Phoebe Harkness Omnibus

by James Fahy

  Having threatened me lightly with vague potential violence, he had then given me his number, in case I found a lead for him, or any more mangled bodies turned up. Yeah, that old line.

  I had been sent away like a massive investigation gooseberry, with very strict instructions from Cloves not to speak to any press, any GOs, or any other Cabal member. In point of fact, not to speak to anyone. I was off the books and on lockdown until party night. My one exciting mission: to call Oscar Scott and accept his invitation to the glittering ball. “It can’t be that bad,” Cloves had said, with an admirably straight face. “By all accounts, Scott’s balls are legendary.”

  “I think we’re here,” Lucy squealed, pressing up against the glass window as the limo pulled in through a set of very tall iron gates. I snapped out of my reverie. “Ohmygodohmygod, look at all the people!”

  We had passed into Scott’s private estate, lush manicured gardens, high hedges and sculptured topiary, the gravel road crunching expensively under our wheels. You might expect a sprawling mansion to be Scott’s abode, but instead at the centre of a sweeping lawn was Scott Tower itself. A massive bulbous skyscraper, shaped like a fat cigar, with no flat edges or straight lines. It tapered into the sky some forty one storeys like a great glass lozenge. The tower’s bulging glass sides seemed to twist organically as they climbed one hundred and eighty metres up into the darkening Oxford sky, making it appear like some great shimmering plant seed dropped from the heavens. Floodlights placed at the base illuminated its sleek, imposing flanks, crossing one another and spiralling against the chill spring sky. It was certainly a unique statement. Scott had used the Bonewalkers’ powers to relocate this building here from London at the close of the wars when that world was burning. No one else had claimed it, and if there’s one thing Marlin Scott was, it was an opportunist.

  Dwarfed beneath this huge glass lozenge swarmed plenty of people. Well-heeled gentry, men in expensive tuxedos and women in flamboyant dresses, all making their way slowly inside, herded between the giant doorway like sparkly cattle.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I said in a small voice, as our driver got out and walked around to open my door.

  “Of course you can,” Lucy said. She leaned over and gripped my hands. “Doc, you are the single most intelligent woman I know. You have two PhDs and a doctorate in toxicology and biochemistry. You’ve won the Rutherford-Chalmers award for paratoxicology four years in a row, and I have seen you splice rats without flinching. You can read RNA like a computer reads binary. Trust me, there is nobody here who can possibly intimidate you.”

  I looked up at Lucy curiously. She was grinning at me with reassuring hero-worship. “Plus, you have the lushest vampire and the richest bachelor in the city both sending you presents and flowers. You seriously rock.”

  “Okay, okay, dial down the pep talk.” I smiled and patted her hand until she released me. “I’ve not received any vampire presents recently, thanks very much. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Oh…I didn’t know,” she said, faltering, but she rallied well. “But hey, you’ll probably have this Tribal guy bringing you presents soon too. You have all these GOs eating out of your hand. You have to tell me your secret one day.”

  “Not bloody likely,” I laughed. “Come on, let’s get in there. If we’re going to rock, then let’s bloody well rock.”

  We held our own quite well on the red carpet (There actually was one!). We were greeted by the single most courteous security guards I had even seen, who managed to make passing us through the various security checks seem like the height of well-bred behaviour. I didn’t recognise anyone as we pushed through into the vast lobby. Gentle classical music filled the air, Beethoven I thought, but I could never name his work. Great decorative sprays of flowers transformed the already opulent space into a lush Palladian paradise. Whereas the Tribal glasshouse had been wild and verdant, filled with raw and untamed beauty, here in the lobby of Scott Towers, with its mirror-polished marble floors and classical style, elegant order and civilisation ruled.

  Cloves had forewarned me that everyone of importance was likely to be here. Old money, new money, Cabal representatives, media figureheads, high ranking lecturers, and the Dean of the University. Plus all the usual glitterati and celebrity who made up Oscar’s set. They milled around gently before me.

  A lot of the crowd seemed to be ‘of a certain age’, well preserved in the way only achievable through comfortable living. Of Scott Senior or Junior there was no immediate sign. Of course, this was only the ground floor. The party, as it were, was on the top floor, or the Lens as it was better known.

  The upper floors of Scott Towers, past the public and highly-secure work areas, above even the nine or ten stories of private dwelling for the Scotts themselves, there was a dedicated space for functions. Once it would have given panoramic views of the nation’s former capital. Now it did the same for New Oxford, which was an improvement in my mind at least. I had never warmed to the idea of London. Too sprawling. And I read too much Dickens.

  “That guy is giving out champagne,” Lucy squealed, pointing her clutch purse at a passing waiter. There were at least a dozen of them, artfully working the room and attending to guests.

  “We’ve just had champagne,” I said.

  “That was car champagne.” She waved her hand dismissively. “This is lobby champagne, totally different thing.” She headed off to fetch us a glass each, leaving me stranded alone in a sea of partygoers. With effort, I managed not to grab at her desperately for abandoning me.

  “Would Miss care to hide her true self?” a quiet voice said behind me.

  I whirled, surprised, and almost knocked a tray out of the hands of another waiter. He stepped back deftly to avoid this, with admirable grace, his polite smile never faltering. I stared at him confused. He was quite young, and rather handsome.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Apologies, Miss, you do not appear to be fully dressed,” he said with a respectful nod of his head. He had dark blonde hair tucked behind his ears, and in my opinion, a rather roguish tilt to his smile for a waiter. Was I being mocked by the help? I’d only been here for two minutes. I knew I didn’t blend in with blueblood, but come on! His blue eyes flicked down helpfully at the tray he held out. I followed his gaze.

  The large silver platter was covered in masquerade masks. Exquisitely detailed and decorated, no two the same. Each looped with black, white or red silk sashes. Ah, he wasn’t mocking me then.

  “Oh…” I said dumbly. “I…I didn’t know it was a masked ball.” I glanced around. Many of the partygoers were indeed holding masks, while others were fussily choosing from similarly proffered trays.

  I had no idea which one to pick. My waiter seemed to notice my hesitation.

  “If perhaps I might be so bold as to make a suggestion.” He rotated the tray with one hand, until the mask closest to me was a delicate black one, fine lace filigree dotted with the tiniest black beads.

  I took it in my hands.

  “The black will suit your skin wonderfully,” he nodded. “Quite striking I assure you. May I…?”

  He placed his tray on a small pedestal and stepped behind me as I raised the mask to my face. I let him fasten it, standing rather self-consciously as he gently knotted the silk. It was an oddly delicate and intimate gesture. He was extremely careful not to muss up my hair. I didn’t say as much, but I doubt he could have made a dint in it with a hammer, it was so full of Cloves’ hairspray.

  Be-masked, I turned to face my new surprise ally. The lace tickled my cheeks a little. “Well, how do I look?” I asked.

  He smiled at me approvingly, and leaned forward to whisper. “Perfectly hidden,” he said, in a low polite voice. “Have an illuminating evening, Miss.”

  Before I could smile awkwardly like a moron in my usual effortless style, he turned and melted back into the sea of tuxes and gowns.

  “Are you serious?” Lucy’s voice behind me made me turn again. She was
wearing a mask too now, also black, but with a fringe of peacock feathers, the green of which matched her dress perfectly. “All the highfalutin piggy-banks here, and you’re flirting with a waiter? There is absolutely no hope for you, Phoebe Harkness.”

  She handed me a champagne flute, embossed with the Scott coat of arms.

  “I wasn’t flirting,” I said. “He was helping me on with my mask.”

  “Hmm,” Lucy said. “He was quite cute I suppose.” She peered around. “Nice arse. Can’t see him now though. Ah well, ships that sail and all that jazz. Shall we go up?”

  “Up where?” I sipped my drink. Lucy nodded towards a large bank of art deco elevators, into which people were periodically disappearing.

  “To the party, of course, this is just the reception. The real deal will be up on the top floor. If you want to dance with the gods, you have to climb Olympus.”

  “I don’t really want to dance with anyone.” I smiled. “I can’t really move very well in this thing.”

  “But they’ll have champagne,” Lucy grinned.

  “Lucy, you’re drinking champagne.”

  “Pshh.” She made a face behind her peacock mask. “This is just lobby champagne. Amuse-bouche champagne for the pre-party. Wait till you taste the good stuff.”

  She took me by the arm and we made for the elevators.

  14.

  The top storey of Scott Towers, a vast open space designated for balls, parties and other social events, was a clean, modern and arresting sight to behold. The elevator delivered us into a wide room with sweeping floors of dark marble, stretching off to the glass walls which encircled us on all sides, twisting diagonal glass panes like faceted diamonds, soaring above us in a sloping spiral to meet in a glittering dome.

  “Wow!” Lucy goggled at the huge space. “This is something else. It’s like being inside a jewel,” she breathed.

  Beyond the glass walls, the night sky was an inky backdrop, stars above glinting coldly, and yellow-green lights below, picking out the distant buildings of Oxford.

  “There must be four hundred people here,” I said, scanning the crowd of well-dressed and masked gentry. Lucy took my arm and led us into the multitude. “And I don’t know a single one of them.”

  “I know, wonderful isn’t it?” she grinned. “You know Oscar.”

  “I don’t see him.” I scanned around. There was a long marble table, curved to follow the gliding glass wall, and piled high with elaborate foodstuffs. They even had a carved ice swan, for God’s sake. Another area held a bandstand, where a quartet of white tuxedoed and masked musicians were filling the air with bubbling swing music, providing a soft buffer to the chatter threading through the room.

  “Well, he could be anyone, couldn’t he?” Lucy squeezed my forearm with excitement. “Anybody could be anyone at a masked ball, held in a soap bubble in the sky. It’s dreamy.” She gave me a saucy look. “And a little bit sexy, don’t you think? The masks. You look positively wicked, Doc.”

  I smirked back, despite myself. “Any moment now, someone will start chanting Latin and the whole thing will devolve into a debauched, high society orgy, I’m sure.”

  There was a podium in the centre of the room that stood tantalisingly empty. I craned my head, trying to find any clues as to its function.

  “I’m going to go and check out that buffet,” Lucy said happily, paying no attention to me at all. “See if I can find us another drinks-offering waiter or two. Not sure which seems more delicious.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Lucy,” I said. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with these people.”

  “You look just like one of them,” she assured me. “A vision in gold and black. Just think, play your cards right and you could be the next Mrs Scott.” She was teasing. I think.

  “I’d be accused of cradle-snatching,” I muttered. “The boy is barely out of college.”

  Lucy shrugged uncaringly. “Such a double standard. You see rich old men with young pert bunny girls hanging off their bony arms all the time, but reverse the roles and people will tut and whisper.”

  “Are you saying I have old, bony arms?” I growled jokingly.

  Her eyes flew wide with alarm.

  “I’m sure darling Oscar could find a space between the liver spots to slide a wedding ring on,” I said through narrowed eyes.

  Lucy chortled. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know,” I said. “Go. Eat. Drink. I’ll find what I’m here for sooner or later.”

  Lucy melted away gratefully into the crowd.

  “And what is it you’re here for?” a happy female voice said behind me, making me start. I turned and was faced with a silver-fox-masked woman, tiny glittering pearls encrusted around the eye-holes. She had a mass of curly russet hair, barrel-curled luxuriously down her back, and was wrapped in a quite voluminous gown of silver and white net.

  “I’m sorry?” I plastered my super-friendly smile on my face.

  Bright green eyes blinked at me through the fox mask. “You said you were here to find something.” The woman smiled, red lips parting with practised grace. She sipped a little at a champagne flute.

  “Did I?”

  “I suppose we all are, aren’t we, after a fashion?” she drawled. “I mean, why ever else would one come to one of these ghastly parties?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have the faintest idea…” I said, as disarmingly open as possible. “The masks, you see? They make everyone so different.”

  The woman nodded. “Oh golly yes, sorry, wherever are my manners.” She held out a white-gloved hand. “Poppy Merriweather. And I know your face, I think…Ms…?”

  I shook her hand politely. “Merriweather? The news anchor?” I suddenly recognised the smile and the red hair. “Yes of course, I’ve seen you on the DataStream. You’re the face of the news for most of Oxford.”

  She waved my compliment away. “Oh psh,” she said. “Anyone with half a brain knows that getting the news out there to the people is a constant battle. You’ve simply no idea how much…guidance…we are under by the great and good, the servants of Cabal. They are so very careful to check what we say.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Still, one must attend these fatuous, indulgent swaggers, mustn’t one? If one is to keep any contacts, to network. It’s all rather tiring. Again though, I know I’ve seen you before.”

  There was no point trying to hide behind the mask. “Doctor Phoebe Harkness,” I nodded. “I’m a paratoxicologist working over at Blue Lab One. I think your channel may have covered some of our quarterly debriefs, where we let the public know of any advances in the search for the cure to the Pale virus.”

  She shook her head, making her copper curls bounce. “Dr Harkness, yes of course,” she gloated. “You’re the doctor who was almost blown up the other day. We covered the aftermath. The bomb outside the Liver. All terribly exciting.”

  My smile froze a little. “Ah, yes, that too,” I said.

  “I would have given my left eye for an exclusive interview with you,” Merriweather said. “You’re Cabal’s new shining star, I hear. An ambassador between humans and GOs and almost killed on your first day on the job.” She clicked her tongue. “But you were spirited away before any of our kind were on the scene.”

  “Your kind?”

  “The press,” she nodded. “We were left dealing with the ever-accommodating Veronica Cloves. Oh my, don’t get me wrong, she’s such a dear, and so open. The cameras love her, but in my opinion it is impossible to get Veronica Cloves to say or reveal anything she does not want to say or reveal. Every question you might ask her, she has already anticipated, and always has the perfect answer. And she always manages to steer the conversation in the direction she wants it to go, no matter what one’s own intentions. Practically indestructible, if you ask me. Which is very frustrating to a probing reporter, let me tell you.”

  I nodded in friendly agreement. “She is certainly something. Whereas you would find me an easier target, I suppose
?”

  Merriweather tittered gleefully. “Oh golly no. Oh dear, that’s not what I meant at all. Only that, well, it’s always best to get to the source, isn’t it? When one wants information. No one wants to speak to the monkey turning the handle when one can talk to the organ grinder.”

  I almost spluttered into my drink. “Refreshingly candid,” I said. “So you would consider Cloves to be Cabal’s monkey?”

  I saw a hint of caution flicker into Merriweather’s eyes, though her smile didn’t falter. I watched it sink in as she realised that she didn’t know me at all, and that Cloves was indeed my superior. Loose tongues are certainly not the order of the day at Cabal. The free presses might be more used to flapping gossipy lips over drinks at parties. The reporter looked as though she were considering carefully how to respond.

  “I would consider,” she said eventually, twirling her glass in her gloved hand, “that Veronica Cloves grinds her own organ. And when she does, we all must dance.”

  “Indeed.” I raised my glass to that. “But I’m not here tonight in any connection with Cabal,” I confided. “Or Blue Lab. You don’t have to watch your tongue around me.”

  Merriweather looked intrigued. “That’s usually my line,” she said. “And it’s usually a lie.”

  A waitress offered us refills from a silver platter. The reporter took another glass with a nod. I declined.

  “So why are you here?” she asked. “Same as me? Networking, keeping the wheels oiled? I believe you said you were looking for something.”

  “Did I say that?” I replied lightly. “Perhaps. I’m here socially. Oscar Scott invited me.”