The Rhesus Chart (14 page)

“I could really do with a post-work drink.” Oscar sounds as tired as she feels, Mhari realizes. He loosens the knot of his tie, then sits down in one of the pigs’ chairs, slumps bonelessly, and turns to face the door.

Mhari picks up a phone terminal. “Janitorial, please . . . cleaning service for suite B314. Yes? Right now, thank you very much.” She hangs up. “Cleaner’s on her way.”

“Thank you. You’re brilliant.”

Behind his head, out of his line of sight, Mhari smiles contentedly.
I know,
she thinks.
Story of my life: I’m brilliant, and nobody gives a shit.
Well, that isn’t
entirely
true. She’s here, working inside the most exciting in-house start-up this city has ever incubated, and she’s
part
of it. One of the nighttime elite: one of the masters of the universe, if Oscar’s plan comes to fruition. And it
will
work. Mhari knows this for a fact. She’s been steering Oscar away from certain unfortunate ideas that might draw them to the attention of people she can’t talk about. Through long force of habit Mhari’s thoughts skitter away from that aspect of her prehistory, dead and buried and bound in any case to silence unto the grave.

Over the years it has become easy for her to avoid thinking about the people she used to work for, as a lowly admin body in a civil service niche role with no prospects. It’s not hard to avoid the bad memories: crap housing, an infuriatingly obtuse boyfriend who couldn’t get a clue if she whacked him between the eyes with it, not enough money. Not to mention the eventual bust-up, although frankly ditching him had been for the best in the long run. It’s even easier to avoid recalling the embarrassing interview in which HR had carpeted her, suggesting more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger that perhaps in view of her personal relationships she would like to be released, might find life more fulfilling on the outside? But then there was the
other
interview they’d arranged with the Bank, which turned out far better than she could ever have imagined.
Oh yes, I’m brilliant. But soon They won’t be able to ignore me anymore. So I’ll have to be at least one step ahead of Them, won’t I?
she adds.

There’s a timid knock on the outside door—the security airlock and Faraday wallpaper aren’t finished yet—then it opens to admit a cleaning cart and a person of no account. “Meals on wheels,” Mhari murmurs, laying her hand on Oscar’s shoulder: his muscles tense under her fingers.

“Ex-excuse?” The cleaner is middle-aged, a recent immigrant with poor English. She’s a regular—they’ve had her before—but she’s still surprised, as if it’s her first time.

“Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to worry about.” Oscar stands and moves aside, gesturing at his just-vacated chair. “You’re feeling tired. Why don’t you sit down?”

“Excuse?” She shakily shuffles towards him, bovine puzzlement lending her an air of geriatric confusion.

“Sit. Down.” Oscar points. Mhari steps out from behind the chair, keeping her expression calm and unthreatening. “You are very tired. You can relax here. You are among friends; you can sleep if you like.” Oscar keeps his hands in motion, like small birds, fluttering delicately: he studied stagecraft when he was younger, NLP and other approaches to mind manipulation when he was older. It’s magic, of a kind, although Mhari is aware of much more powerful varieties, types of magic that constitute a science rather than an art. She keeps a careful grip on her handbag. It’s a neat black leather number that matches her suit. She keeps the medical supplies inside it.

“It’s all right to close your eyes,” Mhari assures the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Sara.”

“Sara, we know you’ve had a hard day. But you can close your eyes now. It’s nearly over. You can go home soon. Why not take a nap?”

There are two of them, and one middle-aged woman of Somali origin, whose palsied hands twitch as they force their combined willpower down on her like warm, stifling pillows. They’ve used her before; there is no seduction here, just a brisk sixty-second interlude, at the end of which Sara slumps, snoring very quietly in the expensive office chair. Oscar bends over her and begins to roll up one of her sleeves. “Hang on, better use the right arm this time,” Mhari suggests. “Otherwise we’re going to leave tracks.”
And it really wouldn’t do to attract the wrong kind of attention. The Laundry kind . . .

“Right.” Oscar carefully rearranges her clothing and switches arms. “She doesn’t seem well,” he adds, mildly concerned. “Did you notice that?”

“The shaking? Yes.” Mhari assembles the cannula, sample tubes, and tourniquet in silent concentration. “I don’t see how it matters.”

“That’s the second one I’ve seen,” Oscar says, almost absent-mindedly.

“Second what?”

“The second subject. With the shakes.”

“There’s probably a bug doing the rounds,” Mhari reassures him as she slides the needle in, searching for a vein.

She grits her teeth and suppresses a shudder of erotic longing as the first sample tube begins to fill with blue-tinged venous blood.

“Does it make you wet?” Oscar asks abruptly.

Mhari stares at him over their sleeping donor’s head, then glances in the direction of his crotch. It’s a moment she’s been anticipating for weeks, the crossing of a delicious Rubicon. “Does it give you a hard-on?” she replies. She meets his gaze directly, then smiles and pulls back her lips so that he can see what they conceal. The pulse in his throat is fast.
What took you so long?
she wonders. “It’s
better
than sex.” She shivers.

“I wouldn’t know,” Oscar says slowly. “I haven’t compared it directly to sex with one of our kind. Have you noticed that humans are less interesting these days?”

“Wait.” Mhari forces herself to focus on the syringe. “Actually, yes I have. Take this.” She swaps out the sample tube and passes him the full one. “Sorry. Where were we?”
Do you mean to follow through or are you going to chicken out?

“We were discussing . . .”

He’s married. Probably hasn’t propositioned anyone in years. Scared of harassment lawsuits and the bill for the divorce settlement. Do I
always
have to do the heavy lifting?
“My place or yours?”

“I was thinking in terms of a hotel? But first”—he raises the tube—“a toast. To health, life, and wealth!”

 • • • 

AFTER THEY RELIEVE SARA THE CLEANER OF APPROXIMATELY
100ml of blood—a third of a unit, so little that she’ll barely notice it—Mhari and Oscar leave her sleeping soundly in Oscar’s chair and head for the car park. Discreet decorum is observed until they’re behind the tinted windows of Oscar’s Panamera. Then they lean shoulder-to-shoulder and exchange a kiss tainted with a new and breathtaking scent that makes them both shudder. From which moment it runs forward as if on rails.

Oscar’s self-restraint is superhuman. He imposes it on Mhari, even though she’s shaking slightly with anticipation. He stays outwardly calm and collected as he drives into Mayfair, drops the keys in a valet’s hand, walks up to the front desk at Claridge’s, and says: “I’d like the best suite you’ve got for the night.” Mhari tumbles along in his wake, trying to hold herself together.
I’m melting!
she thinks. Something in the blood has gotten to her. Then the door on one of the Linley Suites closes behind them and he turns to face her, and the frenzied animals come out.

About two hours later, tired and raw and sticky, Mhari comes to in the middle of the wreckage of a king-sized bed. She’s almost but not entirely naked—Oscar turned out to be a stockings man. He’s naked, too, lying on his back, snoring. She reaches out and wraps one hand possessively around his still-erect cock. She’s been working towards this moment for weeks: happily, it turned out to be much more fun than she’d expected. The snore turns to a groan and as he pulls away she notices that his penis is redder than the rest of his skin.
Is that blood?
she wonders.
Or is he sore?
She, too, aches: but she enjoyed getting there. She’s thirsty again, she realizes. “Hey, big boy.” She punches him gently in the side. “Wake up.”

“Um. Uh.” He opens his eyes and stares at her. If she’d been dressed, his look would make her feel naked; as it is, it makes her feel stripped to the bone. It’s a predator’s expression, innocent and deadly. Then he spoils it by cracking a dazed schoolboy smile. “That was wild!” Mhari is about to glare at him in disappointment but he recovers his poise within a couple of seconds. “I would kill for a drink.” He rolls on his side. “And I need a shower. How about you?”

“There are a couple of shots of blood in my bag. We can hit room service for food. Shower first?” She strips off her stockings and they move into the living room of the suite, ignore the dressing table set with a welcome bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne, and head straight to the marble bathroom with its huge walk-in shower and whirlpool bath. There’s room for two in the shower. “That was something else going on,” she murmurs thoughtfully, as he rubs soapy water across her skin. She can feel every square millimeter; she’s acutely, preternaturally sensitive.

“It’s the smell of”—he kisses her shoulder—“the red stuff.”

Mhari shudders and closes her eyes. It’s true. If drinking blood is an erotic experience, then sex under the influence is like . . . She fails to think of a suitable simile. Coke doesn’t even come close. The impulse to push him against the wall and fuck him in the shower is almost overpowering, despite the aches. “It’s addictive,” she says finally.

“Yes. Which is problematic.” The icy chill of his intellect is returning. There isn’t very much of the little boy left in Oscar; he didn’t get to his position without being able to keep it under very tight control. He’s not one for casual workplace flings, which makes her triumph all the sweeter. “Because, yes, we need it. Which is a weakness.”

“You’re thinking of the pawns.” She leans against him.

“Yes. I’m not planning to ditch them,” he adds carefully. “Not yet.”

“Not unless they become a liability.” She turns inside his arms and begins to massage his shoulders and spine with the soap. Their lips meet, briefly. “Am I a liability, Oscar?”

“You’re not a pawn. A queen, maybe.” His penis—
he’s forty and he hasn’t gone soft! Amazing!
—pushes gently against the side of her thigh. “You understand the value of keeping secrets.” She wraps one hand around his balls, feeling them tighten as she strokes.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she says, before she can think to censor herself. Then she realizes something else. “Oh, that’s odd.”

“What is?” He’s instantly alert, sensitive to her perturbation.

“I’m not supposed to be able to talk about it.” She leans against him and kisses him greedily to shut him up, covering her faux pas. But it’s too much fun; one thing leads to another and she moans and bites his shoulder as he slides inside her again.
Blood.
But it tastes wrong. There’s nothing sexy about Oscar’s circulatory fluid.
He’s
biting
her
now, then pulling away, disappointed. They continue to fuck, but the magic is leaking out of it, swirling down the shower drain with a thin red trail of soap suds. It’s just ordinary mammalian humping, enjoyable but nothing to set her hair on fire and make her scream until the windows explode. And Oscar feels it, too, because after a minute he stops and slides away, slowly detumescing.

Back in the bedroom, Mhari rummages through the discarded bedding for her handbag. The four remaining sample tubes are fine: she pulls a couple and holds one out to Oscar. As he takes it she pops the lid on her own and raises it. “Your—hang on, this is skunked.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. She examines the tube closely: “It smells
wrong
.”

Oscar unseals his and takes a sip. His expression of distaste speaks volumes. “Want to try the others?”

It takes Mhari less than a minute to determine that all the other sample tubes are spoiled. Not clotted or rotten: whatever previously made the contents so enticing has vanished, leaving only rancid red meat-juice behind. “This hasn’t happened before,” she observes.

“Well, we’ll just have to hit room service, won’t we?” Oscar towels himself dry. “For food
and
drink.” He watches with detached amusement as Mhari collects her scattered clothes. “Unless you’d like to dine out?”

“I didn’t bring my glad rags; room service will do just fine.” She goes in search of the room service directory as Oscar begins to dress.

Later, over Kobe steaks flown in from Osaka that morning (with discreet tubes of blood donated by the bellhop as a digestif), Oscar asks her the question she’s been worrying about. “What exactly aren’t you supposed to talk about?” he asks.

“I”—
I can talk,
Mhari realizes, surprised—“before the Bank, I worked for a, a rather secret division of the civil service. I was”—
allowed to leave, classified as a liability
—“allowed to transition to the private sector, but they have these, uh, brainwashing-like capabilities that operate like our ability to, you know, that make it impossible to talk about what you did there without their permission, and I was, obviously, not able to talk about them . . . before.” Her head’s spinning.
I shouldn’t be able to say this stuff,
she tells herself.
How
can
I say this stuff? The geas, does vampirism defeat it?

“What?” Oscar looks puzzled. “What sort of stuff did they do?”

Her fork pauses, a blood-tinted slice of rare steak impaled upon the moment of the present. “They’re the branch of the secret intelligence services that deals with occult threats. Like us.”

“They’re the—” Oscar stops. “No. I’m not going to say you’re crazy.” He chuckles briefly, then a dyspeptic frown steals all sign of amusement from his face. “We’re fucking vampires,
of course
there’s going to be a government department. It’s in the rules.” He peers at her intently. “What did
you
do for this agency?”

“Admin and management. HR dogsbody.” She resumes eating, feeling her pulse slow towards normality again. “I saw, uh, something I shouldn’t have. When I was at university. They’ve got a habit of picking up witnesses and finding make-work for them to keep them under observation for a while. Sometimes for life. I was there for three or four years. God it was tedious. Eventually they figured I wasn’t a practitioner and they could let me go under a compulsion to keep my trap shut. They even sorted out a bunch of job interviews for me—there’s a standard exit procedure.”