Paper Children

by James Fahy

  Cloves listened quietly to my recollection of events. She had been forced to slow to a stately forty anyway. The wide strip of St Giles was bustling as ever. The vampire bars, which were always busy on a regular night, thronged with flocks of vampires and adoring humans alike, were even more crowded due to Fangfest. The entire length of the Crimson Mile was festively lit with neon Halloween pumpkins on long strings, like lanterns at Chinese New Year. They crisscrossed back and forth between the trees on either side of the dark road, turning the wet tarmac beneath into a sparkling funhouse mirror. From every lamppost, long Fangfest banners fluttered like red tongues in the darkness.

  “So, demon-clown-Freddy-Kruger-monster.” she summarised as the car growled to a halt outside the façade of Sanctum, the Eagle and Child. “Great. I’ll put that in my report to Coldwater. She’ll be delighted. I imagine my next coffee will be even more bitter, if not poisoned.”

  Unbuckling her seatbelt, she turned to look me over.

  The outfit Lucy had brought me from my flat was, in my mind, reasonable business-chic eveningwear. A black suit, flared trousers, dressy but still Ally McBeal enough to make me look like I was here for business not pleasure.

  I could tell by Cloves’ disdainful stare that in her eyes I was wearing a bin-liner.

  “Holy Christ’s chapstick,” she complained, rolling her eyes.

  I bit my tongue. Cloves herself was wearing a sleeveless, backless evening gown which shimmered in hundreds upon hundreds of tiny black rhinestones. To me, it looked as if she was wearing caviar, but undoubtedly it was haute-couture of the highest order.

  “I’ll try not to vomit on you and cramp your style,” I growled. “You know, with the head concussion and all.”

  “A splash of colour, even stomach acid, might actually improve that drab garb.” Her lip curled. “Honestly Harkness, you look like you’re attending a funeral, not a promotional wine and dine. Possibly your own.”

  “I shouldn’t need to remind you, but we’re headed into a vampire club,” I told her, climbing out of the car. At least it had finally stopped raining. “There will be vampires. The most amazing, stylish, fashionable human in the world…” I gave her a pointed, judgemental look. “…Still looks like old dishwater standing next to any one of those arseholes.”

  Cloves slammed her door, swishing away in an oily spill of glitter. I smirked a little to myself, delighted to have scored a point.

  “OLD dishwater,” I repeated with emphasis. Whatever painkillers my supervisor had given me must be pretty good as, while I wasn’t a hundred percent, I felt a lot better than when I had woken up. “Shall we go and schmooze with the immortals then?”

  Chapter 15

  Sanctum, usually a bustling nightclub filled with darkness, dry ice, leather, sweat and hormones, was closed to the general ravenous public this evening.

  Its cavernous subterranean space had been reserved instead for a private party of a mere three hundred, celebrated people-of-note, GO supporters who moved in the right circle, and of course plenty of press, both paper and DataStream. The vast church-like interior was bathed in a soft blue glow so icy and deep it could have been ultraviolet, lending the place the shadowy air of a frozen ice sculpture.

  It wasn’t ultraviolet of course. You could tell this by the fact that the many vampire waiters and waitresses threading amongst the well-heeled crowds were distinctly not on fire.

  We’re always studying the GOs, learning new things about how they work and how they’re put together. But vampire flesh is ridiculously sensitive to UV light and will catch fire after only a few seconds of exposure. I’d learned this first hand when I’d had my first direct run in with the Pale and been infected. Allesandro had carried me into Blue Lab, along the ultraviolet corridor which both gave the place its name and served as a last line of defence should any vampire break in.

  He had indeed set on fire, and burned quite badly. But vampires were made of hardy stuff, and after a short nap, he had healed and suffered nothing more drastic than a deep surfer tan, which had lasted a couple of days.

  Direct sunlight is a friend to no vampire, but sunrise and sunset were fatal. Twice a day, the world tried to erase this species from its surface, and the children of the night had better be somewhere dark and underground when there was fire in the sky.

  I scanned the crowd as we descended. Without the noise and constant flashing lights, Sanctum felt like a different place, more like a cathedral than a place of sin and alcohol. Instead of the usual thumping roar of music which made your ribs vibrate, the air was filled with classical music with a distinctly carnival twist to it. It all gave the impression of being at an extremely upper class fairground.

  Nothing about this place was ever normal. I would have killed for some classic Springsteen right now. Considering my unwillingness to be here, Born to Run would have gone down a treat.

  As we alighted from the gantries and stairwells to the main floor, I looked around. I didn’t recognise most of the champagne swillers. Here and there, a face I had seen on the DataStream. A few professors, GO rights activists. A tall man of around seventy with a very white and neatly trimmed beard was chatting to a vampire in a shimmering silver evening gown. I was pretty sure he was Folami Adamola, the current Dean of Christchurch College. The strange deep lighting made his beard appear blue. Another woman, rather portly with short grey pixie-cut hair and a necklace which sparkled magnificently, was mingling on the other side of the room at the bar with two men I didn’t know. I recognised her instantly however as Dinah Rosenberg, current chief administrator of the Ashmolean museum. I wondered if the necklace was on loan from the museum for the night.

  Most of the invited guests however, were complete strangers to me. Other high-ranking GO supporters, every bit as powerful and influential as their MM counterparts on the other side of the fence.

  I spotted Poppy Merriweather, easily identifiable by her cascade of red curls. She was a regular news anchor, and gossip queen extreme. Of course the press were here in force. She and Cloves had a horribly symbiotic relationship, and were always on the DataStream chat shows together, tittering away and complimenting one another in a way that made my teeth ache. I’d met the woman before, at previous parties, and wondered if, like Cloves, her veneer of good-natured Vaseline-smoothed smile was nothing more than thin lacquer over very tough old wood. I made it my life’s ambition to never find out. For an ambassador, I have a pretty poor track record with the press.

  “Oh look,” Cloves murmured to me, shifting her skirts and surveying the room as we lingered at the bottom of the twirling iron staircase. In the deep blue light, her dress sparkled magnificently like a distant supernova. I made a mental note to hate her a little bit more. I felt like I was wearing fuzzy-felt.

  “The vampires are all dressed as clowns and acrobats. How very quaint. I daresay I’ve never seen a vampire in stripes and sequins before.”

  “You clearly don’t get out often enough,” I replied, grabbing a glass of bubbly for each of us from the tray of a passing waitress wearing a long beaked mardi-gras mask. The waitress grinned at me as she passed, sharp teeth flashing. “It’s rare to see vampires as dressed as this in Sanctum. Mainly it’s just body glitter and edible candy pants.”

  Cloves raised her eyebrows at me, taking the drink I offered her.

  “I’m exaggerating,” I said. “…Kind of.”

  I wondered briefly if it was wise to drink alcohol on whatever strong painkillers Cloves had practically force-fed me, but then I shrugged after a short mental review of the past twenty-four hours, and downed the glass in one. I felt I’d earned a drink.

  “So, what are we here for, exactly?” I wanted to know, as we threaded our way into the crowd, Cloves waving polite and regal hellos to various people and flashing her famous warm and open smile. Many heads had turned to view her. Veronica Cloves was well loved by everyone.

  “To see and be seen,” Cloves replied evenly. “We’re here to ‘maintain a presence’ as GO
Liaison ambassadors. To show our support for this inter-species celebration of all things vampiric. So make sure you get photographed with some of the fanged fuckers while we’re here. You’re representing all of Cabal, so if you can manage it, don’t do anything too…” She seemed to flail around for the right term.

  “Too?” I prompted, eyebrows raised. Not that she could see my eyebrows, having insisted I tease my hair forward in a sweeping Jessica Rabbit style fringe to hide what bruising makeup couldn’t.

  “…too Harkness,” Cloves settled on. “No deaths, explosions, murders, fistfights, fires or tazing anyone. Just… just… behave. And have a fucking canape.”

  “In any other job, I’d be on nil-by-mouth while I waited in hospital for a CAT scan,” I muttered. I had to admit though, other than a strong headache, I wasn’t feeling too bad. I had been certain I’d fractured my skull. I was pretty sure I had felt the bones in my head grinding against each other in the library as I’d fled the bathroom. The scientist in me wondered if this was some side effect of being infected with the Pale virus. Did I have accelerated healing? Some combination of the virus and Allesandro’s blood still in my system perhaps. I decided if so, I could live with that. My condition needed some perks, other than descending into a huge rage occasionally. I’d rather be Wolverine than Hulk thanks. Only without the chest hair please.

  Cloves handed me her empty glass as if I were one of the staff, snapping my attention back to the room.

  “Look, there’s Oscar Scott,” she said, nodding across the tuxedo and gown filled space of Sanctum behind me. “I believe this is the first public event he’s attended since his father’s passing. He’s been living like a hermit. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? Go and chat, it’ll make a good shot. I’ll subtly angle press toward you. Don’t get photographed with spinach in your teeth or anything.”

  She literally elbowed me in the ribs, quite hard, sending me spinning off through the crowd.

  Oscar Scott, the richest man in New Oxford. Well, barely a man, he was also the youngest heir to the Scott Enterprises fortune, a complete nuisance, and a rabid Helsing. I’d first met him hanging on the arm of the previous owner of Sanctum, the vampire Gio, who had later tried to kill me. I’d next met Oscar at a gala being thrown by his father, who had later tried to kill me. There was a pattern with Oscar Scott. I kept meeting him at parties, and then someone would try and kill me.

  My caution was perhaps understandable, and he was the last person I wanted to share a glass of bubby with right now.

  Cloves was speaking the truth however. Oscar had been practically holed up in Scott Towers ever since his father’s death. Everyone had been starting to worry that he might be going a little Howard Hughes, growing out his fingernails and wearing tissue boxes for shoes, that kind of thing.

  The boy looked fairly normal though as I scoped him out on the approach, threading through the party-goers. Young, handsome, schoolboy hair, and jolly smile. He could have been the captain of a university cricket club, rather than arguably the most powerful and influential person in the city.

  He looked to me as though he had lost a little weight.

  “Oscar.” I caught his eye, breaking off his polite chit-chat with what looked like the usual gaggle of fangirls and fanboys who followed him everywhere. It was strange not to have to bellow to be heard in Sanctum. The classical music was subtle in the background, not vibrating the soles of my feet.

  He stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, as though he were trying to place my face.

  My heart almost stopped.

  The reason I hadn’t been eager to see Oscar after his father’s death was for the purely selfish reason that I had been the one who killed Scott Senior. I had no idea if Oscar knew this. Someone else had taken the blame for shooting the dangerous old man, but either way, I still felt a tad awkward about taking down his dad.

  In my defence, I was fairly sure I had been possessed and controlled by a Bonewalker at the time, and Oscar’s father had been just about to release a dirty bomb and kill thousands, but even so… How do you start a conversation following executing someone’s loony dad? ‘Hey, how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you since I blew your father’s brains out. What’s new? Is that a new haircut?’.

  Oscar blinked and his face lit up. “Pheebs!” he cried, abandoning his entourage and hurrying over. “God, I didn’t recognise you, sorry, it’s been a while.”

  Oh thank God, I muttered inwardly, glad he hadn’t thrown his drink in my face. I hated myself a little for such a cowardly thought.

  “And you look different, with the hair thing, all over one eye, very emo, what’s up with that?” He made a move to brush my fringe away and I flinched back.

  “Oh, hey, sorry.” He held his hands up apologetically. “I didn’t mean to cramp, I mean, it looks good, it just kind of hides your face,”

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “Fell earlier. Bit of a bump, that’s all.”

  Oscar looked concerned for a second, but as with all things, the expression was just a fleeting cloud sailing over a happy meadow, and he beamed again. “Oh, well, that sounds like you, I guess.” He pulled me into an abrupt hug, crushing my face into the lapels of his tuxedo. “How have you been, anyway?

  “How have I been?” I replied, extricating myself for air. “I should be asking you that, you know, after… everything that happened.”

  Oscar released me from the hug and took me by the elbow, guiding me away from the crowd to the edge of a long buffet table. I was aware I was drawing stares of both interest and resentment from several members of the crowd. In my eyes, Oscar was a loveable and clueless buffoon. I had to constantly remind myself that he was also technically the most eligible bachelor in all of New Oxford. He was practically Bruce Wayne. If Bruce Wayne had been a golden retriever puppy.

  “Oh, you mean after the old man upped and carked it?” Oscar grabbed a plate and began loading it with party delicacies. “Well,” he whistled, blowing out his cheeks. “Let me tell you, that was a shitstorm and no mistake. Blimey, talk about having embarrassing family. Cabal were very… tactful though, covered up all the looney old guy’s wicked deeds. Let him die a hero and ‘father of the city’ all that nonsense.” He sneered a little, waggling a cocktail sausage at me. “More that he deserved, but I understand why they did it. City morale and all that.”

  “At least it means your name didn’t get dragged into the mud,” I offered wanly. “So… you’re the big cheese now.”

  “It’s awful,” Oscar confided in me. “All I do all day is attend board meetings, sign things and visit boring factories and offices. It’s driving me insane, Pheebs. It’s like my life isn’t my own anymore.”

  I took something from his plate to nibble. It looked like a devilled egg, but it was hard to be sure in the deep blue gloom of Sanctum.

  “To be fair, your father kept you on a fairly short leash when he was alive too,” I pointed out. “You were Rapunzel in his ivory tower.”

  “But at least I could let my hair down once in a while. Could sneak out when I wanted.” He shook his head. “Now I have this team of ‘bodyguards’. They’re more like babysitters. They don’t let me out of their sight twenty-four seven, and none of them ever crack a smile. I think they might actually be made of cardboard. I’ve been itching to get some vamp action forever. This is the first time I’ve been able to get down to the vampire district at all. Thank god for Fangfest, right?”

  Oscar, for various long-winded reasons, was under the permanent delusion that I was a fellow Helsing.

  “Indeed,” I munched my egg diplomatically. Please God, let it be an egg. I had no idea what kind of food vampires prepared.

  “I still can’t believe Allesandro dumped you like that,” Oscar said conversationally. “What an asshole.”

  I choked on my egg, coughing and spluttering so much that Oscar had to pat me hard on the back.

  When I could speak again, my face, even hidden under my hair, was bright red
. “I did not get dumped.” I realised I’d spoken louder than I’d intended.

  “Oh… hey, sorry.” I could tell he was trying to be tactful. It didn’t work on Oscar. He had all the subtlety of a house brick. “I’m only repeating what I heard, everyone says-”

  “Everyone?” I spluttered. I didn’t even know who ‘everyone’ was. I didn’t even know why it annoyed me as much as it did. “Look, me and Allesandro? We were never an item in the first place. And for the record, he didn’t dump me, he just… went away… for a bit.”

  Oscar gave me his best sympathetic look. “So you guys are… on a break?”

  “There’s nothing to be on a break from!” I replied through gritted teeth, forcing my nicest, lightest smile on my face. “Who told you this anyway?”

  “Elise,” Oscar shrugged. I had forgotten that Oscar knew every vampire and Helsing in the city. Great. Elise, the smitten human Helsing who was desperately in love with Allesandro and in her twisted mind saw me as some kind of love rival. Yes, that made sense. I bet she couldn’t wait to tell everyone how I’d been cast aside. She probably vlogged about it on the DataStream.

  “Well, Elise seems pretty chummy with this new vampire lord, Dove, don’t you think?” I said, feeling a little catty. “She moved on pretty fast.”

  “Steward,” Oscar corrected. “Dove’s a cool guy, looking after the keys to the kingdom. He’s so laid back, for a vamp, you know. Really chill. Like, I bet he meditates and Pilates. Can Pilates be a verb?” He frowned at me as he considered this. “I pilated, she pilated, we all… pilate?”

  I blinked at him, my face blank.

  He shook his head, shrugging off his own bizarre musing. “Hey, did you know that Fangfest was entirely his idea?”

  “I’m aware.”