Then it happened again. And again. Each time, the sensations were the same. Each time, he braced himself for the world to explode, for word to get out, for the media to go mad, and each time, it was as if it had never happened. No mention anywhere. He was still going home at the end of the day to his wife and children with no consequences whatsoever. He’d stopped caring about what it meant. He was a man who had a home, a job, and a family and who periodically killed people with crystals and felt no concern about any of it. He was madness in the convincing costume of a regular person.
He experimented, cautiously. He went up to London and found that the ability came when he called it—he could direct it to emerge as he wished. But there were times when it came without being summoned, and then there was no way to stop it. He’d feel the burn in his spine, a sure sign that in a few minutes the crystals would erupt, and so he would have to find a person on whom he could unleash them without anyone seeing.
And then that woman had appeared. That impossible woman. Now he sat on the bench by the river and came up with a thousand explanations for her, each one more ridiculous than the last. She was a witch. She was an angel sent to punish him. She was a government operative. She was a figment of his imagination. She was an alien. She was his conscience.
It was all so absurd, he would have thought it was a hallucination.
Except for one thing. His hands closed around his proof.
Much to her surprise, Myfanwy opened her eyes.
Not dead. That’s good.
She was in a four-poster bed with a bag of blood hung up next to her, trickling down into a tube in her arm. The blood looked a little more purple than it should have, but she accepted it. On the far side of the room there was a nurse doing some paperwork at an antique desk. A clock on the wall noted that it was ten o’clock; the light coming through the window indicated that it was morning.
Myfanwy quickly took stock of how she felt and was cautiously pleased. No pain. She could wiggle her toes and fingers and—she reached out with her powers and made the nurse drop her pencil—her mind as well. As an added bonus, she knew exactly who she was.
On the downside, she was not entirely certain where she was. The large window showed a little walled garden that could have been anywhere. Am I in the world’s most baroque sanatorium? How long have I been out? Before she could muster her thoughts to call out to the nurse, the woman walked out of the room. Marvelous. Well, I suppose I can wait, she thought. She shifted and felt a twist of pain in her back. Yes, she decided hastily, I think I’ll just lie still here for a while. Then the door opened and her executive assistant entered briskly, holding a stack of files. She was such a familiar sight in such unfamiliar surroundings that Myfanwy felt a little trembly in the lower lip for a moment.
“Good morning, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid in a tone that acknowledged no difference from any other morning.
“Good—good morning, Ingrid. Where am I?”
“One of the rooms at Hill Hall. You were at Ascot yesterday.”
“Oh, okay.” She felt a rush of relief. “You didn’t have to come up here. The traffic this morning must have been a bother.”
“I came last night, Rook Thomas. Now, the Rookery has couriered over these reports for you to review and some papers for you to sign.”
“All right,” said Myfanwy, blinking her eyes rapidly. “Oh, what about my car?”
“It’s been delivered back to the Rookery, but I’m afraid that a member of the Reading team had to break in and hot-wire it. They didn’t have your handbag, and no one turned it in at the racecourse. New keys are being cut.”
“Well, that’s irritating.”
“The phones and credit cards have been canceled, of course, and your various ID cards are being reissued.”
“Thank you.” She reached out cautiously, braced for the pain that sparked pointedly in her back and insides, and took the first document. It turned out to be all about her.
The report advised that Rook Myfanwy Thomas had been impaled by a spike of crystal of unknown type that possessed characteristics of quartz and alabandite. The weapon had damaged a couple of major organs, which sent her into shock.
Dr. Marcel Leliefeld and Miss Odette Leliefeld had performed impromptu surgery and repaired the injuries, preempting the death that would normally have occurred from that sort of damage. Examination of the spike did not show any fracturing or chipping.
A photocopy of Dr. Marcel Leliefeld’s notes written in glorious copperplate listed the various compounds that had been applied to her during the surgery. The names meant nothing to Myfanwy, but she assumed the Checquy surgeons had reviewed it and would have declared war if something ghastly had been done. More compounds had been added to the blood that was percolating into her. Dr. Leliefeld noted that, provided she remained in bed for the rest of the day and drank plenty of fluids, she would be able to get up to attend that evening’s dinner, though she would be restricted to one glass of wine during the meal and one cognac afterward. She should be fully recovered by the next day, and there would be no scarring.
Well, I was bloody lucky there, she thought weakly. She knew that she should probably be outraged at the thought of Grafter materials floating about inside her, but she simply couldn’t manage it. For one thing, it would be churlishly ungrateful, and for another, the fact that she was alive and would be able to get up for dinner made it impossible to mind.
There were some distant bangs, and the two women looked sharply at the window.
“Are we under attack?” asked Myfanwy calmly.
“Sir Henry has taken the guests to shoot skeet,” said Ingrid.
“Oh, well, as long as none of the guests get shot,” said Myfanwy. She turned her attention back to the paperwork.
The next report made her gasp. The first page was a photograph of the murderer.
“What? Do we have him?” she asked Ingrid.
“No,” said the EA. “But we know who he is.” Myfanwy nodded disappointedly and turned her attention to the dossier. Lionel John Dover of Northampton. I fucking hate you. Most of the file consisted of standard government information—records from the National Health Service, a précis of his finances, details about his family—but there were also two sketches that Pawn Clements had done of him. The first was his face at rest. It was unmistakably him.
She’s very good, thought Myfanwy. Of course, she would have to be. If she’s summoning up these images, the Estate would have made sure she could draw well so that she could show them to other people.
The second picture, however, was the one that made her hands sweat. According to the caption, Clements had recorded his expression at the moment that he’d unleashed the crystals in the bathroom. It was the same look that Myfanwy had seen when he’d stabbed her through the hand and in the back. The gritted teeth, the staring eyes, the expression of exertion. But in this picture, there was a look of satisfaction on his face that made her want to vomit.
“The pursuit is under way?” asked Myfanwy tightly.
“Yes, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid, “but you know we have to be discreet. There’s the fear that if we just started slapping this picture up on television screens and in post offices, we might push him to lash out with his powers in public.”
“If we go public, so might he,” mused Myfanwy. “God, this job is ridiculous. The monsters and the monster-hunters both have to be circumspect. So, what are we doing?”
“We’ve spoken with his family—they’d actually gone to the police and filed a missing-persons report when he didn’t return home after the races. We’ve got Checquy people posted in Northampton and searching the area around Ascot. But honestly, he could have gone anywhere. His car was still in the parking lot, but so many attendees traveled by train, he could be anywhere by now.”
“Hmm. My concern is that, since he knows someone is onto him, he’ll do a Lord Lucan and vanish. Either he’ll go on the run in England or he’ll bolt out of the country. I don’t want this man getti
ng away from us, Ingrid.”
“They’re doing their best, Rook Thomas.”
“I know,” said Myfanwy tiredly.
“Do you want some good news?”
“Desperately.”
“The BBC’s fashion team liked your hat.”
Myfanwy looked up at her in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
Ingrid produced a printout and handed it to her. There, in glorious color, was Myfanwy in her hat. The caption gave no name but described the hat in loving detail. “Oh. Gosh. Does this constitute a security problem?”
“I shouldn’t think so. To be honest, Rook Thomas, no one would recognize you without the hat.”
“Thanks,” said Myfanwy sourly. “Well, that is nice. Remind me to write a thank-you note to that Greek woman who bought it for me.”
“Lisa Constanopoulos.”
“Right. Oh, and she was one of the people who prophesied the amnesia, so it’ll have to be a letter of introduction as well.” The intricacies of etiquette in the supernatural world would make Emily Post stab herself in the heart with a fork, she mused. Admittedly, it would be whichever fork was completely appropriate for the occasion.
I’m afraid that the shooting season won’t start for several months yet,” said Sir Henry. “Pity, too, because we get some excellent pheasant and partridge here at the hall. Still, I thought some sporting clays might be a nice way to spend the morning. Give you a chance to try out the guns.”
Odette held her gun carefully. After breakfast, in the library, Sir Henry had presented her, Marcel, and Ernst each with a long, hard leather case with brass corners. Inside, nestled in red felt, were two shotguns. Made of rich, warm wood and gleaming steel, they were works of art. Intricately scrolled initials had been engraved onto the back metal bit, the name for which Odette didn’t know. It looked like a weapon for royalty.
“Anderson Wheeler,” Sir Henry had said. “Shop in Mayfair. I had them made for you as a welcoming gift. The stock and forend are Turkish walnut, and your initials have been incorporated into the engraving. Lovely things, aren’t they?” Odette touched one of the guns hesitantly. The polished wood was flawlessly smooth under her fingertips. She’d never had anything to do with guns, but these were, quite possibly, the most beautiful gift she’d ever received. They were even nicer than the eyes she’d gotten for her twenty-first birthday or the spleen that Pim had made for her for Valentine’s Day.
“A custom pair of side-by-side twelve-bores for the gents,” Sir Henry had said. “And then I thought a pair of twenty-bores for the lady.” He’d gone on, talking about the guns and pointing out the accessories in the case: cleaning rods, snap caps, an oil bottle, and turnscrews.
Now she was standing on the grass with one of her twenty-bore guns in her hands. She was wearing safety glasses and earmuffs, trying to remember everything the gamekeeper, Pawn Farley, had told her.
“Ready?” asked Farley. She nodded tightly. “Pull!” And the target went flying.
Odette tensed and went into the same sort of trance that she entered while doing microsurgery. Her eyes sharpened and the world jumped into razor clarity. She tracked the disc easily, and the muscles in her arms and shoulders activated. Her gun snapped up, almost automatically, and she squeezed the trigger, felt the gun punch back. The clay pigeon shattered, and everyone applauded.
“Well done!” said Sir Henry. “Very good for a first-timer.”
“I may have cheated a bit, Sir Henry,” she confessed, and she pointed to her eyes. “These are augmented.” He laughed.
“Not to worry,” he said. “We’ve been known to deviate a bit from the standard ourselves. Farley, would you show her?” The gamekeeper nodded.
“Pull!”
The clay disc cut through the air, and the gamekeeper stepped forward. Odette saw him tense his shoulders, and then there was a crackling sound in the air. As they watched, a gray cloud coalesced swiftly around the pigeon. The target grew denser and darker until there was a rough brick of dull iron tumbling through the air. It landed with a muffled thunk, lodging itself in the turf.
“My God,” said Marcel.
“Of course, we don’t do that sort of thing during the pheasant season,” said Sir Henry.
“It upsets the gundogs,” muttered Farley.
“Very impressive,” said Ernst. “May I try? Without the gun?” He handed his shotgun to the startled waiting loader. “As high and as far as you can, please.” The man at the thrower nodded and made some adjustments. “Pull.”
The disc took off, and so did Ernst. His feet tore up the grass as he blurred across the field. The thud of his shoes against the ground was like a drumbeat. He launched himself meters high into the air, pivoted, and kicked the disc into fragments. As they watched, he twisted on the descent and landed, crouching, in the grass, not even puffing.
There was silence, and a hum of tension hung about the party for a moment. It wasn’t clear if a challenge had been made or answered. Then everyone who wasn’t Odette started laughing. She rolled her eyes and carefully took her finger off the second trigger of the gun.
This is it,” said Sander in a tone of deepest satisfaction. Bart looked around suspiciously. They had stopped at a T-junction. In front of them, across the road, was Hyde Park, again. Behind them was the maze of streets and houses that Sander had led them through for hours.
“This is what?”
“The house they’re in; it’s three back on the left. I didn’t want to stop in front of it in case they were watching.”
“You’re certain?” said Laurita.
“Do you want to go sniff the doorstep?” Sander asked tartly. “Yes, I’m certain. Our boy went in there about an hour ago and hasn’t come out. Or at least, he hasn’t come out the front door. There are four others inside, matching the samples we were given.”
Bart nodded. He leaned against a tree and surveyed the road they had just come down. It was lined with tall white houses merging into one another. Behind railings, steps led down to basement entrances. In such houses, neighbors were separated by the thinness of a wall. Sounds might carry through. It was not the ideal place to stage an assault.
“We’ll wait until dark,” he decided. “I’ll alert Marie. We will need the others.”
More helicopters flew to Hill Hall throughout the day, carrying other members of the Court of the Checquy. Bishop Attariwala. Chevaliers Whibley and Eckhart. Rook Kelleher. Finally, an hour after sunset, a helicopter roared overhead without landing. A few minutes later, out of the darkness, Bishop Alrich came walking up the drive dressed in a dark suit. Odette watched him through the window of the sitting room. His hair burned in the lights from the house, and she shivered.
“I suppose we should go down,” she remarked to Clements, who was sitting on the couch and looking petrified. The Pawn was actually sweating at the thought of a formal sit-down dinner with the Court. This from the woman whose file says she once went bare-knuckle against a neo-druid who was twice her size and armed with titanium sickles, thought Odette incredulously. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you,” some unexpected sympathy prompted her to say. Clements shot her a grateful look and then appeared surprised. “Your dress looks great,” Odette added. In fact, the dress looked only all right, but the Pawn needed all the encouragement she could get.
The call had gone out.
The Chimerae scattered around London had heard Marie’s voice reverberating gently in the bones of their ears. Some had been staking out the various Checquy facilities. Some had positioned themselves as guards at locations that the Broederschap had judged to be high-profile targets. It was a sign of their desperation that three trackers were riding the Tube randomly in the hope that they might stumble upon a trace of their quarry’s scent. Upon hearing Marie’s message, they had all left their posts and headed quickly to their hotel, where a large (but not really large enough) room was serving as their base of operations.
Laurita and Sander had remained behind to stake out the front and r
ear of the house in case the Antagonists decided to go for a wander. Bart had explained the situation to the gathered troops. Sentries were deployed to relieve Laurita and Sander, and replacements would arrive every forty-five minutes. By great good fortune, there was a B and B just down the road from the Antagonists’ house, and a Chimera named Fawn had taken a room there that had a view of the street. She was now curled up on the windowsill pretending to read magazines and scanning the Antagonists’ front door. The Chimera soldier with the most charm and some specialized musk glands had gone around to the local council office and emerged with both the floor plans of the house and a date with the somewhat startled but delighted head planning officer.
With Marie looking through his eyes and making the occasional suggestion through his mouth, Bart, along with two other Chimerae, had composed a plan of attack.
“Well, this will not be quiet or clean,” said Amanda, one of the three strategists. She leaned over the building schematics, committing them to memory. “So we must ensure that it’s fast. If we’re quick enough, we’ll be out of there before the neighbors can even call the police.”
Bart eyed the blueprints thoughtfully. It was an old building, very narrow, with five stories. He marked the exits. Front door, back door, basement door, he thought. Of course, we do not know their capabilities. For all we know, they could simply vault out of a top-story window and go trotting away down the street.
“Two of our people are equipped with thermal vision,” said Franz, the other strategist. “We will identify where in the building they are sleeping, if they do sleep. If they hear us coming, they will try to either fight or flee, which might slow us down a bit. We must give them as little warning as possible.”
“The advantage,” said Amanda, “is that this house shares walls on either side of it. We need to cover only the front and the back.”