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

by Silk, Avril

  Quinn, the image of a disreputable, battle-scarred pirate, stared at her intently, and it was not in a pleasant way.

  Smokey whispered urgently to Quinn, who laughed drily. ‘You mean do a swap with the Princess? What’s the fracking point of that?’

  ‘To have one of ours on the inside.’

  ‘What makes you think this girl, whoever she is, is one of ours?’ Smokey was silent. ‘Leave the thinking to the grown-ups, kid.’

  Smokey’s eyes smouldered dangerously, his expression mutinous. Quinn laughed, mocking him.

  ‘That’s enough, both of you.’ Reg spoke with an easy authority. ‘I make the plans round here, and don’t you forget it.’ He walked over to Jo. His face swam into focus and she tried to think straight.

  Jo’s voice was croaky. ‘Reg?’

  Reg turned to Smokey. ‘Did you tell her my name?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. Like I said, she knows stuff.’

  ‘You made it through the fog, then, girlie.’ Reg’s voice was matter-of-fact, cool and flatly neutral. Jo realised she was not considered trustworthy.

  ‘The fog?’ Somehow words were proving very difficult.

  ‘Happens to us all first time down here. Yet another of the bastard Rainmaker’s little gifts. Everyone has to find their own way through it. You get used to it. So what brings you to Hades? Who sent you? And no made-up stories – just facts, girlie. I can sniff out a lie quicker than beer turns to… well, never mind. So what’s your name?’

  ‘Jo Lakota.’

  There was a sudden stillness in the room, as if everyone was holding their breath.

  Finally Reg broke the silence. ‘So, Jo Lakota. Who sent you here?’

  ‘The priest. Ben – Benjamin Bradley. He said to tell you…’ she faltered, saddened by the memory of Ben’s death.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said, Tell Reg. They found me. I told them nothing. Then he died.’

  There was another long silence, broken only by the sound of a woman quietly crying.

  At last Reg spoke. ‘Smokey said you tried to heal Ben.’

  ‘Yes. But it was too late. And I’m still learning, so sometimes it just doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Better practice a hell of a lot more, then. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.’

  Jo felt a flicker of hope. Reg was talking as if she might be allowed to help.

  ‘Keep talking. Tell me about yourself, girlie.’

  Jo hesitated. ‘None of you will believe me.’

  ‘Tell them what you told me,’ said Smokey dismissively. ‘They could do with a laugh.’

  Again, she faltered. Everyone in the room was watching her intently. She decided she had to tell them everything if she ever wanted to get out of that room alive.

  ‘I’m not Jocasta Lakota. My name is Johanna. My mother is not Lethe, but her sister, Ali.’

  At that, the atmosphere in the room changed. The hostility became palpable. Jo felt naked and alone and worse – dishonest. She had told the truth and clearly no-one had believed her.

  Smokey looked at her again. ‘Tell them about Doctor Stigmurus, liar,’ he taunted. ‘That’s the best bit.’

  Jo realised that Smokey’s moment of believing her was history. He looked at her with cold contempt as she ploughed on. ‘Where I’m from he used to be a tyrant. Now he works very hard to make the world a better place.’

  And at that Reg guffawed. The entire room was in uproar. At first the people had looked angry at even the mention of the Doctor’s name, but now they were just amused by the idea of him doing good.

  Quinn, grinning from ear to ragged ear, wiped a tear from his one good eye. He eyed Jo again, and instantly cracked up laughing again. Once he could finally contain himself, he said, ‘If my Ali had a daughter, I think I’d know!’ He looked around the room, raising his hands as he did, and instantly everyone laughed. Even Reg raised a conceding eyebrow in his direction. And with that, Quinn burst into song.

  I’ve known her since the bombs fell back in ’63,

  I found her in a wasteland underneath a blackened tree,

  She was seventeen years old with eyes of purest green,

  I carried her upon my back ‘til we reached Sanctuary.

  Quinn suddenly fixed Jo with a steely glare stronger than Crazy Em’s.

  She’s been with me in every way, enduring everything

  Saved my life a dozen times and taught me how to sing

  Now you’re telling me my Ali is like her evil twin?

  If that is true, Reg is the Pope and I’m the fracking King!

  And at that, he roared with robust laughter and smartly stamped his feet. He drew a flashing, silver sword and waved it above his head, keeping time.

  She’s an Atomic Bombshell Warrior in 1984

  She’s all that’s good about the world

  that used to be before

  An Erotic Bombshell Warrior, the woman I adore

  She’d rather die than take a life

  or persecute the poor

  An A-tom-ic

  E-rot-ic

  Bombshell!

  By now people were clapping along with him, hollering along at the end of each line, laughing and whooping. Jo looked around imploringly but everyone was mocking her. Some of them were dancing. But Quinn was just getting started. He could clearly sing Ali’s praises all night long.

  All the time I’ve known her she has been a shining light

  She can be a bloody nightmare but she’s always in the right,

  She says the world could live as one if the workers could unite,

  And the warriors would cross the line and join us in the fight.

  She’s an Atomic Bombshell Warrior in 1984

  She’s all that’s good about the world

  that used to be before

  An Erotic Bombshell Warrior, the woman I adore

  She’d rather die than take a life

  or persecute the poor

  An A-tom-ic

  E-rot-ic

  Bombshell!

  Once the mood had sobered enough to continue, Quinn sat down heavily and looked at her with a look of weary incredulity. He pressed the point of his sword into her neck.

  We’ve been in love since ’63; you say that you’re her kid

  If she’s your mum then I’m your dad! Ha! God forbid!

  So come on, pull the other one and tell us what they did

  To make you run from luxury and wind up on the skids?

  And with that, the atmosphere in the room changed once more. Reg glared at Quinn. ‘Put away your sword, Quinn,’ he said evenly, and to Jo’s relief, Quinn obeyed. However, Jo had had enough. She felt humiliated and Quinn was not the only one who could stamp his feet!

  ‘I am not the Princess! My mother is Ali. Everyone says I’m the image of her,’ she began.

  Reg interrupted. ‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

  Jo took off the knitted hat and shook out her red curls. Her green eyes flashed. She was angry at being doubted. ‘Now do you believe me?’

  Jo heard Smokey and Reg gasp. They weren’t the only ones. Everyone was staring at her. Reg scrutinised her carefully. ‘Well now, I believe you’re related to Ali,’ he conceded eventually. ‘But that doesn’t make her your mother. More likely that doubtful privilege goes to Queen Lethe the ruddy First. Maybe you take after her. In which case we’d better shoot you now and stop wasting everyone’s time.’

  Jo felt defeated. ‘I don’t know how to convince you,’ she said at last.

  ‘It’s simple, girlie. Start by telling me how you know so much about us. Smokey says you knew his name. But you say you’re not Princess Jocasta and Quinn is adamant Ali hasn’t got a daughter. And he should know.’

  ‘I think there’s something strange happening to my memory.’ Jo chose her words carefully so that nothing she said was a lie. She was sure Reg would be true to his word and detect any deceit straight away. ‘I can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality any more. I have
dreamed about you all so many times – sometimes back in the past, in the 1950s; sometimes an alternative reality to this. Titus and Aunt Lethe are always hatching some crazy scheme to control the world; there’s always terrible danger and only the Righteous will fight against them, whether they call themselves the VMN, or the Glory Foundation. Quinn had a record shop near here…’

  ‘Had?’ Quinn’s voice was sharp. He’d noticed the past tense. Jo could have kicked herself. ‘What happened to me?’

  Jo really did not want to remember the terrible sight of Quinn’s body being pulled out of the canal at Camden Lock, but his piercing gaze demanded an answer. ‘The VMN drowned you,’ she said reluctantly.

  Quinn roared with laughter. He grabbed one of the women in a rough embrace. ‘Better practice my breast-stroke,’ he leered, and the men joined in the laughter.

  Jo was embarrassed, and struggled gamely on. ‘Mirabel’s got a soft spot for Titus and somehow she stops him growing old. He looks about fifty but really he’s ancient.’

  ‘This is better than the television!’ chuckled Reg. ‘Go on, girlie.’

  ‘I’ve been to a deserted fairground on a Native American reservation where Titus built a machine to control the weather; there’s an old gunpowder factory on the Essex marshes where Smokey held Titus prisoner… After he was rescued he repented and dedicated his life to God…’

  Smokey’s voice was incredulous. ‘Titus dedicated his life to God? Would that be the same Titus who has outlawed religion and tortures and executes priests? And if I ever did imprison him – I wish – then who’s the idiot who rescued him?’

  Jo’s voice was very small. ‘It was me, actually. Plus Reg, Mum and Dad.’

  Smokey gave a snort of incredulity. ‘Was that before or after I shot Lethe Lacuna?’

  ‘You shot her first,’ said Jo, struggling gamely on. ‘She was just about to escape in a helicopter – Sebastian was the pilot – and he let down a ladder and she was climbing up and you shot her.’

  ‘Did I finish her off?’ Smokey was openly laughing now.

  ‘Obviously not,’ said Jo haughtily. ‘After all, she’s still alive. But you wanted her dead. After what she did to your mother, then getting Bridget to work for her…’

  ‘Bridget? My sister? Work for that bitch? You must be insane.’ Smokey was suddenly very angry. His laughter stopped abruptly. ‘That’s it. You’re either a witch, or a spy or you’re crazy. Whichever way, you’re trouble. I say we shoot her, Reg.’

  ‘I don’t remember asking you, Smokey,’ said Reg sharply. He was deep in thought. He spoke briefly with Quinn, who shrugged his shoulders.

  Reg studied Jo carefully. His whole demeanour softened and when he spoke his voice was kind. ‘I think this poor lass, whoever she is, is telling the truth when she says her dreams and her memories are all muddled up. She’s not all there. Not right in the head. We don’t shoot ill people down here, Smokey. We leave that to Titus and his cronies.’

  Jo wasn’t exactly thrilled to be seen as a harmless lunatic, but had to concede it was preferable to being shot. She took comfort in the fact that whatever she said was going to be treated as delusion, so she wouldn’t have to tell any lies. She could stick to the truth, which, morality aside, she always found easier.

  Reg turned to one of the women in the group. ‘Brenda – I want you to take care of Jo. She can give you a hand. Maybe she can conjure up this healing lotus malarkey Smokey’s says she’s got. But as far as I’m concerned, if she can keep the patients’ wounds clean, tie a bandage, get a drop of soup down them and remind them that life is better than the alternative, then that’s enough to be going on with. God only knows there’s enough poor sods in the infirmary that could do with some healing. But before that, Bren, you need to tell her about Ali.’

  ‘So what do you know about me?’ asked Brenda. She had just made a cup of tea. Jo couldn’t stop shivering. Brenda wrapped her in a scratchy woollen shawl.

  Jo struggled to keep a grip as feverish thoughts swirled in her head. ‘I know Reg depends on you completely.’ Brenda looked pleased as Punch. Jo thought for a moment, and went on carefully. ‘In one of my memories, your sister runs into some trouble, and you adopt her little girl, Josie, to help out.’

  ‘That sounds about right,’ said Brenda drily. ‘My sister is a bit wild. But as far as I know she’s not pregnant. Yet. This is weird. It’s like talking to a time traveller. Any words of wisdom from the future for me?’

  Jo felt like she was skating on thin ice. She remembered how Titus managed to twist Brenda’s loyalty and discover the plans the Righteous were making. Brenda was completely unaware it was happening. ‘Don’t trust Titus,’ she said finally. ‘He’s really clever at getting into your head. Before you know it, you’re chatting away and he’s pumping you for information.’

  Brenda laughed. ‘If I ever get close enough to have a cosy chat with that murderer, I’ll put a bullet in his brain.’ She looked at Jo shrewdly. ‘You’re running a temperature, dear. You’re all flushed. Not to mention talking absolute tripe! This should help.’ She poured out a spoonful of lurid green medicine and watched as Jo swallowed it down. ‘Just the job. Now let’s get you into bed.’

  ‘Then will you tell me about Ali?’ asked Jo.

  Brenda didn’t reply. She took off Jo’s top, and was just about to slip on a fairly clean night-shirt, when she gasped out loud. ‘What happened to your skin?’

  Jo felt defensive. ‘It’s a genetic thing. Blaschko lines. Because my twin died in the womb and I absorbed their DNA…’

  ‘No – not that. Seen them before. I mean these bites!’

  ‘It was something in the bed,’ mumbled Jo. ‘Fleas, I think.’

  ‘You’ve never had the flea-fever jab?’ Jo shook her head. ‘And you’ve not built up any immunity. Wherever have you been, Jo Lakota? If that’s who you are… Some of these bites are getting infected. No wonder you’re away with the fairies.’

  She reached into a drawer, and took out a small bottle. She unscrewed the top, poured a little onto the corner of a handkerchief and dabbed gently at Jo’s rash. ‘Like gold-dust, this stuff. Medical supplies are so scarce. The buggers just issue the bare minimum. As for toiletries and cosmetics – forget it! Some of the girls find bits of make-up thrown away at Mirabel’s place, but that’s slim pickings.’ She paused, checking to see if she’d missed any spots. ‘Job done. Soon have you right as rain.’

  Jo was amazed how quickly the itching subsided. The relief she felt was like a cold shower on a burning hot day. Although her head still throbbed, she made herself concentrate.

  ‘Thanks, Brenda,’ she smiled, adding quickly, ‘And now will you tell me? About Ali?’

  ‘It’s not good news, pet,’ said Brenda carefully. ‘Ali – well, she’s the best we’ve got. She may be the Queen’s twin but she’s nothing like her. She never wanted to be a part of the Elite, but after the Rainmaker rose to power, the twins’ good looks and charming manner were exactly what he needed to create a poster family for the new royalty. But unlike sweet Ali, Lethe has a ruthless ambition and one of the things she set her heart on was one of ours. You see, Paul Lakota used to be one of the Righteous. He’s a direct descendant of the Lakota Indians, and his father Grey Wolf grew to prominence as a campaigner during the numerous nuclear testing disasters by the Rainmaker, or Titus Stigmurus as he was known back then. Young Paul was destined to become a great peacemaker in his own right, until Lethe set her sights upon him.

  It was horrible to watch; between Lethe’s seduction and Titus’s corruption, he became a twisted mockery of his former self. Before the red rain he had this special power of finding lost things, but even that’s been corrupted into making him their best spy catcher. The ‘Traitor Locator’ Reg calls him. But for years Ali has had him fooled. She operates in the very heart of the Royal Court while informing for the Righteous. She’s fed us information on everything the Vermin get up to, or at least she did. I don’t know what’s happened, but she hasn’
t checked in for over a month now. The media have reported her as being unwell and under intensive care which sadly means that she’s either a prisoner or...’

  Brenda saw Jo’s face fall and quickly added, ‘But we won’t stop trying until we find her and bring her back.’

  It was no use. Jo felt utterly bleak, despite Brenda’s attempt to comfort her. As if this sick world wasn’t rotten enough, her poor sweet mother wasn’t here either, and, between exhaustion and despair she slumped into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  Jo awoke as if no time had passed. She rose empty hearted and shuffled on the filthy coveralls without batting an eyelid, then, with a stomach full of butterflies, she stepped into the grey and gloomy corridor. The infirmary was housed in two rooms used as dormitories in World War Two. Metal sprung bunk beds lined the walls – men and boys were in one ward; women and girls in the other.

  Most of the invalids sat or lay quietly, often staring into nothing with, empty eyes and haunted expressions, but a few were chatting quietly. Occasional cries of pain, or low moans could be heard, but as soon as Jo walked through the door, the noises died away, leaving only a watchful silence. Some of the patients stared at Jo; others turned away as she approached. Only one or two of the children returned her smile. She felt completely at a loss. What was she meant to do here?

  To her intense relief Brenda bustled up. She was wearing a navy dress and a spotless white apron. The apron was the cleanest thing Jo had seen since her arrival. It was almost dazzling. Jo wondered how Brenda managed to keep it so white.

  Brenda smiled. ‘Oh, Nurse, she said, ‘just in time. Come into my office and I’ll sort you out a uniform, then give you a briefing before we do our ward round.’

  Jo obediently followed and found herself in a surprisingly well-stocked medical centre. Brenda saw her looking. ‘Left over from the Second World War,’ she explained as she sorted out a uniform for Jo to wear.

  ‘This place was originally equipped for twelve thousand people, though in practice it catered for about eight thousand. More or less the same in the other seven shelters. That’s a lot of beds. Once the nuclear wars began, there were so few survivors you’d have thought we’d have had enough for everyone. And we did, for a while. People pulled together at first and worked hard picking up the pieces. But along came the VMN, and before you know it there’s a group of rich bastards, pardon my language, pet, running things the way they like. And what they like is to live in luxury surrounded by specially chosen pretty people who they treat as entertainers, whores and lackeys. And it’s all made possible by slave labour. So some of us who didn’t fancy being lackeys or slaves, or whores, come to that, went under the radar and came underground.’