Read Online Hell's Teeth (Phoebe Harkness Book 1) by James Fahy - Free Book Online
Authors: James Fahy
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Gothic, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Genre Fiction, Genetic engineering, Paranormal & Urban
Ads: Link
ransom note along with some of her body parts to us. Needless to say … this does not sit well with Cabal.”
I turned to face her, as much to not have to look at the box full of teeth as to confront the woman. “This is unbelievable,” I managed. “Good God, poor Trevelyan. Jesus.”
I’m articulate in a crisis, I know.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. The teeth glittered up at me obscenely. “But … I don’t understand why … I mean, I’m a blood doctor, I didn’t exactly swap Christmas cards with my boss, we hardly got on like a house on fire. I don’t know how you’d think I could shed any light on something like this?”
“Partly because we believe this crime was committed by a GO,” Harrison said behind me. “And they seem to have suddenly taken an interest in you.” I didn’t like that comment one little bit. It sounded like a trap, or an accusation. Or both.
“But primarily…” Cloves said, her voice like an icy razor, reaching into her suit jacket and withdrawing a DataStream clip, a kind of slim USB, which she brandished like evidence in front of me, “… because the message which came with the teeth, the message sent by who or whatever has taken and tortured our staff member … is addressed to you .”
10
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a vet. Well, originally I wanted to be a ballerina, then there was a fire-fighter phase I went through, but it turns out I was neither coordinated nor inflammable, so time and again I returned to my main theme of vet. I pictured myself wandering around healing sick animals, the occasional bit of horse dentistry, birthing a cow, splinting the legs of cats. I was an animal lover, you see.
Of course, things don’t ever work out quite as we plan them. Fate and fortune led me down a very different and more specialised path. My father was a scientist once, before the wars, long before I was born. He was a medic later on. Trying to save the dying human population. I kind of followed in his footsteps after he died. I still, some would say, work with animals, if you could regard the genetically engineered rabid killing machines we call the Pale as such, but I would point out that it’s hardly the same thing trying to undo the Faustian meddling of the last generation. It’s a long way from caring for sick puppies. The only interaction with actual animals of the small and fluffy variety I get these days is with rats, and I tend to kill them – not always entirely by accident.
My point is that we never really know, no matter how sure we are of ourselves and our place in the world when we set out, exactly where it is we are going to end up. For example, even after accepting my fate as a lab drone, I had never expected to now be sitting in a subterranean office complex with three extremely important government Servants, corralled on all sides and wedged into a high backed and expertly leather-worked office chair, watching a DataStream clip which appeared to implicate me not only in extreme fraternisation with Genetic Others, but also with kidnappers and torturers. It was not what I would call comfortable viewing.
The visual on the clip, which Cloves had inserted into Fat Godfather’s monitor, was grainy and shaky. Handheld footage. Too old-fashioned to be any kind of cranial implant, which is what a lot of the news crews were using these days. It was hard to make out much other than a featureless, grey room, I was guessing a basement or storage locker. The walls were old blocks of stone, damp-looking. Like a crypt. The only thing on screen was my supervisor, tied to a run of the mill four-legged chair with generous amounts of duct tape. Her clothes were those I had last seen her in, though crumpled and dirty. Dusty looking, as though she had been dragged along the floor, the coat of her blazer torn. Her hair was in disarray, falling forward over her face, and her mouth was obscured behind yet more silver duct tape. She was missing a shoe.
I turned to face her, as much to not have to look at the box full of teeth as to confront the woman. “This is unbelievable,” I managed. “Good God, poor Trevelyan. Jesus.”
I’m articulate in a crisis, I know.
I shook my head, trying to clear it. The teeth glittered up at me obscenely. “But … I don’t understand why … I mean, I’m a blood doctor, I didn’t exactly swap Christmas cards with my boss, we hardly got on like a house on fire. I don’t know how you’d think I could shed any light on something like this?”
“Partly because we believe this crime was committed by a GO,” Harrison said behind me. “And they seem to have suddenly taken an interest in you.” I didn’t like that comment one little bit. It sounded like a trap, or an accusation. Or both.
“But primarily…” Cloves said, her voice like an icy razor, reaching into her suit jacket and withdrawing a DataStream clip, a kind of slim USB, which she brandished like evidence in front of me, “… because the message which came with the teeth, the message sent by who or whatever has taken and tortured our staff member … is addressed to you .”
10
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a vet. Well, originally I wanted to be a ballerina, then there was a fire-fighter phase I went through, but it turns out I was neither coordinated nor inflammable, so time and again I returned to my main theme of vet. I pictured myself wandering around healing sick animals, the occasional bit of horse dentistry, birthing a cow, splinting the legs of cats. I was an animal lover, you see.
Of course, things don’t ever work out quite as we plan them. Fate and fortune led me down a very different and more specialised path. My father was a scientist once, before the wars, long before I was born. He was a medic later on. Trying to save the dying human population. I kind of followed in his footsteps after he died. I still, some would say, work with animals, if you could regard the genetically engineered rabid killing machines we call the Pale as such, but I would point out that it’s hardly the same thing trying to undo the Faustian meddling of the last generation. It’s a long way from caring for sick puppies. The only interaction with actual animals of the small and fluffy variety I get these days is with rats, and I tend to kill them – not always entirely by accident.
My point is that we never really know, no matter how sure we are of ourselves and our place in the world when we set out, exactly where it is we are going to end up. For example, even after accepting my fate as a lab drone, I had never expected to now be sitting in a subterranean office complex with three extremely important government Servants, corralled on all sides and wedged into a high backed and expertly leather-worked office chair, watching a DataStream clip which appeared to implicate me not only in extreme fraternisation with Genetic Others, but also with kidnappers and torturers. It was not what I would call comfortable viewing.
The visual on the clip, which Cloves had inserted into Fat Godfather’s monitor, was grainy and shaky. Handheld footage. Too old-fashioned to be any kind of cranial implant, which is what a lot of the news crews were using these days. It was hard to make out much other than a featureless, grey room, I was guessing a basement or storage locker. The walls were old blocks of stone, damp-looking. Like a crypt. The only thing on screen was my supervisor, tied to a run of the mill four-legged chair with generous amounts of duct tape. Her clothes were those I had last seen her in, though crumpled and dirty. Dusty looking, as though she had been dragged along the floor, the coat of her blazer torn. Her hair was in disarray, falling forward over her face, and her mouth was obscured behind yet more silver duct tape. She was missing a shoe.
Similar Books
