The men were all dressed in immaculately tailored dinner jackets, while the women wore long gowns of subdued colours and modest cut. It made Katerina stand out from the crowd; not that she needed sartorial assistance for that. A stunning case of overkill.
Greg saw that despite his blunt Lincolnshire-boy attitude Philip Evans made a good host. He slipped into the role easily. A lifetime immersed in PR had taught him how.
Julia stuck by his side; officially the hostess, being the senior lady of the family. The guests treated her with a formal respect not usually directed at teenagers. They must know she was the protégée, Greg realized. She accepted her due without a hint of pretension.
Greg hovered behind the pair of them, maintaining a lifeless professional smile as he was introduced as Philip Evans’s new personal secretary. The old billionaire had assembled an impressive collection of top rankers for his party-a couple of New Conservative cabinet ministers, and the deputy prime minister; five ambassadors; financiers; a sprinkling of the aristocracy; and some flash showbiz types, presumably for Julia’s benefit.
Lady Adelaide and Lord Justin Windsor, Princess Beatrice’s children, were also mingling with the guests, two tight knots of people swirling gently round them the whole time. Greg had managed to exchange a few words with Lady Adelaide; she was in her early twenties, and as politely informal as only Royalty could be given the circumstances. He gave way to the press of social mountaineers well pleased; Eleanor would love hearing the details.
As he left, he saw Katerina moving with the tenacity of an icebreaker through the people around Lord Justin. She wriggled round an elderly matron with gymnastic agility to deliver herself in front of him, blue eyes hot with sultry promise. For one moment, watching Lord Justin’s quickly hidden guilty smile, Greg allowed his cynicism to get the better of him. Could the young royal be the reason Philip Evans was unhappy about Adrian? Lord Justin was only five years older than Julia; a union between them was the kind of note an ultra-English traditionalist like Philip Evans would adore going out on. He eventually decided the thought was unworthy. Philip Evans might be devious, but he wasn’t grubby.
The new arrivals seemed endless. Greg wanted to undo his iron collar, he wasn’t used to it. But all he could do was smile at the blur of faces, sticking to form. The guests weren’t a nightstalker crowd, he realized grimly, not the ones who cruised the shebeens searching for pickups and left-handed action. This was class, the real and the posed. Their conversation revolved around currency fluctuations, investment potential, and the latest Fernando production at the National Theatre. Nobody here would be looking for a quiet moment to slip upstairs with someone else’s escort. Greg steeled himself for hours of excruciating boredom.
There was one guest for whom Julia abandoned all her decorum, rushing up and flinging her arms round an over-loud American. “Uncle Horace, you came!’ She smiled happily as he patted her back, collecting an over-generous kiss. The man was in his late fifties, red-faced and fleshy, his smile seemingly permanent.
The name enabled Greg to place him: Horace Jepson, the channel magnate. He was the president of Globecast, a satellite broadcasting company which had multiple channel franchises in nearly every country in the world; screening everything from trash soaps and rock videos to wildlife documentaries and twenty-four-hour news coverage. The PSP had refused Globecast a licence while they were in power, although the company’s Pan-Europe channels could always be picked up by Event Horizon’s black-market flatscreens, complete with a dedicated English-language soundband. The PSP raged about imperialist electronic piracy; Globecast calmly referred to it as footprint overspill, and kept on beaming it down. Greg had never watched anything else in the PSP decade.
Horace Jepson gave Philip Evans a hearty greeting, while Julia clung to his side. Then she steered him adroitly away from a cluster of the celebrities who’d begun to eye him greedily, introducing him to one of the New Conservative ministers instead.
It was an interesting manoeuvre: if those manic self-advancing celebrities had sunk their varnished claws into Jepson he would’ve had little chance of escaping all evening. So Julia Evans wasn’t quite the airhead he’d so swiftly written her off as, after all. In fact, her thoughts seemed extraordinarily well focused, fast-flowing. He couldn’t ever remember encountering a mind quite like hers before.
She returned and took her grandfather’s hand. They shared a sly private smile.
It was a rapport which was quickly broken when Philip Evans spotted a couple making their way towards him and muttered, “Oh crap,” under his breath. Julia glanced up anxiously, and gave her grandfather’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.
He studied the advancing couple with interest to see what had aroused the sudden concern and antipathy in both Julia and Philip. They were a handsome pair. She was in her mid-twenties, draped in at least half a million pounds’ worth of diamond jewellery, and wearing a loose lavender gown which showed almost as much cleavage and thigh as Katerina. The man, Greg guessed, was forty; he had a dark Mediterranean complexion, and obviously worked hard to keep himself fit. Each strand of his thick raven-black hair was locked into place.
Greg’s espersense sent a cold, distinctly prickly sensation dancing along his spine as they approached. Beneath those perfect shells something disquietingly unpleasant lurked.
“Philip. Wonderful party,” the man said, his accent faintly continental. “Thanks so much for the invite.”
Philip returned the smile, although Greg knew him well enough by now to see how laboured it was without resorting to his espersense.
“Kendric, glad you could come,” he said. “I’d like you to meet my new secretary. Greg, this is Kendric di Girolamo, my good friend and business colleague.”
Kendric smiled with reptilian snobbery. “Ah, the English. Always so eager to do down the foreign devil. Actually, Greg, I am Philip’s financial partner. Without me Event Horizon would be a fifth-rate clothing sweat-shop on some squalid North Sea trawler.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Evans said in a tight flat voice. “I can find twenty money men bobbing about any time I look into a sewer.”
“You see,” Kendric appealed to Greg, “a socialist at heart. He has the true Red’s loathing of bankers.”
The knuckles on Julia’s hand were blanched as she gripped her grandfather’s shoulder, holding back the tiger.
The sight of someone as ill as Evans being deliberately provoked was infuriating. Greg allowed the neurohormones to flood out from the gland and focused his mind on ice-hard, sharp, helium cold. A slim blade of this, needle-sharp tip resting lightly on Kendric’s brow, directly above his nose. “Don’t let’s spoil the party atmosphere,” he said gently.
Kendric appeared momentarily annoyed by a mere pawn interrupting his grand game.
Greg thrust his eidolon knife forwards. Penetration, root pattern of frost blossoming, congealing the brain to a blue-black rock of iron.
It felt so right, so easy. The power was there, fuelled by that kilowatt pulse of anger.
Kendric blinked in alarmed confusion, swaying as if caught by a sudden squall. The hauteur which had been swirling triumphantly across his thoughts flash-evaporated. His knees nearly buckled, he took an unsteady step backwards before he regained his balance.
Greg’s own unexpected flame withered, sucked back to whatever secret recess it originated from. Its departure left a copper taste filming his suddenly arid throat. He turned to the woman. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”