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

by Silk, Avril

  ‘And you were carrying a musical instrument…’

  His face lit up. ‘My old acoustic twelve-string! I really loved that guitar. The tone was wonderful.’

  He was lost in thought for a moment. Jo made a mental note that if she didn’t intervene, the truth seemed to return. If this newfound ability was a special talent with a short shelf-life, what on earth was it for?

  Paul interrupted her train of thought. ‘Hey, Jo, that was one heck of a dream you had! Usually dreams are all mixed up, but it’s all so real, as if you were back there with us.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ she teased. ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’

  Paul went pale for a moment, then laughed. ‘Just as well it was only a dream…’

  ‘It was vivid,’ said Jo, wondering how much to reveal. ‘At first it seemed like you were all really close friends, but…’

  Paul sighed. ‘I wish it had stayed that way, Jo. I really do. But it all went wrong. Mistakes were made. People got hurt. It makes me sad to remember.’

  Drop it, love.

  Her mother’s message was crystal clear. Yet still she lay there, immobile and expressionless.

  Mum?!

  No response. Jo sent back the only message that seemed worth sending.

  I love you, Mum.

  Jo could have sworn Ali gently squeezed her hand for a moment, but it was impossible to be sure. A half-remembered news item about a stroke victim came to her.

  Hey, Mum – once for Yes, twice for No… Does Dad know you know about Aunt Lethe pretending to be you?

  Was that one squeeze? It was so hard to tell. As she had tried so often in the past, Jo tried to deep-read Ali, but all she sensed was extreme tiredness. Jo herself was suddenly so weary she could hardly tell where her exhaustion ended and her mother’s began. It seemed as if she really had lived through the events in her dream-travelling.

  ‘I need a coffee,’ she announced. ‘I’ll go and see where Matthew and Mary have got to with my Danish pastry. See you both later.’

  Jo found her old friends in the cafeteria, engrossed in an absorbing discussion about the role of philosophy in the modern world. She sat down quietly as they bounced ideas back and forth, until Mary broke off, admonishing Matthew. ‘This poor child! She must be famished! You promised her a Danish pastry then forgot all about her!’

  Jo saw a chance to test her new power. ‘Actually, it was you who promised, Mary!’

  Mary fixed her with a gimlet eye. ‘Actually,’ she parodied, ‘it assuredly was not.’

  Interesting, thought Jo. It doesn’t work on Mary.

  What doesn’t work on Mary, young lady?

  Jo smiled slightly as she replied. ‘Something’s happened to me. I’ve developed this new ability.’

  Mary and Matthew listened attentively as Jo explained. When she was finished Mary spoke sternly to her. ‘Now Jo, you can’t just go planting false memories in people’s heads for a pastime! Trying to catch me out with a Danish pastry, for heaven’s sake!’

  Jo had the grace to blush. Matthew was following a trail of his own. ‘Confabulation!’ he announced, pausing only a second before, inevitably, offering a definition. ‘The production of fabricated, distorted or misinterpreted memories about oneself or the world.’

  ‘Do you mean lies?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Ah no. With confabulation there is no conscious intention to deceive.’

  ‘A Russian neuropsychiatrist called Sergei Korsakoff discovered the syndrome during the late 19th century,’ added Mary. ‘And before Matthew was ill we met two chaps from California who were working on the same thing… what were their names, Midge?’

  ‘Don Norman and Tim Shallice,’ came the prompt reply.

  Jo felt rather deflated. ‘So anyone can do it?’ she asked.

  ‘Advertisers try to plant ideas in our heads all the time,’ said Matthew wryly. ‘And politicians. And priests. And parents.’

  ‘Not to mention professors,’ said Mary fondly as she smiled at her husband.

  ‘That’s not the same,’ objected Jo.’ I told Dad he’d been carrying a saxophone and he gave me a whole detailed story about inheriting one from his uncle. But how could he remember something that didn’t happen?’

  ‘Perhaps he did have an uncle with a saxophone, and he fantasied about inheriting it,’ suggested Matthew. ‘Then in the end the fantasy took on a life of its own!’

  ‘How come it worked on Dad but not on you? Jo asked Mary.

  ‘How come I never get influenza and Matthew does every year, regular as clockwork?’ countered Mary. ‘Some people are more susceptible than others. This new power of yours probably won’t work on Matthew either.’

  ‘When we were dream-travelling in 1964, Matthew told me he’d just got over the flu,’ improvised Jo. ‘I remember he said he was taken to hospital.’

  Mary caught on at once. Both of them waited expectantly for his reply.

  ‘I felt like death warmed up,’ said Matthew. ‘Worst bout of influenza I have ever had. My temperature was a hundred and four. The matron on Coleridge ward said it’s a miracle I survived.’

  ‘Which hospital was that?’ queried Mary innocently.

  ‘I was visiting a friend in Taunton,’ replied Matthew.

  ‘Am I right in thinking it was your friend Harry from your old platoon?’ asked Jo.

  ‘That’s right! Harry Braithwaite. One of the best. Finest baritone I ever heard. Sang for his supper more than once. Now if you ladies will excuse me, I am going to find a television, watch the news and see what is happening in the outside world!’

  After he’s gone Mary looked quizzically at Jo. ‘To my certain knowledge he has never set foot in Taunton,’ she said with conviction, ‘and you completely invented Harry Braithwaite. And then this imaginary person starts to come to life. Interesting, but it’s hard to see much use for this particular talent… Although you could turn your hand to writing science fiction, I suppose…’

  Jo had been thinking along similar lines. ‘Maybe this is a glimpse into another dimension – and in a parallel universe Matthew really does have a musical friend called Harry Braithwaite.’

  Mary gave that idea short shrift. ‘Maybe in a parallel universe I’m the Queen of Sheba. But I can’t see how that gets us anywhere. It occurs to me that we are unique creatures in that we are blessed and sometimes cursed with imagination. We are also very open to suggestion. Our minds are fertile soil, wherein can grow weeds or wisteria. Anyway, enough of all that. Do you fancy a stroll to the viewing area?’

  ‘You mean watching operations?’ asked Jo, feeling rather squeamish.

  ‘No,’ replied Mary, with a degree of forbearance. ‘Overlooking the landing pad. With the roads impassable they’re having to use helicopters. It’s quite interesting. Suit yourself.’

  Jo knew that Mary used that offhand tone, pretending she didn’t care one way or the other, to hide her real feelings. ‘I’d love to come,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get Dad. He’d enjoy it.’

  As Jo went back towards the coma ward she had a lot on her mind. Uppermost were Ali’s almost imperceptible responses, and those two clear emps. She resolved to discuss it with Mary at the next opportunity.

  Jo’s dream journeys had left her feeling disoriented, so she diverted to the hospital shop hoping one of the helicopters had brought the daily newspapers. She wanted to reconnect with her own world.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said a smiling assistant. ‘Nothing at the moment. I heard a helicopter arrive a few minutes ago – with any luck they brought fresh supplies. Pop back later when I’ve had a chance to unpack everything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jo bought a bar of chocolate and started back to find Paul.

  She had just passed the main entrance of the hospital when she became aware of someone uncomfortably close behind her. She speeded up slightly and was disconcerted to find it made no difference. Whoever was following her was wheezing slightly, then a rasping, arid whisper made the blood in her veins turn to ice. />
  ‘Please do not run away, ma chérie …’

  Jo forced herself to turn round. A stooped, skeletal old man stood there, beaming, his thin, bony hand outstretched. ‘Olivier Anders at your service.’ Reluctantly Jo shook hands as she looked into the reptilian eyes of Lord Oleander’s double. ‘If you would be kind enough to escort me to the office of Monsieur Stigmurus, I would be most appreciative. I seem to remember he has an excellent cognac – the perfect antidote to the noisy, uncomfortable helicopter journey I have just endured.’

  Wordlessly Jo led the way to Titus’s office. Her companion wheezed and whispered at her side. ‘You are very striking, ma chérie. So young. So unspoilt. Before she became a courtesan the model for Titian’s red-headed Flora might have looked like you. You are surely related to the magnificent Lethe Lacuna?’

  ‘She’s my aunt,’ mumbled Jo.

  ‘Ah. You must be Jocasta. I have heard so much about you. An unusually gifted young woman. Perhaps, Jocasta, you would indulge an old man and allow me to take your arm? I am not as steady as I was.’

  When Monsieur Anders’ skeletal hand touched Jo’s skin she could feel her flesh creep. She forced herself to remain in control. But when the hand on her arm started to stray towards her breast she moved swiftly away. ‘Jocasta is not my name,’ she said flatly. They continued in silence until, relieved to arrive, she knocked on the door of Titus’s office.

  ‘Enter.’ Titus’s voice rang out and he appeared at the door, smiling genially. The smile did not survive for long when he saw his visitor. Jo caught a glimpse of a wood panelled room with a Persian carpet and leather button-back chairs.

  With an almost visible effort, Titus achieved civility. ‘Olly! Welcome! Thank you, Johanna, for escorting my associate. I did not realise the helicopter had arrived.’

  As Olivier Anders passed Jo, he stumbled and fell against her, pressing himself close as he did so. ‘So sorry, ma chérie. Forgive a clumsy old man.’ His words were amiable, but as he looked into Jo’s eyes his expression was cold and calculating. ‘Until next time,’ he whispered, and the two men went into the office, shutting the door behind them.

  Jo started to walk away but Titus’s voice rang out in anger, stopping her in her tracks.

  ‘If you ever touch that girl again, Anders, I promise you will regret it until your dying day. Johanna is under my protection.’

  Jo was certain that Titus intended her to hear his threat. What followed was inaudible, but Jo noticed that the door of the adjacent room was ajar and she slipped inside, hoping the partition would be thinner than the wall in the corridor.

  The adjoining wall was lined with books. Soundlessly Jo moved some of them and, straining to hear, eavesdropped shamelessly.

  Anders was in full flow. ‘Why are you dragging your feet with the formula?’ he demanded. ‘Apart from you, we are all approaching the grave before our work is done. What does your analysis tell you?’

  ‘What it has always told me. The main constituents of the formula are sacrificial blood and tears.’

  Anders sounded irritable. ‘I know that. But the mystery ingredient?’

  ‘No longer a mystery, Olly. But damn hard to acquire.’

  ‘Surely your scientists can replicate anything these days?’

  ‘Most things, yes. Love – not so easy. If it’s not the real thing the formula is useless. So who really loves you, Olly?’

  Jo observed that Titus had omitted to mention the sketch given to him by a young art student called Adolf Hitler – a sketch that was later soaked in his dying mother’s blood. The drawing was an essential part of Madame Mirabel’s mysterious formula to stop Titus growing old.

  Anders changed the subject. ‘You and that Lacuna woman remain unmarried. The Gatherers are displeased. Her power is growing and it needs reining in.’

  ‘Marriage no longer interests either of us,’ replied Titus airily. ‘I have found another way of controlling her. She is well aware I hold her life in my hands. She will co-operate.’

  ‘There is precious little evidence of co-operation to date. If she does not begin to comply, the Gatherers charged me to inform you that she will be dealt with. She is becoming expendable. Her research has failed to create or reveal the Child of Glory, and her work on harnessing the talents of those with special abilities has yielded precisely nothing. We suspect she is concealing the results of her work for her own ends.’

  ‘Of course she is. What did you expect? Nevertheless, thanks to Lethe there are chimeras all over the world who might yet be the Child,’ countered Titus. ‘The oldest are now in early adolescence and growing into their full powers. Tell the Gatherers they must be patient.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to deliver that message in person,’ sneered Anders. ‘I should warn you a rumour persists that you have, in fact, discovered the Child, and are keeping its whereabouts secret.’

  ‘To borrow from the wit and wisdom of Adlai E. Stevenson II; If they will stop telling lies about me, I will stop telling the truth about them. The rumours are false. I have not found the Child of Glory. As it happens, there is a child I am protecting. But that need not concern you or the other Gatherers. Did you come all the way here to castigate me like you would a naughty schoolboy?’

  ‘We are displeased, Titus. Do not underestimate our displeasure. We will speak of this again. But my principal reason for coming is to advance the Deadwood operation.’

  ‘In my judgment the time is not right,’ objected Titus.

  ‘In ours it is. The current US administration is resisting our advice and we are losing influence and revenue. An effective demonstration of our capabilities is well overdue. We believe you are dragging your feet, allowing sentiment and your recently discovered piety to cloud your judgment.’

  ‘Deadwood is a National Historic Monument.’

  ‘Pff! So its destruction would play a valuable part in galvanising a population that is sleepwalking to disaster. The loss of a small Gold Rush town that once was rich but now is in decline would be a terrible tragedy, of course, but perhaps even that is not a strong enough message.’

  ‘You want more?’ Titus sounded astonished and contemptuous.

  ‘We always want more. We have been considering your special connections to the area – the funfair; your laboratories; the international study centre; and now the Glory Foundation. If the nuclear incident that obliterated Deadwood also destroyed the new and prestigious Glory Foundation headquarters - oh, and a handful of tribal slums - it would divert public suspicion away from you whilst delivering a message to the politicians that we mean business.’

  ‘I have no intention of destroying my life’s work,’ said Titus acidly. ‘Do you and the others ever consider retirement? Do any of us actually need more wealth?’

  Anders sighed. ‘We do not need a sermon from Saint Titus, thank you. We may not need more wealth, but we need more time – so the formula is a necessity – and we need to tighten our grip. Our legacy is destined to be greater than your amusing diversions. You have been drifting, Titus. We need to draw you back into the fold. Naturally your responses were predicted. I am instructed to inform you that if you co-operate fully, your precious foundation will be spared – it is, after all, an effective cover for our work – but the destruction of Deadwood must be accelerated.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or we will throw you to the wolves, Titus. You will stand exposed and alone, facing poverty and disgrace. We will withdraw our protection, and reveal your past, your wealth and your corruption to a world that is increasingly sickened by the activities of rich, wicked, old men.’

  ‘Such as you and the other Gatherers. You forget I can drag you down with me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Earlier you mentioned a child you are protecting. We are already actively seeking the whereabouts of this infant. As you must realise, we will undoubtedly succeed in our search. If, as you say, the child is not the Child of Glory, it matters not one whit to us if it lives or dies. Presumably you, however, would prefer t
hat it lives.’

  The threat was not lost on Titus. The Gatherers would kill Bella as easily as swatting a fly. As they had agreed, Titus knew nothing of Mirabel’s plans for Bella’s safekeeping, so should he ever be tempted to use the little girl’s love to complete the formula to prolong his life he would not succeed. Unwittingly, in an attempt to confuse the Gatherers, his next words accidentally stripped away one layer of the protection Mirabel had engineered by asking Mrs Loveridge to treat Bella as Billy. ‘If you harm a hair on that boy’s head,’ he began, only to be interrupted by Anders. His words made Jo’s blood run cold.

  ‘Protect him well, Titus. Soon the cull will begin, and despite your sentimental preferences, any child that might conceivably fulfil the prophecy and lead the ragbag army of Rainbow Warriors against us will be extinguished.’

  Jo was reeling. She had completely misunderstood, believing that the search for the Child was motivated by a desire to harness his or her power and glory. It had never occurred to her that the search was meant to end in carnage.

  Titus’s voice was acerbic. ‘I imagine you will relish the role ascribed to King Herod; slaughtering the innocents. Although with you at the helm, their innocence will die before they do.’

  ‘There is no necessity for cheap melodrama, old comrade. If you co-operate with us regarding Deadwood, your foundation and your protégé – and you - will be spared. In the great scheme of things, the population of Deadwood – a couple of thousand at most - is a small price to pay to ensure the world continues on the course we have set.’

  ‘You forget the Lakota,’ reminded Titus.

  ‘On the contrary. I do not forget them – but I fully intend to. You were not always so squeamish, Titus,’ sighed Anders. ‘Collateral damage is always regrettable. Some scholars believe the week-long Siege of Baghdad in 1258 resulted in up to a million deaths. Hulagu Khan brooked no weakness and neither will the Gatherers.’

  The two men must have moved because their words became inaudible. Jo took the opportunity to get away. She emped Mary.

  Sorry, Mary – something’s come up. Talk later.