easily. Not the tight, forced smile she reserved for me, but the fluid, practised sweetheart smile she was so famous for on the DataStream shows.

  I bit my tongue. I could imagine Cloves’ finger on the pulse only in a scenario where she was throttling someone and cutting off their arteries.

  “And Dr Harkness,” Coldwater turned to me, bright-eyed as a squirrel. “Our secret weapon.” Her tone was playful. “Such a bright mind. I hear only good things about your work in Blue Lab. We really need to get you out more.” She patted me on the arm. “Raise your profile, darling. Show you off a bit. You are our GO Liaison officer after all, good PR. I think I’d like to have you involved with the Fangfest.”

  My eyes widened. This had come out of nowhere. “The Fangfest?”

  Coldwater nodded, smiling. “Yes dear. Such a wonderful opportunity, showing how GOs and humans can co-exist. The current regime in the District is awfully progressive, don’t you agree? I think we’re making leaps and bounds.” She turned and flapped a hand at the driver, who was still standing by her car. She leaned into the vehicle.

  “You’ve met Dove of course,” Coldwater turned back to me. “Such a bright and lovely boy, don’t you agree? Just what this city needs.”

  Clearly she knew I’d visited Sanctum. Coldwater rarely missed a trick. And she was making it clear to me that she knew.

  “This festival idea of his for Halloween, mardi-gras with fangs? Just… inspired,” she nodded. The driver had hurried over, and I saw she was carrying a cardboard tray filled with Styrofoam cups.

  “Thank you Paula,” she said. “I brought coffees,” she explained to us, a hint of mischief in her voice. “I know everyone’s ‘white-tea this’ and ‘kale-smoothie that’ right now, but to hell with trends. It’s too cold, don’t you agree? Veronica, yours is the double-espresso with almond shot.”

  Cloves took the coffee with good grace.

  Coldwater thrust a cup at me. “Doctor, I wanted you to try this.” She sounded enthusiastic. “Hazelnut mochaccino. Honestly it’s heavenly, I can’t get enough of it. I thought of you immediately.”

  “Director, when you say ‘involved with Fangfest’-” I began hesitantly, feeling my stomach sink, but she flapped her hands at me as I took the coffee.

  “Oh don’t worry about that, I’ll arrange all the finer details. Leave it to me. Nothing too involved, just a visible presence at one or two of the midnight screenings, that sort of thing. A couple of decent photo ops for the press. I’ll ping you later about it, see what we can open up in your schedule.”

  She looked over at Cloves, sipping her coffee as Paula the driver retreated silently.

  “I know you must be busy with the horrible vampire deaths recently, and now this poor girl, such terrible timing all round.” She sounded both sympathetic and inconvenienced. “Where are we on that?”

  “Director?” Cloves asked.

  “Melodie Cunningham Bowls,” Coldwater said lightly. “She is our top priority. It’s awfully important that you find her, and quickly.” She sipped her coffee. “Mmm… delicious. And alive please. I trust you are supressing the media on this, darling. It will be simply unacceptable for this to get out.”

  “Of course,” Cloves nodded. If anyone could control the media, it was Veronica Cloves. “Although you should know, Director, that the Cunningham Bowls, while they may want this done under the radar, have their limit. There have been vague threats of going public.”

  “All the more reason to find her then. Bring her in. To me, specifically please. I want this done right. Neat and tidy.”

  “And… the other girl,” I interjected. Coldwater blinked at me.

  “The Winterbourne girl,” I elucidated. “The second child to go missing, it’s why we’re all here now, right? This is where she was last seen, this morning.”

  “Oh of course,” Coldwater smiled. “Her too, poor lamb. All efforts! But your top priority is the Cunningham Bowls girl. You know how these things are with missing persons. The more time elapses, the slimmer the odds of a satisfactory result. Everything else on hold, these ‘vampire deaths’…” She shrugged, “…may simply be infighting, you know Cabal’s stance on that. I want all eyes on this child. The others are not important.” She toasted us with her cardboard cup, a whiff of hazelnuts and friendly threats. “Vampires torn to pieces are one thing, terribly messy business, but there is nothing more powerful than the love of a parent for a child, don’t you agree? We can justify almost anything in the name of our loved ones.”

  “You’re worried about what the Cunningham Bowls will do.” Cloves laced her fingers around her own cup. She hadn’t taken a sip yet. “Cabal have several contracts with PAPER, if I’m not mistaken. We can’t simply order a gag on them?”

  Coldwater’s eyelashes fluttered as though momentarily scandalised. “Remember who we are, dear. We are servants. Servants of the people. We do not gag, we guide.”

  “Like how we guide the press?” I said before I could stop myself.

  “The press, my dear Doctor Harkness, is a mill of whispers and worry,” she replied smoothly. “Children making up stories to entertain and scare themselves. Banging rocks together to make sparks if they can.” Her pale eyes met mine. Her face was still smiling, but they were sharp as pins. “Is it wrong to seek to dampen the tinder? We don’t want the good people of the city catching fire.”

  Or having any light to see by in the darkness either, I thought to myself. Fire illuminates as well as burns. But I kept this thought to myself. I had no desire to be blacklisted for backchat.

  “It’s important that the vampires’ Halloween carnival goes ahead as planned,” Coldwater insisted. “We have spent a great deal of time building bridges, and this is a wonderful fang-pride opportunity for New Oxford. In order for that to happen, and to happen smoothly, certain elements of the city who are, shall we say, ‘less fond’ of our Genetic Other neighbours, need to be resting easy, and the Mankind Movement will certainly not do that when their own children are missing and the air is filled with ridiculous rumours of monsters.” Coldwater gave her coffee cup a swirl, shaking her head a little sadly. “We lose the festival and we lose the trust we have built with Dove and his people. We also, as Servant Cloves so admirably bluntly puts it, risk losing the expertise and backing we have come to enjoy from not only PAPER but several other important companies who carry much weight in the city. Goodness knows we are still struggling to obtain renewed negotiations with Scott Industries, following the death of Marlin Scott.”

  This was new to me. So, Oscar Scott, the new heir to the fortunes of the richest family in our city, was not playing ball with Cabal? I smirked a little to myself, but managed to hide it with my coffee cup. Good for him. His father had great ties with Cabal. His father had also been a bigoted insane old man with a messiah complex. All three of us here knew this. He had left me and Cloves in a room full of the Pale to die after all, and Coldwater had been hoodwinked into helping him set the whole thing up. Unlike his father, Oscar Scott was most certainly not a Mankind Movement supporter.

  Cloves filled the director in on the witness statement from the homeless man, recounting the abduction of Cora Winterbourne.

  If the idea of demonic and angelic disputes on the river by the ruins of Oxford Castle fazed Coldwater, it didn’t show. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Bring the witness in,” she said amiably. “I’ve already had the statement he made to the police station erased. We don’t want him wandering about the streets spreading these silly rumours, do we?”

&nbs
p; “He’s already in the car,” Cloves agreed. “So I take it you put no merit on these imaginings, Director?”

  Coldwater tittered. “The only thing infernal here, my dear, is the calorie count in this coffee. Luckily, I have hot yoga at three. One must keep one’s heath, even at my age.” She shook her head dismissively. “Wild speculation is a waste of everyone’s energy. Examine this scene, report back to me as soon as possible. There are any numbers of monsters and people in silly costumes in the streets, dressed oddly and fantastically. It’s carnival week, don’t you know.”

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. Coldwater was gesturing to the Cabal Ghosts over at Cloves’ car. “Follow me back to the Liver Compound, bring the witness.” She nodded over to them, commandeering Cloves’ quartet of Ghost agents.

  “I haven’t processed him yet,” Cloves frowned. “I’ll arrange to have him brought in once he’s been through the paperwork, and possibly a shower.”

  “Oh pish, I’m headed to HQ now anyway, it’s on my way. You have this scene to deal with, sharpish too. We want results now, Cloves.” She had finished her coffee and crushed the cup lightly in one hand. “We all have to do our part, or we’ll all be in rather a mess, right?”

  Cloves nodded, finally taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Did I get your order right?” Coldwater trilled. “I can never remember how you take it.”

  “Bitter,” Cloves replied quietly. She smiled sweetly. “Just how I’ve come to expect it.”

  “Oh wonderful,” Coldwater’s eyes never left Cloves. “Do drink up, dear. Don’t let it get cold. I don’t know about you, but I hate when I’m looking forward to something being just the ticket, and then finding it’s gone off. Such a waste to throw it away.”

  They’re not talking about coffee, I thought to myself, feeling super awkward. It was like watching two peacocks fighting by displaying their tails. I took my phone out of my pocket, mainly to have something distracting to look at. The screen told me I had one text message, from a withheld number.

  “Excuse me a moment, this could be important.” I stepped away from them towards the railings, not giving a fig whether it was correct protocol to ever step away from a director without permission.

  The message flashed up on my screen.

  ‘Darling Doc H. I hear you’re chasing the Divine and Profane. Me too! Small world. Word to the wise, to make it a fair game for all. Do your homework. Corinthians. If you want to read up about a subject, where’s the best place to do it? Head there now and you might learn something. Happy hunting!’

  There was no sign off, no number to trace. I frowned at my phone, glancing back at the two women.

  “I um… I have to go,” I said. Both of them looked at me questioningly. I held my phone up, shaking it a little, as though offering proof. “Griff and Dee, they need me back at the lab. Might be a development.” I surprised myself by how easily I lied to both my boss and my boss’ boss. I seemed to be getting better at it.

  Cloves nodded. “I’ll finish up here, Harkness, you call me the minute you get to the lab, understood. I want information we can use.”

  Don’t we all? I thought, but nodded.

  Chapter 11

  The bright autumn morning had dimmed, and twenty minutes later, Lucy and I were driving through the city under glowering grey skies which were beginning to threaten rain. The sky hunkered down menacingly, clouds almost grazing the rooftops and spikes of New Oxford, and in the newly subdued light, the usual warm golden stone of the buildings flanking the streets seemed muted and shadowy.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” I said, as we turned off the High, weaving our way through morning shoppers and crowds bundled against the cold in scarfs and woolly hats. It had become so dim, almost a second twilight, that many of the cars on the roads had their headlights on. “Cloves sent a car to bring me to the bridge, but I didn’t want them bringing me back. You know full well they report every last little detail back to her.”

  “No problem, Doc,” Lucy nodded. “You know I’m always up for a field trip. Lab is crowded these days with Griff and Dee trying to out-nerd each other.” She smirked. “How can two good looking, super-smart guys like that be such hopeless geeks? We’re still trying to match a name to the trace DNA evidence you found on the rooftop.” She frowned in mock-seriousness. “But it’s time-consuming and there’s not much else to do while it runs through the systems. When I left, they were discussing World of Warcraft… again.”

  I couldn’t supress a smile.

  “But can I ask why we’re sneaking off to the library of all places?” She pouted a little. “I was hoping for a slightly more exciting field trip.”

  “Someone told me to go there,” I explained. “I got a strange text message, pointing us to the Bod.”

  The Bodleian Library, Oxford’s crown jewel, is vast and impressive. It’s not only a stunning building to look at, but also one of the oldest libraries in Europe. It’s the largest in all Britainnia now that the British Library down in London is gone. Most of London is gone, come to think of it. I’ve heard rumours that large parts of it are still on fire, even this long after the apocalypse.

  The Bod houses more than twelve million items, vast reserves of which are kept below ground in an impressive subterranean storage. Since the world imploded, the importance of the place was never lost on me. Everything we know about the old civilisation is there, the only history we still have. Lucy had disagreed with me in the past on this, pointing out that we still have the DataStream at our fingertips. But the DataStream is controlled information. Cabal’s spoon-fed facts. Give me an actual book any day. I trust what people long dead wrote more than I trust government screening.

  The text message had told me to go where you go to do your homework.

  We pulled up beside the Radcliffe Camera, perhaps the most iconic of New Oxford’s landmarks, its circular, domed immensity squatting like some kind of stunning stone wedding cake before us. The sky pressed down darkly atop it, clouds grey and blackening by the second.

  “It’s going to piss down,” I muttered, rather unromantically. You could feel the promise of rain in the air. Leaves were blowing in great dry droves across the cobbles between the Rad Cam and the impressive looming walls of the Bod, occasionally whipping into playful little swirls and whispering tornadoes.

  “A text from who?” Lucy wanted to know. She sounded excited. “How mysterious you are, Doc. Do you think it could be Allesandro?”

  “Allesandro has never called me ‘darling’, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to leave little happy ‘x’s at the end of a text.’ I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve no idea who… yet. And I couldn’t trace or reply, I tried. But whoever it is, they clearly know enough to hack a phone and cover their tracks. And they seem to know more than we do about what’s going on. The suggestion was to come here if hunting things divine and profane. Angels and demons to you and me.”

  “You do know we could be being lured here into a trap, right?” Lucy followed me away from the Rad Cam and towards the library, a great vaulting archway which would lead us into the inner courtyard, or quadrangle, of the Bodleian Library. Reaching back and locking her parked car with a click of her key fob.

  “It’s mid-morning at a university library, Luce,” I reasoned. “Half of the city’s GOs are asleep, and no-one is going to try anything nefarious with so many people around. The place is always swarming with students.”

  I liked being around the library in daylight. Last time I’d had reason to come here, it had been night and a librarian had been decapitated. I was surprised they hadn’t revoked my membership for that.

  Perhaps ‘swarming’ was too strong a word, I thought, as we passed beneath the archway and entered the main open courtyard of the building. I could see a couple of studious types milling around with armloads of books through the opposing arch which led away towards the theatre. A gaggle of girls passed by, clearly Helsings preparing for whatever tonight’s Fangfest offering was going to
be. You could tell by the almost painted on jeans they wore and their vamp loving T-shirts. One carried the Fangfest logo, the other, a grey top depicting a stylised bird in black ink, wings outstretched, the official logo of Sanctum. I’d first seen it on Allesandro’s business card. Since then, Helsings everywhere wore it, some even had it tattooed.

  I watched them hurry inside, clearly in agreement with us that the heavens were due to open, jostling each other and chattering amongst themselves. I wondered briefly what the collective term for a group of Helsings was. A flock? A swarm? The glass doors set in the venerable stone entranceway arch swished closed behind them. A thirst, I decided. A thirst of Helsings.

  There was no one else around outside. The main library doors to our left, behind the large statue of the library’s noble namesake, Bodley himself, were closed against the cold, and opposite them, across the quadrangle, I could just about spy whichever librarian was on gatehouse duty. She was sitting huddled in the ticket booth which was incorporated into the archway leading out into the street, curly dark hair tight against her head, restrained as it was under a woolly hat with ear flaps. She was fighting against the October weather in a thick coat so big and puffy she seemed wrapped in a duvet, and reading a paperback firmly clasped in mittened hands. I wondered if the librarians drew straws to determine who got gatehouse duty in the winter. It looked a cold task.