which would do more than just adorn your superb figure: it had to be a dress so glamorous, so daring, so risque that no man seeing you in it – especially Toussaint Louverture – would be able to deny you anything. We’re lucky that Louffie’s one of the few males in NoirVille who isn’t enraptured by men. Therefore… voila!’
From out of the second package he conjured a dress of such sublime elegance that for a moment Ella was lost for words. Made from cream satin, it was long, close-fitting, backless and, from what she could make out, nigh on frontless. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.
Vanka seemed unsettled by her silence. ‘I trust you approve of my selection, Ella, but now having seen you, I think even if you appeared for this evening’s rendezvous in that shirt Louverture and every man in the Resi would applaud.’
‘Oh, Vanka, you’ve been so very kind to me. It’s a wonderful, wonderful dress, but you do realise if I wear it I won’t be able to disguise the fact that I’m a Shade.’
‘The Resi is the one place in the ForthRight where you don’t have to hide what you are, Ella. With Josephine Baker’s Revue Negre performing there you’ll be just one woman of colour amongst many. Tonight you are quite at liberty to flaunt both your colour and your beauty.’
Before she quite knew what she was doing Ella had skipped up from the couch and kissed Vanka on the cheek.
There was an embarrassed pause, then Vanka raised his hand to the place where she had planted the kiss. ‘I warned you once before, Ella, that beautiful young ladies being so free with their affections might find themselves in danger of having their affections reciprocated.’ And with that he leant forward and placed the lightest of kisses on her mouth. It was like a dam breaking. Before Ella quite knew what was happening she was in Vanka’s arms, her mouth hard against his, their bodies merging.
She’d never felt like this about a man before. She felt dizzy with excitement. It was as though the pair of them belonged together.
They broke and spent a breathless moment simply holding one another, simply enjoying the comforting feel of each other’s bodies. Then Vanka stood back. ‘Ella… I will help you escape the Demi-Monde, I will guard and protect you, I will never leave you. But you must promise me one thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘I know here in this world we can never be together: you’ve told me that I’m just a copy of a Vanka Maykov living in the Real World. So, when you return there, will you find me?’
‘I’ll find you, Vanka, I’ll find you. Vanka… Vanka… I love-’
‘Gor, bugger me but it’s brass monkeys out there,’ complained Rivets as he barged through the door. Ella and Vanka jumped away from one another and urgently looked for something to occupy their attention. Rivets seemed not to notice the awkwardness of the situation that he’d stumbled into, he simply shrugged and dropped the box he was carrying on the floor. ‘I got most ov the stuff you wanted, Vanka. The point-two-two was a bit ov a pig to source but I found wun in a ‘ockshop.’
He dug into the jacket pocket of his overtight and overchecked suit, pulled out a tiny revolver and tossed it to Ella. ‘‘Ere’s a “Welcome to Berlin” present from your pal Rivets, Miss Ella. This ‘ere’s a lady’s gun: small and delicate but good at busting hearts.’ The boy stretched out a hand. ‘We didn’t ‘ave a chance for a proper introduction last night. Me name’s Rivets and I’m Vanka’s oppo.’
They shook hands and immediately Ella knew everything there was to know about the orphan: how he’d been found wandering the streets by Vanka who’d taken pity on him, how he’d become a dab hand at helping Vanka with his short cons and how his Jack-the-lad demeanour hid a penetrating intelligence. Undersized and scrawny he might be but he’d packed a lifetime of experiences into his fifteen years. In many ways he was a pocket Vanka.
‘Rivets: that’s an interesting name.’
‘Got it ‘cos I’m good at nailing birds,’ answered Rivets with a wink and then for emphasis made a leering examination of Ella’s naked legs. ‘Nice pins…’ he began and then stopped abruptly when he saw the still weeping cuts on her thigh.
‘Crikey, you’s bleedin’,’ he spluttered. ‘Wot is you: a Daemon?’
‘Yes, Rivets, she’s a Daemon,’ said Vanka quickly. ‘But she’s a friendly Daemon.’
‘A friendly Daemon.’ Rivets chewed the oxymoron around for a moment and then eyed Ella carefully. ‘I ain’t never met a real live Daemon before. You sure she’s ‘armless, Vanka? I ‘ear these Daemons are buggers for villainy.’
‘Oh, Ella is quite harmless, Rivets, except when she’s got her dander up.’ Vanka took a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ella, who used it to dab away the blood on her leg.
She gave the handkerchief back. ‘Thanks, Vanka.’
‘My pleasure.’ Vanka refolded it and put it back in his pocket. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
Cautiously Rivets stepped forward to study Ella’s legs more closely. ‘Well, I’ve got to say, Vanka, that she don’t look much like a Daemon, ‘ceptin’, ov course, that she’s a Shade but then there are a power of Shades down in NoirVille and they ain’t Daemons. Well… I don’t fink they is.’ He turned to look at Vanka. ‘Any’ows, Vanka, wot are yous doing palling up wiv a Daemon?’
‘It’s a long story, Rivets, but all you need to know is that by helping Ella here we’re going to make ourselves very, very rich.’
Rivets wasn’t convinced. ‘I don’t knows about this malarkey, Vanka. Helpin’ a Daemon: that’s not natural that ain’t.’
‘It’s worth ten thousand guineas to you, if you do,’ said Vanka quietly.
Rivets paused for a moment letting his imagination run around with the idea of having so much money to spend. ‘Well, iffn you puts it like that, unnatural or not, I don’t suppose there’s any real harm in it.’
‘No, there’s no harm in it, Rivets, but it might be an idea, Ella, if you were to get dressed. We don’t want anyone else seeing your legs.’
As Ella collected her new clothes she was struck by a thought. ‘Have you heard anything about Norma Williams?’
Vanka shook his head. ‘No. She’s probably dead, drowned in the sewers. I presume you Daemons can drown?’
‘Oh yes, we can drown. We Daemons can die in the DemiMonde just like we can die in the Real World.’
‘Then it’s a penny to a pound that she’s a goner. So my advice is that we concentrate on our own problems, and stop worrying about the late and very unlamented Norma Williams.’
It was harsh advice but, when Ella thought about it, utterly pragmatic. Norma Williams was in all probability dead and if she wasn’t the chances of her finding her way in the black labyrinth of the sewers without the help of PINC were virtually zero. She’d done her best to fulfil the mission she’d been given: better now to look after herself and to do everything she could to get home in one piece.
That evening – cleansed, coiffed and clothed in her really quite outrageous gown – Ella walked with Vanka up to the Resi’s grand entrance. She felt giddy with anticipation. She was going to an exciting place with the man she loved.
There… she had admitted it to herself. It might be a ridiculous and stupid and impossible and nonsensical thing to have done but she couldn’t deny what she felt. When she was with Vanka she felt alive, more alive than she had ever felt in the Real World. And tonight, no matter what happened with Louverture, she was determined to enjoy herself.
The nightclub was very busy. There were crowds bustling around the pavement outside trying to cajole the doormen into allowing them into the place: everyone in Berlin, it seemed, wanted to see Josephine Baker perform. Ella wasn’t surprised; in a Sector where everything considered even mildly outre was crushed under the dead hand of UnFunDaMentalism, the chance to witness such a decadent, prurient, yet officially sanctioned event made the Revue Negre the hottest ticket in town. In fact the competition for tables was so intense that even Vanka, usually so confident in his powers of persuasion, seemed doubtful of his ability to talk his way into the nightclub.
Ella had no such apprehensions. She nodded towards the three doormen guarding the club’s entrance. ‘Which one of those doorstops is the main man?’
Vanka looked and frowned. ‘Karl. The biggest one, the one with the waxed moustache, but it’s no use, he’s already turned down a ten-guinea bribe.’
Arm in arm with Vanka, Ella strolled – putting a coquettish little wiggle in her walk as she did so – over to Karl. ‘Miss Ella Baker and her friend Colonel Vanka Maykov, here at the invitation of Mr Toussaint Louverture,’ she
