“So, Ingrid, what did you think of the interrogation?” Myfanwy asked.
“Very interesting,” said Ingrid.
“Oh, yeah? You know, Ingrid, I don’t think interesting is a suitable response from an intelligent person. It means ‘I have no idea, but I think I’d better say something.’ ” She looked at her secretary, whose cheeks were flushed. “Let’s be a little bit more specific: What did you think of poor Mr. Van Syoc’s responses?”
Ingrid took a deep breath and looked down at her hands. “Well, Rook Thomas, I suppose that the most startling thing is the fact that the Grafters are sending operatives back into the British Isles. The second most startling thing is that the Grafters still exist. I was under the impression that their organization was dissolved and their leaders executed several hundred years ago.”
“Yes, the Grafters,” said Myfanwy thoughtfully. “I was struck by that too.” She surreptitiously underlined the Grafters notation in her notepad.
“Although…” Ingrid hesitated.
“Yes?” Myfanwy said quickly, eager to seize the informational opening.
“I’m not entirely certain the rest of the audience was so shocked.” Ingrid paused, and Myfanwy gestured for her to continue. “I mean, they were appalled, but only Rook Gestalt gave the kind of reaction I would have expected.”
“You would have expected him to strangle Dr. Crisp?” asked Myfanwy.
“Well, no,” said Ingrid with a shudder. “Although it didn’t really surprise me. I mean, you know how short a temper Gestalt can have, and remember, the female Gestalt was in combat just this morning. Gestalt’s assistant told me that all the siblings were still fairly energized.” Myfanwy nodded, thinking of the twins’ unsteady walk as they’d left her office after recounting the antler-cult raid. “Plus, the Grafters are something of a bogeyman for graduates of the Estate, as you know yourself.”
“Hmm,” said Myfanwy, at a complete loss. “I agree.” It was almost a relief when the phone rang and Ingrid got up to answer it.
“Rook Thomas’s office, Ingrid speaking. Yes? Certainly. I’ll inform the Rook immediately. Good-bye.” Ingrid jotted something down, and looked over at Myfanwy. “Lady Farrier has requested that you still join her for dinner before the meeting at Apex House. You may wish to change your clothes.”
“Why?” asked Myfanwy. “This is a designer suit.”
“Oh, it’s quite respectable,” said Ingrid awkwardly, “but, well, you know how Lady Farrier likes women to dress at dinner.”
“Yes, of course. Lady Farrier and her dress requirements,” said Myfanwy. “I guess you should arrange for a car to take me back to the house.”
“You’re not going to use the residence?” Ingrid asked in surprise, gesturing toward the massive portraits on the wall.
“Oh, um, yeah, good point,” fumbled Myfanwy. “I didn’t think there was anything that I could wear to dinner, but now that you mention it, there may be. I’ll go and check. Maybe I’ll take a nap too. Thanks, Ingrid.”
“Don’t forget, you have an appointment with the head of building security at three. Shall I page you when he arrives?”
“Please.” Myfanwy watched as Ingrid left the room, then picked up her notepad and the purple binder and walked to the wall of portraits. She tried to peer behind the first one. Nothing. In the process, she nearly knocked the picture off the wall and was obliged to scrabble frantically to make sure it didn’t crush her. She almost had to call for help but eventually managed to manhandle the large picture back up. She approached the other portraits much more carefully and finally found one that had hinges on one side. She stepped back and contemplated it for a moment.
It was of a tall, handsome man with dark hair. His eyes gleamed black. The background was highly stylized, with the dark paint sloshed on boldly in curves and waves. A small copper plate read CONRAD GRANTCHESTER, ROOK. Under her touch, the portrait swung aside to reveal a heavy metal door with the by-now-familiar metal plate that warmed under her palms. The door slid open, and carpeted steps led up.
Dramatic, she thought. I wonder whose portrait conceals the door to the bathroom? She rearranged the heavy binder in her arms and walked hesitantly up the stairs. The staircase switchbacked twice before suddenly opening onto a huge room filled with light. Large windows that looked out on the city of London also illuminated the decor that had been personally selected by Conrad Grantchester, Rook.
“Oh,” she said out loud. “Okay, I see what Thomas meant.” He must have thought he was the most pimpariffic man in the entire world. The flat had clearly been designed two decades ago for the express purpose of seducing young women. They would have been brought here, discreetly, would have gasped over the black leather and the dark wood paneling, and would have had sex on the luxurious purple carpets in front of the fire. Their reflections would have appeared on the many brass fittings, and the massive amplifiers would have blared out the latest music track. Myfanwy resisted the urge to giggle and then burst out laughing instead. She had to sit down to get a grip on herself, which spilled the binder onto the floor.
Eventually she got up and wandered through the residence, her left eyebrow aching from all the raising it was being forced to do. There was a very large gold bathtub shaped like a shell, and an orange billiard table. Track lighting cast spotlights on the abstract paintings and sculptures. Oh, I have to see the bedroom. I wonder if there’s… There was. A round bed, with mirrors on the ceiling. How in God’s name did Thomas ever manage to look this guy in the face? The study, mercifully, was fairly businesslike and modern, with shelves full of reference works, a large number of which were anatomy textbooks. Myfanwy guessed that they were Thomas’s and resolved to cast an eye over them later in order to acquaint herself more fully with how human beings were actually put together.
Okay, study time.
9
The Grafters
The Grafters, or the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen, date back to the fifteenth century. Now, as far as I can determine, there were a number of alchemists wandering around Belgium. Or at least, the territories that would eventually grow up to become Belgium. Anyway, I’m sure you can imagine the sort of people these alchemists were. Most of them were squirrelly little men hanging around in cellars doing rather unfortunate things with mercury and dung for the cause of greater human knowledge. There were, however, a few of their brotherhood who were nobles—men of exceeding wealth who had gotten involved to achieve greater financial returns.
Personally, I find it difficult to believe that anyone seriously thought these little mole men were going to make gold out of lead, or tuna, or whatever the hell they were working with. But the Duke of One Thing and the Count of Something Else decided that this was a worthwhile investment and poured an obscene amount of money into financing the brotherhood. This is something that would normally really irritate me, the thought of all that wealth being lavished on some totally useless endeavor, except for one funny little fact.
They succeeded.
Of course, they didn’t actually turn lead into gold, but those grimy, deluded scientists came up with a discovery of equal value. Somehow or other, they mastered the art of fleshcrafting, of radically altering the properties of the human body. This brotherhood of medieval geeks could mold and re-form the raw materials of people. They could liquefy the flesh and bones of a person, resculpt them. They could attach new limbs. They could create new creatures.
Now, I like to think that these grubby alchemists had only the best of intentions. Hopefully, they had in mind the repairing of mangled peasants or the augmentation of… whatever. The noble investors, however, had some different ideas. With the sort of power these new processes granted them, the members of the brotherhood were in the perfect position to seize power. In any other country, a massive, bloody war would have ensued. Horrors would have stalked the land, unholy amalgamations of flesh would have fought on the fields, and the nights would have held new, unspeakable terrors.
&
nbsp; Fortunately, this is Belgium we’re talking about.
Rather than creating an army of monstrosities striding across the green, green fields and stomping on soldiers, the wealthy sponsors met with the current ruler and had a very polite and civilized conversation. Possibly over some sort of soup made out of cream. Thanks to that conversation, the brotherhood became officially affiliated with the government, such as it was. I mean, not to cast aspersions on Belgium or her predecessors, but this was the fifteenth century. Nobody was really very organized.
For the next couple of centuries, the Grafters did not do a great deal to influence the affairs of Belgium or, indeed, anywhere. They had been given a large sum of money and a mandate to pursue their studies, which they did with a level of focus that is quite remarkable given that the lands they were living in changed rulers and were divided up several times. Fortunately, the new rulers were apparently not informed of the Grafters’ activities, and the Grafters took no interest in political developments, or we would have had Hapsburg Grafters, Spanish Grafters, and possibly even Imperial Abbey of Stavelot-Malmedy Grafters running around the place.
Instead, the Grafters used the funds that had been allocated to them to improve and refine their techniques. The Checquy were vaguely aware of them but did not consider them to be terribly important. Let’s face it, they were Belgian geeks chilling in a big-ass basement and doing atrocious things to swine. No one cared. But by the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Grafters were able to produce killing machines of such breathtaking efficiency that a Checquy operative who happened to observe them in action wrote a panic-stricken thirty-page report heavily streaked with tears and vomit. He also became a much more religious man.
As a result of this report, the Checquy began paying a great deal more attention to the Grafters. The Alabaster Lady of the time, Margaret Jones, dispatched seven Checquy operatives to Belgium for the express purpose of observing the Grafters. This was made difficult by the fact that the Grafters worked out of several different estates that were rigorously guarded and patrolled by large chitinous creatures with the scent capabilities of bloodhounds and the hospitality instincts of sharks. Still, the Checquy improvised and were able to gather some important intelligence. One agent, who made his observations while in the form of a seagull, confirmed that there was an entire regiment of augmented soldiers, all of them mounted on huge creatures that were described as “the bastard offspring of spiders and Clydesdales.” The Grafters were now of major international concern.
Lamentably, at the same time that the Checquy realized that the Grafters were a big deal, the Grafters did too. They suddenly became aware of their glorious, monstrous muscles and were rather excited about the prospect of flexing them. They tentatively reached out to the head of the government of the time, who was quite impressed and saw great opportunities for his own personal advancement. Accordingly, he did not feel compelled to inform his boss, the King of Spain, about the Grafters and instead urged them to explore their potential. The only problem was that they lived in a fairly religious time, and there was some concern about the public reaction if they unleashed a force of creatures that looked as if they had been shat out of the anus of hell. You see, for all their brilliance in creating strength and resilience, the Grafters had absolutely no aesthetics. I’ve seen charcoal sketches and oil paintings of the products of that estate, and they were terrifying in their appearance.
Thus, the use of these things would have to be discreet. The Grafters needed a relatively small, contained arena in which to try out their assets. I have no idea which genius thought of the location, but I hope he suffered from excruciating piles because he proposed, and it was agreed, that the Isle of Wight would make an ideal preliminary target.
In 1677, monstrosities walked out of the ocean and supernatural war began on British soil. In response, the Checquy unleashed the Pawns under the direct command of the Rooks. For three weeks, battles raged and hundreds of civilians died. We slowly sliced away at the invaders, each Grafter creation brought down at the cost of dozens of Checquy soldiers.
Twelve of our troops—the last anthropophagi in the British Isles—banded together and slaughtered seventeen monsters. During that battle, an entire village was leveled and the surrounding fields rendered toxic. Pawn Hamish McNeil, a leper, released a virulent and abnormal disease upon the Grafter troops, causing their bodies simply to fall apart under their own shuddering exertions.
Finally, all that remained of the invaders was their general, a massive warrior who proved invulnerable to all forms of attack the Checquy could muster. Eventually, one of my—our—predecessors was driven to extremes. Crimson Rook John Perry, the only surviving Rook, linked his mind to that of the Grafter general and then shot himself in the head, killing them both.
And that was the end of the Grafter incursion into England. From what I gather, the English ruler of the time, Charles II, would have liked nothing better than to invade Belgium (I know it was called something else then, but it’s all in Belgium now, and it’s less confusing if I just call it Belgium), the Checquy forces having (it seemed) proven their superiority. The Lords and Ladies of the Checquy, however, pointed out tactfully that not only were our forces decimated but our most competent generals were dead. Remarkably, the King saw reason, and negotiations with the Belgian ruler were entered into. All efforts were made to prevent the Grafters from learning of our precarious status, and a treaty was brokered in our favor.
Under the terms of the treaty, the Belgian ruler agreed to dissolve the Grafters. All funds were withdrawn, all experiments put to death, and all estates and chattels confiscated. If these seem like massive concessions, they were. But for all the Belgians knew, the might of the Checquy forces was poised to descend upon them and wreak unknowable horrors. So they agreed.
As far as the Checquy (or anyone) could tell, the Grafters were no longer a threat. Under the rigorous supervision of the Checquy Chevaliers, the entire project was dismantled. There are detailed records of how the leaders were executed before dozens of highly placed witnesses, and their remains obliterated. The scientists were killed discreetly by Checquy soldiers, their remains were fed to pigs, and then the pigs were killed and burned. The facilities and barracks were burned and the estates redistributed to the church. All entities that had been altered, even the humans, were put to death—a process that took months, not because of the number (although there were many of them), but because of the tenacity of the creatures. All servants and bureaucrats involved were strongly encouraged to forget everything they knew and find new occupations.
There were no mysterious disappearances (besides those the Checquy engineered), no member unaccounted for. There was no reason to suspect the Grafters were not finished. They were an interesting chapter in the history of the supernatural, and some regretted the loss of their revolutionary knowledge, but most agreed that it was better that they were gone.
Most of the Checquy believe that that’s where the story of the Grafters ends. They were obliterated, at a horrendous cost, and the entire incident stands as an example of how important the Checquy is and what it can accomplish. World without end.
Amen.
Except.
Except that the elite know better. During the Great War, our agents routinely collected bodies from the no-man’s-land between the trenches. It was a dark time, the country was desperate, and secret endeavors were undertaken by both sides. Among the darker echelons of the Checquy, a project was under way; cadavers were needed, and fewer questions were asked if the corpses were acquired from the battlefields rather than from England. The project was a dismal failure in the end, and it was ordered forgotten. Only through the most diligent research did I learn about it.
However, in the process of their work with the corpses, the scientists found some disquieting phenomena. They knew that these anomalies could only be the work of the Grafters. Not only did the Grafters still exist, but their skills were now far greater than they had been when the Be
lgians were at the height of their power.
Naturally, the organization had to be informed. The Grafters—one of the most dire threats that the Checquy, indeed the nation, had ever known—were active. Still, the heads of this project were wary of coming to the Court with nothing but assertions based on corpses that were, admittedly, in advanced stages of decay. After all, they were men of science. They decided to gather more information.
Two Pawns were quietly dispatched to the front to investigate. One, Thomas Ryan, was a proficient soldier who possessed telescopic vision and could see through human skin. The other, Charlotte Taylor, could cook a human being from the inside. They traveled discreetly and made their way to Ypres, where those suspicious bodies had been gathered.
Ryan sent back regular dispatches, keeping the project leaders abreast of all developments. He reported on the stories the soldiers in the trenches recounted. The boys told of things that were out there in the wasteland, that lollopped among the craters and breathed in the mud and the blood. They spoke about the unnatural men they’d glimpsed in the night, walking silently among the bodies and slipping over the barbed wire with inhuman grace. A face might be seen for a moment laughingly gulping in poisonous gas before it moved back into the roiling fog. Bullets might be fired, but no body would be found.
Ryan and Taylor had great respect for the soldiers around them—young men who would almost certainly die. Fear was always present in the trenches, and they did not want to add to it. Nevertheless, the Checquy operatives coaxed out as many details as they could, and they resolved that they would have to “go over the top.”
On a night of storms, the Pawns carefully climbed out of the trench and made their way into no-man’s-land. The rain pelted down, drowning the soil and turning the terrain into a devastated expanse of mud. Lightning forked across the skies, augmented by explosions and flares. Thunder roared and machine guns screamed. I can’t imagine how they negotiated the territory, but I know that they had to step over the bodies of their countrymen and slog through thigh-deep mire. The files do not record how far they walked, but somewhere in that territory, they found what they were looking for.