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Once or twice she’d forgotten that she wasn’t the same Myfanwy Thomas everyone assumed she was. She was no longer worried that each thing she said or did would clash with everyone’s mental image of what Rook Thomas would say or do. And she’d learned that betraying a bit of ignorance wouldn’t automatically reveal her secret.
“Okay, so they’ll be here in forty-five minutes. Is there some sort of reception ceremony or anything?” “The heads of the Checquy will be hosting a formal gathering to welcome our guests tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to give them time to get over their jet lag. But for today, according to long-standing tradition, I perform the sacred cancellation of your other appointments and make reservations at the hallowed temple of Italian food.”
The moment the English arrived in the New World, the Checquy was there too. The second person off the boat at Jamestown was a Checquy operative who spent most of his time cringing at the appalling things the other colonists were doing and quietly applauding as they succumbed to the subtle magical warfare tactics of the natives.
This American Checquy, which became known as the Croatoan, spread out over the colonies.
“People like us are sort of considered to be the property of the nation.” “Well, we had a similar tradition over in the States—people as property. And then we had a little war that sort of established that tradition would end.”
Of course, thought Myfanwy. Death and taxes. They get you every time.
Tracking the missing money was actually kind of fun, especially compared to all those records of corporate credit card transactions that I had to wade through. That shit was just tedious. There’s a reason that there’s no TV show called CSI: Forensic Accounting. Although I will say that I now really, really know the Checquy, inside and out. And I know where the missing money went.
It was just the slightest of touches, but I reached out from inside and didn’t let him feel me or see me. Did you know you can do that? Everybody’s eyes have blind spots, and I created a new one that encompassed me. In fact, it wasn’t just a blind spot. I cut myself entirely out of his perception. I could have stood in front of him and screamed, but as long as I kept contact with him, he wouldn’t know I was there.
Not that a locked door made a difference to me, since we’d all been rigorously trained in “the ladylike arts of breaking and entering,” as my teacher had insisted on referring to them.
I don’t know who they were hiring as teachers at Camp Caius, but they were paying them more than the staff at the true Estate makes, and we get the best. The surgeons were making even more.
“And the minibar in my hotel room was mysteriously emptied.” “By arcane forces beyond the understanding of normal human beings?” asked Myfanwy as she sifted through the in-box. It was the sort of question you learned to ask automatically when you worked with the Checquy. “No, it was me,” admitted Shantay without a shred of embarrassment.
The prospect of going to an actual manifestation failed to fill her with delight. She’d been reading some of the files and had learned that far more Checquy operatives died by being torn to pieces than from any other cause. The organization provided an amazing retirement plan, but hardly anyone ever got to use it.
Thomas had found evidence suggesting that Bath was the place where the Checquy had been founded, a reaction to the continuous torrent of bizarre happenings. According to old reports, it had been practically impossible to wander down a dark alley in Bath without tripping over something that had more limbs than it was supposed to. For centuries, Bath was the greatest source of Checquy operatives in the country.
“Well, I want to have the whole English experience. High tea, supervising manifestations, taking the waters, going to Harrods, discussing possible international conspiracies.”
The chanting increased throughout the room, but a part of it had been augmented, amplified. Now layered over the droning was a tense voice, insistently repeating itself. “Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook… Send in the Rook…” “Figures,” said Myfanwy bitterly.
“You’re a very glass-half-empty person, aren’t you?” observed Myfanwy. “That’s experience talking,” said Shantay. “In these situations, the glass is always half empty.” “Always?” “Always,” confirmed the Bishop. “Right until it fills up with some sort of spectral blood that grows into a demonic entity.”
I’m running through all the emergency codes and nothing is working. Do you know some backdoor hack to shutting it all down?” He turned around, looking for an answer, and froze when he saw them. “You’re not Gestalt!” he exclaimed in a tone of complete shock. Ah, thought Myfanwy. Suddenly it all makes a bit more sense.
“I had no idea that we’d sunk so low. Enlisting Americans in the Barghests? But then, this is the same Court that appointed you as a Rook,” he spat out in disgust. “A useless little girl who weeps in corners and fiddles about with the account books.” “No doubt they should have selected some treasonous git who grows spikes out of his arse instead,” Myfanwy remarked as she fumbled for the pistol at her side and nearly dropped it in the process.
“Well, thanks to Noel whatever’s research, this dragon egg was brought to our attention. Now, these things take centuries to hatch, but this kid, with freakish attention to detail, calculated the exact date of the hatching.”
I’d been disregarded, and it chafed. It didn’t used to bother me, but since I learned what is going to happen—since I learned about you—I’ve been observing myself more. People ignore me. They scan right over me, and they do it because I’m not… not what they expect a leader to be.
I may have scrimped in some areas, but one of the lessons my teachers at the Estate had drilled into me was that an army marches on its stomach. As a result, I always made sure there was a good catering staff at all long-term field operations.
I could mangle words with the best of them, and this was a kid who had clearly read too much of a certain kind of book. His righteous swelling changed subtly to prideful puffing.
Bittner was rigged with a hands-free radio so that his every reaction and observation could be recorded for posterity. He was breathing deeply. I suspect it was on purpose. His stance was, to my eye, overly dramatic—he’d spread his arms, and his thin robe flapped in the wind. I suppose he had thought this would appear striking in the icy cold, but after Alrich’s entrance, anything short of actual nudity was unimpressive. Besides, I’ve never had any patience for posers.
Bittner spread his arms and the dragon uncurled, limbs stretching, tendons snapping into place. A serpentine neck drew itself out and up. Massive, fanlike wings were unfurled up into the sky. We watched, spellbound.
I saw that she was ready to give the order to the snipers. “No!” shouted Bittner, whirling around to face us. “You must not! The dragon and I are bonding! We share a unique rap—” He was cut off abruptly as the dragon reached out and languidly clawed his head off.
In any case, in every such academy, there is always one student who plays the game just the right way, who is made head of house (yes, they had houses back then. Thank God they disbanded them a couple decades back), gets grades that are good enough to keep him out of the bottom set but not so good as to mark him as a swot, and sucks up to the headmaster so hard that he leaves the man a desiccated husk. Such a youth was Goblet.
As it was, it looked likely that the incident was going to enter the realm of Pawn legend. Supposedly there hadn’t been any threat in the past four decades that the Barghests couldn’t overcome. And now that scrawny Rook—you know, Thomas, the skinny little girl who threw up in the Estate swimming pool that one time? Yeah, she went in after the strike team was eaten and then walked out complaining she needed a shower and a box of chocolates.
How could Thomas describe herself as shy and unassuming while owning a garment that would embarrass a Venetian courtesan? It wasn’t that it was indecent so much as that it implied a great deal of self-confidence. It was extraordinary and undeniably unorthodox.
“Do you think I can pull it off?” “I should think any passerby could pull it off if he tugged on this bit right here,” said Val grimly. “Still, your hair is lovely, and with a bit of jewelry you’ll look very special.”
With lightning reflexes, the Gestalt in front of her drew his gun and pointed it at her face. She saw the murder in his eyes and felt a moment of pure satisfaction when he found, much to his bewilderment, that he wasn’t able to pull the trigger. Oh, yes, that would be me doing that. She raised her eyebrows at him then focused and made him throw the gun away,
Behind them there was a roar as Alrich burst out of a crowd of attackers, shaking off a mist of blood. His kimono in shreds, gore streaking his arms, the Bishop looked like an avenging angel engaged in slaughter. He snarled and moved toward the melee, his long, tapering fingers hooking themselves into claws. Gestalt, in a stunning display of good sense, elected to run. In four separate directions.
She had Gestalt. She had him and there was no way the Rook could escape—no body to slide into, no extra sibling to mobilize. But then, suddenly, the mind was gone, evaporating through her fingers. Mental activity in the brains faded.
Myfanwy was fascinated that it wasn’t so much the attempted assassination of members of the Court that was filling him with rage but more the fact that Gestalt and his people had broken the laws of decorum by doing it during a drinks reception. And in front of the Americans.
“This should be a pleasant little interview. All I have to do is put on my scary face.” “You have a scary face?” Ingrid sounded skeptical. “Yes,” said Myfanwy indignantly. “I have a very scary face.” Ingrid surveyed her for a moment. “You may wish to take off the cardigan then, Rook Thomas,” she advised tactfully. “The flowers on the pockets detract somewhat from your menace.”
“You wanted me in the Court?” asked Myfanwy. “A weak, sniveling little girl who could never look beyond the figures? Of course we wanted you in there. And it wasn’t easy either.”
“Did he figure out that you lost your memory?” asked Ingrid casually. Myfanwy looked up at her, shocked. She slammed her mind down around Ingrid’s body, cutting off everything but voice, sight, and hearing. “I suppose I should have expected that,” said Ingrid.
“How long have you known?” “Since the evening when I came into my office and found Rook Myfanwy Thomas curled up on the floor, weeping and muttering about how she could feel her memories evaporating.”
“One person wouldn’t be enough to get someone promoted to the Court,” said Ingrid. “Not even one person with four bodies.” “So what are you saying?” asked Myfanwy with a sinking feeling. “I’m saying that there are more Grafter agents in the Court.”
Bishop Alrich Is a vampire. Despite this, I would urge you not to brandish any holy symbols at him during Court meetings. Quite aside from the fact that they won’t work, it’s very bad manners and would make for an inconvenient break from the meeting agenda.
What Thurow had done was in the best traditions of the British Empire: she had simultaneously discovered a species and gone to war with it. Thus, the official position of the Checquy on vampires went almost instantly from “Don’t be ridiculous, you silly girl, there’s no such thing!” to “Right, they do exist, and they appear to be killing us.”
It seems that Thurow’s intrusion upon the hatching had prompted some sort of vendetta, and by bolting back to the headquarters, she had given the vampire a trail to follow to the Checquy. With that began a nighttime war of attrition. At first, it was one death each night.
Finally, after thirty-three days and seventy-two deaths, the Lord and Lady of the Checquy woke up in their heavily fortified bunker to find their bodyguards mesmerized into comas and a vampire looking down at them.
In the course of acquainting himself with the reach and purpose of the organization (and, although Heller didn’t say it, killing its members), his younger spawn, Alrich, had become somewhat enamored. Would the Lord and Lady be willing to accept him into their service for a time?
We don’t even know how vampires are made—it was one of the conditions Alrich set for his entry into the Checquy, that he would never be questioned about the procedure and that he would never be asked to create a new vampire. I mean, we know they come out of eggs, but that’s it.
“I’d have introduced you, but he was here with a distinct purpose.” “Yeah, I noticed. Too bad. Until he left with that bloke, I was kind of hoping that he was hitting on you. Why are the hot ones always gay?” she asked. “Yeah,” said Myfanwy. Or vampires.
It was like hanging out with a woman who was simultaneously my grandmother and my personal shopper. She reeled off names of clothing stores and tailors we would have to visit. Her elderly secretary jotted them down, while behind them hustled Ingrid and Anthony, listening in increasing dismay as their schedule, meticulously created to ensure political correctness and impeccable security, was jettisoned in favor of a sort of supernatural makeover.
“Myfanwy Thomas, you will be betrayed in the future by a member of your Court. You know it. I know it. You will stand in the rain, and all around you will be dead men.” “How do you know?” I whispered. “I can see it all around you, my little precious,” she said, still holding my hands.
“I would still be in België, but unfortunately circumstances have dragged me here.” “That must be trying,” said Myfanwy with as much false sympathy as she could muster. How tiresome, to have to come and invade a country,
What kind of business are you people running? I have a car parked in your security garage right now, and I don’t want to get slime on it!” “Miss, it’s three in the morning, and if you don’t move along, we’re going to have to move you along.” “If you put one finger on me, you will regret it!” she said coldly. “No doubt,” said one. “These uniforms are dry-clean-only.”
“Where’s the coffee?” “Oh, there’s no coffee,” said Ingrid. “The doctors said it was best for you not to have anything to eat or drink until after the tests.” “But… but didn’t you say there would be breakfast when I got down?” “That was just to lure you out of bed,” said Ingrid. Myfanwy thought briefly of bursting into tears, but instead nodded a weary assent.
