Phoebe Harkness Omnibus

by James Fahy

  To be honest, none of the murders looked like human kills. I was coming to the same conclusions as Cloves, that this was either a rogue Tribal on a rampage while in beast-form. Or, far less likely, someone with one of the Pale at their beck and call. Giovanni, the insane vampire who had tried to kill me had kept one of the Pale as a pet, granted, but even he had had to keep it confined at the bottom of a very deep pit under Carfax. You could hardly ‘train’ them to attack people. If one of them was loose in the city, the death toll would be significantly higher than three.

  “The general feeling,” Cloves said, “is that these deaths are killings by the Tribals. If this is true, it is very, very bad timing. As you know, the Tribals hold lands within New Oxford, chiefly the Botanical Gardens. Scott Enterprises is proposing to purchase the site for the new power-plant. The promise of a solution to our city’s energy crisis. Scott is adamant he wants the land, and technically it is under Cabal’s jurisdiction to grant permission for construction to go ahead.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the debates on the DataStream,” I said. “The problem being that the Tribals don’t want to give up the land. It’s their largest settlement within New Oxford.”

  “Technically, it isn’t theirs,” Cloves said contemptuously. “But yes, making a large section of the GO population homeless is hardly good press for Cabal, when we are supposed to be seen as mediators between the races. We are in something of a political bind. On one hand, we have the needs of the people of Oxford. And Scott has a lot of weight, especially with the Mankind Movement behind him. We have the GO rights protesters picketing the site, supporting the Tribals and basically making a wild media shitshorm out of the whole mess. Tensions are high on both sides.”

  “You think the killings are a vendetta against humans?” I asked. “Rich ones I mean, people like Scott and his allies. All the deaths have been in the rich district.”

  “Possibly. Maybe a warning of things to come if Scott pushes his hand.” Cloves tapped the remote against her hand. “Whatever the truth, news gets out that a wild werewolf, a man-leopard or God knows what else, is offing random citizens and both sides are going to go up like a powder keg. That’s not something we want in a walled city. Civil war in an enclosed space would not end well for anyone.”

  I looked down at the dossier in my lap, containing the three victim mug shots. “Unless they’re not random killings.”

  Cloves hmphed. “Well, if there’s a link between these three, other than their last dying wish was to be slaughtered surrounded by choice real estate, I don’t know what it is. I’d hoped getting full access to their crime files would shed more light on things.”

  Her phone rang, cutting off any further speculation. She turned her back on me and went off to mutter secretively in the corner.

  I got up while she took the call, crossing to her apartment’s huge windows again to gaze down at the sprawling skyscrapers of the district. From here, I could see south back toward the familiar dreaming spires of the old town. Ironic, really, that this whole area, previously parkland, had been developed to be the safe haven of the elite of New Oxford, snug, smug and cosy in their outrageously expensive fortresses, so far from normal folks down in the town proper or the poor unfortunates in what had become our sprawling slums over by the Slade. Now it seemed the least safe place to be of all. Every safeguard, all the expensive security and surveillance, all the wards placed by Bonewalkers at tremendous expense to keep GOs out, and it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. These people were as vulnerable as anyone. Something was stalking these streets, and the residents of Portmeadow were being killed off brutally.

  I glanced again at the photos. Well no, not precisely, I amended. None of these three were Portmeadowans. They were all from different neighbourhoods. They had been killed here, but they didn’t belong here.

  Was the killer also a resident? Some theories of Jack the Ripper had suggested that the butcher of the night who stalked London’s slums, slaughtering prostitutes, had in fact been an aristocrat, some suggested even the possibility he had been royalty. What if that’s what we had on our hands here: some kind of murdering modern blueblood, harvesting victims elsewhere in Oxford and dragging them home to kill on their own lush carefully manicured turf.

  Was it even possible, that one of the secluded, high society toffs was a secret, closet Tribal? Tribals had to register, under the Emergence Treaty, same as vampires. Cabal liked its registers. But that didn’t mean they all had.

  I briefly considered contacting Oscar. He was a blueblood, and yet heavily into the GO scene, albeit secretly. He lived with a foot in both worlds, as an obsessed vampire Helsing. Perhaps he might know who in this district fit my potential profile. He seemed more inclined towards vampires though, I don’t think he moved in any Tribal circles. I know I’d never had contact with the Tribals myself.

  “Harkness, go home and get some sleep,” Cloves said, snapping her phone shut. “You have an early start tomorrow.”

  “I need to get back to the lab,” I said. Solving these murders was one thing, but I also needed to see what headway Griff had made on our faceless wonder. Ah, so much macabre, so little time.

  “No deal,” Cloves said. “Have your team continue analysis. That was Director Coldwater on the phone. Your first official role as Cabal-GO Liaison starts tomorrow. She wants to meet with us at the Liver first thing. You’re going to be humanity’s ambassador.”

  I stared at Cloves, eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

  Cloves gave a tight smile. “We’re sending you into the Botanical reservation. You’re going to parley with the Tribals.”

  7.

  My apartment was steamy. This was decidedly unusual. It’s a tiny affair above a coffee house come DataStream café, and it’s usually freezing. I stood in the centre of the lounge, wondering what on earth was going on. The light outside my window, filtering in through the slatted blinds, was golden-red. Sunset colours, they spread across the floor in sliced bands of light and shadow. Why was the air misty? And so warm. I dropped my keys into the little dish I kept for them by the door and shrugged out of my coat. My shirt was sticking to my spine in the heat, and I could feel strands of hair beginning to matt to my temples.

  Was there someone else here?

  “Hello?” I called, feeling foolish talking to the empty room. There was a sound elsewhere. Like a tap shutting off. Someone was in my bathroom.

  I glanced around. The lounge and tiny kitchen were all open plan, separated by a breakfast bar on which rested my now withering dragonfruit. From here I could see down the short hallway. There were only two doors, on the right my bedroom and ahead the bathroom door. Both were closed, making the corridor dark and gloomy. I live alone, I never bother closing either. From beneath the bathroom door, a thin band of light showed. Red again. Steam curled out in thin wisps.

  For someone who has been attacked and threatened by vampires, ghouls, Bonewalkers and the Pale, I had alarmingly little in the form of self-defence. I didn’t own a gun. I didn’t even own a baseball bat. I walked around to the kitchen counter as quietly as possible and swiped a knife.

  I’m not sure why I was bothering to be quiet, considering I had just shouted hello. Perhaps whoever was in my bathroom hadn’t heard me? Padding along the dark corridor, knife in hand, I listened carefully. There was no noise. No running water, no movements. I rested my hand against the door. It was warm to the touch. There was an odd smell, metallic and coppery.

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself against attack, grabbed the door handle and flung it open.

  A great cloud of hot wet steam engulfed me. My bathroom was heady with it, the light through the window red and glaring, illuminating the hazy air. It was like stepping into a low-rent steam room.

  There was someone lying in my bath, marble-white skin and tousled black hair, and he was smiling at me in a lopsided way.

  Allesandro, head vampire of Sanctum, the only vampire I had ever met who hadn’t tried to kill me…yet. I st
ared at him in mute shock.

  Now don’t get me wrong, as finding naked men in your bathtub goes, you could do a lot worse than Allesandro. He was stunningly beautiful. Handsome would be the wrong word. Allesandro was a Botticelli, all cheekbones, flashing eyes and pouting lips. I had no idea if vampires cast reflections or not, but if they did I would have bet money that he practised the pout. His skin, of which I could see a frankly alarming amount, was as white as marble, stark against his wet black hair. He had the kind of elegantly chiselled body which would have made Michelangelo’s David feel self-conscious and want to cover up. I tried extremely hard not to stare at him. He was propped up, arms draped languorously over the sides of the tub like a life study of the death of Marat, only less macabre than Jacques-Louis David ever painted. There were beads of moisture on his chest and stomach.

  The only thing that spared my blushes was that the water itself was somehow red. He was submerged below the waist, one raised knee raised from the water. Thank God for small favours. Modesty was clearly not a hang-up of his, but for my part I was grateful for the opacity.

  “You’re letting the heat out,” he said eventually, lolling his head to one side.

  I slammed the door behind me, dragging my eyes up to his. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you, of course,” he replied softly. “As always.”

  His elbows resting on the sides of the tub, he reached and flicked playfully at the water’s surface with a long finger. “Are you getting in?” he asked, his eyes darting up to me under long damp lashes. “It’s hot.”

  I struggled to reply. I was still gripping the knife. My shirt was soaked with the steam and clinging to every curve of my body in a more revealing way than I would have liked. “No,” I managed eventually, although I admit, there was a little battle of internal wills. “I am not…getting in.”

  His smile widened, parted lips revealing his white teeth. His expression seemed to suggest he wasn’t remotely convinced by my refusal. “You will eventually,” he said. “But you know that already…right?”

  The red water was so dark, and the coppery smell so strong. The finger he lifted back out of the bath was coated with it. Stained dark.

  It wasn’t water.

  “Are you…” I faltered, suddenly realising. My eyes slid from his face to the liquid-filled tub, swirling with arabesques of pinkish steam. “Are you bathing in blood? In my house?”

  Allesandro shrugged his ridiculously attractive shoulders, sending ripples across the surface. “It was good enough for Bathory.” He leaned forward toward me, making the blood slosh. It lapped at the sides of the bath like tongues. “You know, you really should get in while it’s hot. It’s no good when it’s cold. Blood or water. No good at all. It can be very bad for your health.”

  I looked away out of the window, at the deep red light which was pouring in. This all seemed deeply confusing. How did he even get in here? Where did the blood come from? Why the hell was it sunset? I didn’t remember even getting home. Why had I just been standing in my lounge staring into space? And…wait, the window in my bathroom wasn’t on that wall. My bathroom had a smaller window, right over the basin. Also, where was the toilet?

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, letting my knife arm drop as realisation dawned.

  Allesandro raised his eyebrows, innocently questioning. He licked the blood off his fingertips.

  “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” I said. “Again…”

  This was becoming a habit.

  “Does it matter?” he asked. “You know…” He braced himself on the tub. “If you’re not going to get in, maybe I should get out.”

  My arms whooshed up in panic. “No, no, no! You stay right there!” I had backed up against the door with a bump. The bathroom felt very small.

  “Why does this keep happening?” I implored. “Will you just get out of my head?”

  “Why haven’t you told anyone about these dreams?” he teased. “Not even your closest friends? Griff, Lucy? Don’t you think they’d be interested to know?”

  “To know what? That I’m clearly losing my mind? Why would I even dream this?”

  “You want it,” he said simply.

  “Like hell,” I replied. I didn’t want to bathe in blood. Did I want Allesandro naked in my tub? Well, the jury was out on that right now. But if this wasn’t a dream, I know I would have been more worried about how the hell I was going to clean the place up.

  As it was, lucid or not, this felt real. My clothes were sticking to me in the steam. The door was very solid behind me. Everything was so convincing. Especially the vampire. And the heat. I couldn’t get any air.

  “How long are you going to fight me, Doctor?” Without warning he stood up, his body painted red with the blood. Sleek and bold, he stepped out of the tub, the crimson coating sliding flawlessly off him as he moved, leaving his body pale and pristine. Real blood doesn’t do that. It sticks. He walked toward me, palms open in a gesture of peace.

  “Why pretend you’re not happy to see me?” he asked. “I’m happy to see you.”

  “Yes,” I gulped. “I can see that.” Allesandro was, very evidently, extremely pleased to see me. I flicked my eyes back up, making myself look at the ceiling tiles. “Oh my,” I said. “I think we’re going to need a bigger boat.”

  Allesandro was right in front of me, I could feel the heat radiating from him. Vampires should be cold, surely? The man was like a furnace.

  “I have to say,” he murmured, lowering his head towards my neck, as though to nuzzle. “If this is your imagination, Doctor, it’s very complementary. Why don’t you find out if the reality lives up to the expectation? This doesn’t have to only happen in your head you know. If you want it…”

  I felt as though I couldn’t lift my arms, I felt my head tilting to one side, giving him access to my throat. Did I want this?

  “Why are you here?” I breathed. The steam was in my throat and lungs, it dripped from his long black hair onto my collarbone, where it slid, a tickling droplet, down the front of my shirt, making me shiver.

  “It’s your dream,” he murmured. “You tell me.” I felt him against me. His hands slowly but firmly closing around my wrists. His sharp teeth grazed my neck. “You tell me, Phoebe. What do you want from me?”

  “I didn’t used to dream like this,” I whispered. “I want to wake up.”

  “Are you sure?” he murmured into my neck, the tiny vibrations raising goose bumps on my skin.

  I wasn’t. I was extremely tempted not to. But I did anyway.

  I snapped my eyes open. I was in bed, tangled in my sheets, my bedroom dark around me. I was drenched in sweat. I sat up, my hand flying to my neck. There was nothing, of course. Stupid goddamn dream.

  My room was dark. No creepy lurid sunset glaring through the blinds, no steam filling my apartment. Everything was normal. This was the real world and I was alone. I checked the alarm. 3.30 AM. Fantastic.

  I tried to shake off the dream, feeling watery and more than a little guilty. Of course Allesandro wasn’t in my apartment. I hadn’t seen the vampire since that business with Gio and his plan to sacrifice me to bring back his old master.

  I had left Cloves’ apartment in Portmeadow and taken a cab straight home, just as instructed. The last thing I wanted was to be groggy for my meeting with Coldwater and the Tribals. I had taken a shower, alone and unmolested, taken a shot of Epsilon and gone to bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep until morning.

  There were no vampires here, especially not hot as hell and infuriatingly smug ones like Allesandro. He had mocked me for not sharing these recurring dreams. Even if it had only been in my head, the vampire had a point. Why hadn’t I told anyone about this? I’d been dreaming about Allesandro more and more often lately. The dreams were so vivid, so real. They had started off fairly simple, almost innocent. I dreamt I was sitting in a coffee shop on the High with him. I dreamt that we were both attending a lecture back at my med school togethe
r. So far, so ho hum, but they had started getting more…intimate. There was always blood now, and apparently less and less clothing.

  Some people have trouble dating. I get stalked by the undead trying to seduce me in my sleep. We all have our issues. All I know is that they were getting more intense. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and though I’m sure any amateur psychiatrist could have told me the fairly obvious interpretation, it was something more than the fact I hadn’t dated, or indeed significantly spoken to a member of the opposite sex in quite some time. Even if I did have urges I needed sating, I’m fairly sure that Allesandro was not my type. I usually like my men to have a pulse…or at least I used to.

  Apparently my subconscious disagrees.

  I got out of bed, needing a glass of water. I drew one from the tap in the kitchen. Part of me couldn’t really handle walking into my bathroom right now. The dream was still lingering tantalisingly around the edges of my mind, I didn’t want to encourage it.

  I’m not very comfortable with people. I like science, and I quite like rats, but people I’m not so good at. Before last year, I didn’t really even consider Griff and Lucy my friends. They were just co-workers, and I kept them at arm’s length like I do with everyone.

  When you’ve been through what we have together, however, you can’t help but feel closer. I thought of them as friends now I supposed. Perhaps that was the reason I hadn’t mentioned these ever more frequent dreams to either of them. I suppose I was more than a little embarrassed by them. I couldn’t help but feel Griff would judge me badly if he knew I was having fantasies about the living dead, horny ones more often than not. The very thought of discussing it with him made me want to burst into embarrassed flames. As for Lucy, well, she was a Helsing. They treat the vampires like celebrities, adoring them from afar, obsessed with them. Lucy was a fan girl of the highest order. I didn’t really feel it would be a good idea for me to let on that I’d apparently joined her, at least while I was asleep that is. She would probably insist we write sleazy fan fiction together.