She spent the rest of the journey making sure that they were appropriately armed. Both were carrying sidearms—in fact, they each had two, in addition to a rather intimidating array of knives, pepper spray, and telescoping batons tucked away under their dark purple coats.
“Yeah, that’s very impressive,” she said. “No crucifixes or silver bullets?”
“Those don’t work unless you’re a priest or being attacked by the press,” said the large bodyguard. “What kind of weapons are you carrying, Rook Thomas?” Myfanwy blinked in surprise.
“Um, nothing,” she confessed. “The members of the Court aren’t really supposed to carry weapons. I think it’s a ceremonial thing.”
“Would you like one?” asked Emily. “There’s a small arsenal in the trunk of the car.”
“That’s a nice thought,” said Myfanwy. “But I’d feel even more awkward with a gun in my hand.” And I’m not sure it would do much good anyway, she thought, grimly remembering how incompetent she had been when confronting Goblet with a gun. Even Ingrid’s little book of instructions was unlikely to be helpful.
Outside, it began to rain.
“Rook Thomas, will your opponent be carrying a gun?” asked the large bodyguard.
“I… don’t know,” she said. “But we’re going to a boardroom. And the rest of the Court will be there with their bodyguards.”
“Going into battle, you want every advantage you can get,” said Emily gently. The bodyguards exchanged looks and set about rolling up the right leg of Myfanwy’s coveralls. “We’re going to give you a nice little piece in an ankle holster.”
“Groovy,” said Myfanwy, distracted by a sudden terror. What’s going to happen to me? she thought. She stared out at the rain, envying all the little cars that zipped by on their way to things that weren’t this.
“Rook Thomas, we’re here,” said Emily, and Myfanwy looked up, surprised. She had slipped into a reverie, and now she gazed up at the Apex. Inside that building was the traitor—the enemy who had conspired to obliterate her identity. She thought of the original Myfanwy Thomas, the shy young woman who had written letters filled with her hidden fears and small pleasures. Myfanwy closed her eyes and sent out a prayer, for Thomas and for herself. Then she let the rage build up inside her.
“Let’s go,” she said, and stepped out of the car. She flinched against the rain but climbed the steps of the complex resolute, even in her ridiculous fatigues. Her bodyguards flanked her. The doors opened before them. For a moment, Emily ducked behind Myfanwy, but a quick read of her body reassured Myfanwy that it was simply for security.
They were met in the foyer by an imperially slim Retainer with impeccable posture and a greasy manner.
“Rook Thomas, welcome,” he said with a smirk.
“Thanks, it’s lovely to be here,” she said, pausing unwillingly because he was standing in front of her. Is this one of those tools who still think they can push Rook Thomas around? “Now, move.” She stalked to the lifts and stabbed at the button. While Myfanwy waited, Emily spoke quietly.
“Rook Thomas, that Retainer is talking on a telephone and looking at us.” Myfanwy nodded. “Would you like us to kill him?” Emily asked, and Myfanwy shot her a shocked look. “So that’s a no.”
“As far as they know,” said Myfanwy carefully, “I am simply in a foul mood after the tests this morning and the incident this afternoon. He’s probably just letting the Court know that Rook Thomas has arrived.” They entered the lift, and before the doors closed, Myfanwy shot a hard look at the Retainer, who had hung up and was staring at them. He smiled obsequiously and nodded. Remember, Thomas didn’t always get a lot of respect, thought Myfanwy.
Maybe I should have let Emily kill him.
Myfanwy and her bodyguards proceeded to the executive conference room. Outside the doors, standing at attention, were two Apex guards, each fully as large as Myfanwy’s own.
“Good evening, Rook Thomas,” said the guard on the left. “The Court is assembled and waiting for you. You and your bodyguards can go on in.”
“Thank you,” Myfanwy said with a curt nod. “Long day?”
“Always,” said the guard ruefully.
“Well, have a good evening,” said Myfanwy. All these good manners were draining her fury—and that was dangerous. She looked back at Emily and her large bodyguard. “Okay, let’s go.” They walked through the doorway and turned a corner into the boardroom.
Myfanwy stopped short. The room was empty except for the person she’d come to accuse.
“Good evening, Myfanwy.”
39
Dear You,
The end of me is nigh.
That was a little gallows humor. I’d like to be able to say that I’ve attained a Zen-like calm. That I have accepted my upcoming obliteration. But the fact is that my time has just about run out. The duck said I had a month at the most (God help me, I’m pointing to a duck as my authority), and that month is almost over. I just can’t stand it.
I don’t know if you will get this letter. I don’t know if today’s the day it happens. Maybe the door will burst open and I’ll be dragged away, and they’ll find the remains of this letter, and, and… I find myself having these little panic attacks. Every loud noise freaks me out. Every knock at the door, every screech of tires or car horn from outside. My hands shake.
I know every day has been a gift, and I know I’m supposed to be grateful, but it’s so hard. I hate it. I hate whoever it is who will betray me. I’m coming to the end of my allotted time and I still don’t know why this is going to happen to me. That’s the part that grates the most. I know I’ll lose all my memories, and that’s terrible. But the possibility that I might die without ever knowing the reason is even worse.
I’ve turned up lots of things in my research. Vendettas. Misappropriation of funds. But what does it have to do with me? Why would anyone want to kill me?
I’ve learned so much about my colleagues recently. Farrier’s being cut out of her father’s will. Gubbins’s regular communications with a woman in Mongolia. The fact that Grantchester’s wife miscarried three times in three years. I look at all these little factoids and wonder if they are important. What have I missed?
In the back of my mind, I thought I could prevent this future from coming. I thought that if I found an answer or learned in time not to say or do something, then I could sidestep Lisa’s prophecy. The frantically whispered warnings of that little boy at the Estate would be proven wrong. The duck could be dismissed.
I didn’t dare stop doing my job, for fear that it would lead to questions being asked and that those questions might be the catalyst for my death. So I worked hard, even as I conducted my private searches. I worked until I almost broke. But in the course of trying to cover every base while still doing my duty as Rook of the Checquy, I ran out of time. I never made it back to Camp Caius, and I never found out who is behind it. I don’t know who will attack me, and who will kill me. I can’t tell you who your enemies are.
I’m sorry I can’t provide you with all the answers.
This is the last letter I will write.
Me
40
Good evening, Bishop Grantchester.”
Something has gone very, very wrong, Myfanwy thought, taking in the boardroom with its conspicuous lack of witnesses and non-traitors. No time to hesitate.
“Shoot him,” she said to her bodyguards. They unholstered their weapons, and she closed her eyes as two shots rang out on either side of her. When she opened her eyes, Grantchester was still seated, unharmed and looking sardonic.
“I’ll give you points for quick thinking,” he said. She looked to her bodyguards and saw that they were both lying on the floor, gunshot wounds in the backs of their heads. Behind her, standing several cautious feet away, were the two guards from the door, their guns pointed at her. Myfanwy sliced out with her powers and in unison the gunmen pointed their weapons away from her and shot each other. “Very quick thinking,” said Grantc
hester, and the calm smile on his face became a little more dangerous.
Myfanwy reached out carefully with her powers. There was a torrent of sensation seething beneath his skin. As she watched, his eyes shifted color, trails of ink wafting across the whites. Darkness covered his irises. She narrowed her eyes and clasped her mind around his body. His reservoirs of chemicals and enzymes were churning, trying to vent themselves. His pores—minuscule fluttering apertures—were not permitted to fulfill their function, thanks to her. Grantchester gaped, and she realized that her reflexes had outdrawn his.
And yet, Grantchester’s attack system was so intricate, with so many redundancies, that curbing it took all of Myfanwy’s concentration. If she relinquished even a little control, the room would be filled with some cocktail of organic chemicals. She couldn’t spare the effort needed to stop the Bishop from moving, and he jerked to his feet, gasping heavily.
“Damn, but that’s unnerving,” Grantchester rasped. “I suppose I should have taken your new capabilities into account. The last time… well, the last time you exceeded expectations too. But this is simply amazing.”
Well, this is a fun little standoff, she thought tightly. Neither of us can use our powers to take out the other. She thought of her gun in its ankle holster and wondered if she dared go for it, though dividing her concentration seemed like the worst thing she could do.
Suddenly he called out in a loud voice, “Norman, Miriam, come in, please!”
More large guards, to break the stalemate, she thought. A side door into the boardroom opened, and two people emerged. They were, however, much smaller than she had anticipated. One of them was shorter than Myfanwy. The other was taller, but terribly thin and gangly.
What kind of secret agents does Grantchester employ? Myfanwy wondered before she got a good look at them. Oh… young ones. The short one was a girl of about eleven, and the taller was one of those teenage boys made up exclusively of elbows and Adam’s apple. And scales, she noted. Both were toting guns, but that was not all that caught her attention.
The gangly youth was covered in flesh-colored scales that glittered in the light. Long scars sliced up his face from the corners of his mouth. The little girl had massive talons coming out of her fingers. Both of them stared at Myfanwy with dead eyes.
Graduates of Camp Caius, I suppose, she thought with increasing dread. So what do I do now? If I release Grantchester to take them on, he’ll be able to use his powers. Although he wouldn’t gas his own troops, would he? she wondered, and then rapidly came to the conclusion that he most certainly would. What do I do? At that point, the decision was made for her by the Bishop.
“Take her,” he ordered. The youth smiled and moved toward her, opening his jaws. He hissed, and the inside of his mouth was bloody red.
“No!” Myfanwy exclaimed in panic, wrenching her powers off Grantchester. Before she could slam them at the young man, however, the little girl dashed forward, moving with inhuman speed, and leaped up, smashing her in the jaw with an uppercut.
Myfanwy reeled and fell back on the floor, struggling to stay conscious. Distantly, she heard Grantchester’s voice and forced her eyes to open.
“She’s not dead, is she?” asked the Bishop.
“No, my Lord,” said the little girl. “Would you like her to be?” The talons on her fingers grew and began to drip a viscous black fluid. She peeled her lips back and flashed a mouthful of fangs.
Myfanwy reached out feebly with her hands and her powers to ward off the little girl, but the scaly youth was there. His dry fingers closed around hers, and she felt her commands disrupted. The girl twitched a little, but that was all. And Myfanwy could feel a creeping numbness spreading through her, dulling her perception of those around her. She pushed against it, but with a jolt, her abilities went still.
Oh, what the hell is this? she thought. She could sense her abilities but couldn’t actually use them. Was it her imagination or could she feel her synapses snapping ineffectively?
“That took a little longer than usual, Norman,” said Grantchester mildly.
“She put up a fairly good fight, Lord,” said the scaly boy in a defensive tone.
“Don’t whine,” said Grantchester sharply, and both his acolytes straightened up.
“Yes, my Lord,” they said in unison.
“Sit her up,” said Grantchester. The young man kept his fingers tightly on hers, but with his other hand, he helped her up into a sitting position. She gently moved her jaw and flinched. Much to her surprise, it felt like it was still connected to the rest of her skull. That little bitch has a good right arm, she thought foggily.
“Myfanwy.” She brought her gaze up to the Bishop. “Now that we have these formalities out of the way, and you’re a bit more pliable, perhaps we should move to a more comfortable setting?”
Without waiting for her to respond, he turned and walked away. The Camp Caius kids stood her up. Her limbs were almost as uncooperative as her powers, but she was able to shuffle along awkwardly as Grantchester led them through the side door and down a corridor to his office.
The pain from getting punched in the jaw was fading a little, and she gazed around curiously. The office was nice—nicer than hers. Wealth had been splashed around here, and it showed. Flames crackled in the fireplace. The walls were covered with warm wood paneling and large portraits, similar to the ones that decorated her office. Heavy drapes framed a huge window, but the eye was drawn automatically to a massive desk, behind which Grantchester had settled himself. He gestured, and Myfanwy was guided over to the chair in front of the desk. The scaly guy maintained contact, moving his hand to rest on the side of her neck. The little girl moved to take her place behind the Bishop.
“Well, here we are,” said Grantchester. “We have a lot to talk about, but before we begin, would you care for a drink? It’s late enough, and the day’s been long enough that a cocktail is certainly warranted.” He got up and opened a cabinet that revealed a well-stocked bar.
So we’re going to pretend this is just a regular conversation? thought Myfanwy. Okay; I can play polite if he can.
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m fine,” said Myfanwy coolly. She wanted as many of her wits about her as possible. She watched as Grantchester mixed, stirred, and poured his drink. He was such a handsome man, she thought. Tall and well built, with beautifully cut dark hair. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and smelled nice. Such a shame that he turned out to be the traitor.
“I heard about the events in Reading,” Grantchester remarked over his shoulder. “Was it honestly so bad that it required the presence of young Callahan?”
“At the time, it seemed like the best option,” she said. “It was only through luck that the entity was destroyed before he arrived.”
“How fortunate that you emerged relatively unscathed,” said Grantchester as he settled himself back in his chair. “Now, to business. I expect you’ve figured out that the rest of the Court isn’t coming? They never got your summons.” Myfanwy’s heart sank. It hadn’t been much of a hope, but she’d have given a lot to see Alrich walk through the door. Or even the Lord and Lady. “Wattleman is asleep in his secure residence, Farrier is spending the night reviewing the dreams of all the students at the Estate, and Alrich is in Scotland. And thanks to the heightened alert and the need to screen people, Apex House is functioning on a skeleton crew this weekend.”
“But how did you know that I was going to reveal you as the traitor?” Myfanwy asked in bewilderment.
“Your office and that of your assistant are bugged,” he replied carelessly. “I’ve had listening devices there ever since it was my office. You’d be astounded at the kinds of things people say while they’re waiting to meet with you. I actually hadn’t used them for years, but after recent events I’ve had someone listening constantly.” He smiled and took a sip of martini.
“So,” continued Grantchester, “when I heard you say that you knew who the other double agent in the Court was, I put a c
all in to one of my people in the Rookery. He was serving as the guard at the Rookery’s command suite, and I ordered him to stop your assistant and that young Pawn. Well, stop them and shoot them,” he corrected himself. Myfanwy felt a horrendous wrench of grief at his words, and blinked to keep the tears from forming.
“In fact,” said Grantchester, “all the troops who have guard duty at the command suite are mine. You’ve got to be strategic with your people, you know. Why were you dragging that young Pawn around anyway?” he asked curiously. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“He just got caught up in things,” said Myfanwy softly. “He heard me talking about the Grafters, and I didn’t want to risk his telling anyone else.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Grantchester. “After all, I couldn’t let you tell anyone else about my divided loyalties, could I? Which brings me to the same question. How did you know?” Myfanwy thought about providing him with some creative instructions on where he could go and what he could do with himself when he arrived, but she restrained herself.
Talk it out, she told herself. Buy yourself some time. Something may emerge, some opportunity. She took a deep breath.
“Well, you may remember that immediately after Gestalt was exposed as a traitor, I went up to see him at Gallows Keep,” she began.
“Yes, but he assured me that he hadn’t told you anything very useful,” said Grantchester, taking an easy sip. What? thought Myfanwy. Oh, right, the other bodies. Naturally he’s been in contact.
“Actually, he told me a few things that I found very interesting,” said Myfanwy. She felt a jolt of satisfaction as Grantchester’s face turned sour.
“Indeed?” said Grantchester. “What exactly?”