Stiletto

by Daniel O'Malley

  “Oh! Goodness, hello!” she exclaimed in surprise. “I didn’t realize someone was there.”

  “You are following me,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, and she gave the sort of incredulous laugh that someone who hadn’t been doing just that would give.

  “If you want to tail someone, I recommend that you don’t wear a hat that looks like it belongs to the pope of the jungle. Now, why are you following me?”

  “This is dreadfully embarrassing,” said Myfanwy, doing her best to look dreadfully embarrassed. “I . . . the truth is, I thought you were attractive and I wanted to introduce myself.” There is no way he is going to buy this. But play it cool. You don’t even know that this man is the murderer. “My name is Nicola.” She smiled, but he did not smile back. “Perhaps we could exchange telephone numbers?” She held up her phone, ostensibly to get his number but really to get a picture of him, and a sharp pain cut through her hand. “Ow!” she exclaimed, and dropped her phone. She looked down to see that a crystal had erupted out of the casing of the phone and sliced into the palm of her hand. Blood was quite enthusiastically coming out of a cut there.

  She glanced up and saw that the man was breathing heavily. His pupils were dilated, and his teeth were bared. It was not a very wholesome look.

  “Well, that settles that question,” Myfanwy said flatly. He seemed startled, and at that moment she clenched her powers around his nervous system so that the expression froze on his face. “You’ve probably figured out that I was lying. I actually don’t find you attractive at all. Especially because of what you do. You see, it’s déclassé to murder people, but it’s a particular faux pas to do it at Royal Ascot.” He couldn’t answer, of course, but the reaction in his eyes was as horrified as she could have asked for. “Let’s have a little sit-down on this convenient bench.”

  Her hand was throbbing, but she ignored it while she twisted his muscles with her mind. He jerkily stepped over and sat down. She bent down to retrieve her phone and then sat next to him, looking through her purse for a handkerchief or something to stanch the bleeding. No one around them appeared to have noticed anything amiss.

  “Well, you’ve successfully murdered my phone,” she said sourly. “Congratulations. What did you think would happen when you did that?” Of course, he still didn’t say anything, because she had a firm grasp on his vocal cords. She unearthed a half-empty packet of tissues from her purse and clutched it in her hand. “Now we’ll just have to wait here for a while. I don’t want to try to marionette you through this crowd.” His fixed look was peculiar enough to garner some glances from passersby, but she didn’t have any experience with manipulating facial expressions. If I try to give him a smile, I might accidentally break his face. Which I suppose would be a bad thing. Then she frowned. He might be sitting rigidly, but his brain was a hive of activity. Myfanwy hesitated; she’d never tried turning off someone’s thoughts before. I’m not even certain whether it’s pos—

  She felt a hard blow to her lower back, as if someone had punched her.

  Her breath rushed out of her. She swayed forward, but something held her against the bench. Something that hurt her deep inside. I believe I’ve been stabbed, she thought in amazement. One of those damn crystal things. He grew it out of the bench and into me. This revelation did not upset her nearly as much as she would have expected. She looked down hesitantly and saw, to her distant relief, that there wasn’t anything coming out of her stomach. But pain was spreading in her guts. Her head swam and she realized, with a feeling of dread, that she’d released her mental grasp on the man sitting next to her. Falteringly, she turned her head to look at him. Once again, he was breathing heavily; a veneer of sweat shone on his face, but he was able to turn and look back at her.

  “Who are you?” he asked in an intense low tone. “What are you? How do you know about me?”

  Keep him here, Myfanwy told herself. She couldn’t muster up the focus to use her powers on him, but if she could delay him, then maybe Ernst or one of the others would come. So she mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “What?” he said, and he leaned closer to her. It was odd that no one in the crowd had noticed anything. Probably because there was no obvious blood, and since she didn’t have the breath to scream, people continued to walk by. It was like getting killed in the middle of My Fair Lady.

  I’m supposed to say something to him, thought Myfanwy, but she couldn’t make her mouth do what she wanted. The man was speaking, but she couldn’t hear him.

  Her last thought was that she was supposed to call Jonathan.

  29

  Myfanwy, as long as we’re talking, can I get your thoughts on a bit of administrivia?”

  “Certainly, Lady Farrier,” said Myfanwy. She carefully spooned a dollop of Devonshire clotted cream onto her scone and then placed a teaspoon of strawberry jam into the center.

  “Some would call that heresy, you know,” remarked the Lady of the Checquy. She herself appeared to be of the “jam, then cream” school.

  “I’m not bound by the petty strictures of society,” said Myfanwy, and she took a delicious bite. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “Do you have any thoughts on possible Rooks?”

  “You don’t like the job that Andrew Kelleher is doing?” asked Myfanwy, lifting her teacup. “I thought we had agreed to make him permanent.”

  “No, he’s fine,” said the Lady. “Apart from the smoking.”

  “Joshua Eckhart smokes,” remarked Myfanwy.

  “Not from his eyes,” said Farrier.

  “Well, you know I’ve been pushing for Colonel Hall. He’s extremely experienced and extremely capable.”

  “Not a Pawn, though,” said Lady Farrier.

  “I don’t think that should matter,” said Myfanwy. “Although, if we’re keeping Whibley as a Chevalier—and we should, because he’s very good—then we should try and get another woman onto the Court.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Lady Farrier.

  “Wait,” said Myfanwy, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you asking me this?” She glanced around. They were sitting on a balcony in the Ascot grandstand, looking down on the brilliant colors of the crowds and horses. It all seemed a good deal quieter than it had before. “How did I even get here?”

  “Well, you’re not here,” said Lady Farrier. “I thought you knew that.” Myfanwy looked at her in horror. “Think a moment. I’m sure you’ll recall getting impaled in the back. I presume it was by the serial killer you were trying to track down.”

  “Oh God,” said Myfanwy, dropping her cup of tea, which unraveled into vapor. It was all coming back to her, like a dream you suddenly remember in the morning. “I’m not awake at all.”

  This was not the first time Farrier had interviewed Myfanwy in her mind. The Lady of the Checquy possessed the ability to enter (and interfere with) other people’s dreams. As a result, she was one of the few people who knew about Myfanwy’s amnesia. She had never revealed the amnesia to the Checquy, since she owed the old Myfanwy a debt of honor, but she’d always been cautiously reserved, even after the new Myfanwy had proven herself.

  “So where am I really?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Currently, you’re lying facedown on the conference table in the boardroom at Ascot Racecourse, bleeding all over the place,” said Farrier. “Dr. Leliefeld is doing his best to keep you alive. I thought we’d take this opportunity to have a chat in your unconscious mind and make some preparations, just in case.” She took a bite of scone.

  “You’re canvassing me on my possible replacement while I’m dying?” asked Myfanwy.

  “There’s no better time,” said the Lady reasonably. “And we’re not absolutely certain that you’re going to die. They’re working very hard. Did you know that the Leliefeld girl has surgical tools inside her? She just hiked up her dress and two scalpels slid out of a slit in her thigh.”

  “Yes, it’s in her file,” said Myfanwy testily. “How bad
do I look?”

  Lady Farrier shrugged. “I am sorry, truly, but I’m afraid that I have no idea. I didn’t see much except the end of a crystal spike coming out of your back.”

  “Oh God!”

  “Don’t worry, we covered it up marvelously. Apparently, there wasn’t much blood because the crystal thing had absorbed a great deal of it. Graaf van Suchtlen had to carry you through the enclosure, wrapped in his coat, but he told everyone you’d fainted from dehydration.”

  “Well, that is a relief,” said Myfanwy. “Was there a lot of attention?”

  “No. Everyone seemed to think it would be in bad taste to take photos of a sick woman, and I arranged for us to use the boardroom. It’s private and doesn’t look out onto the racecourse, so no one will see us.”

  “Thank you,” said Myfanwy gloomily. “Did they catch the killer at least?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. He was gone by the time the graaf found you.”

  “And none of the people at the exits saw him?” she asked. “No smell of blood?”

  “No, but there wouldn’t be. Pawn Clements spent thirty minutes reading the history of that bathroom. She watched the crystals erupt out of the wall and impale that man half a dozen times, but there was no sign of the murderer. Then she thought to look at the history outside the room. The man had walked up to the door and put his hand flat against it, and then the crystals appeared.”

  “That explains why our people never found any evidence at any of the crime scenes,” mused Myfanwy.

  “I’ll pass that on to the investigators if you don’t pull through,” promised Lady Farrier.

  “Oh, good,” said Myfanwy. She looked at the scones and shrugged. They might only be figments of the imagination of a dying mind, but that seemed like all the more reason to eat them.

  “Hmm,” said Lady Farrier. She looked up at the sky and frowned.

  “What?”

  “I—”

  She’s waking up!” shouted Odette.

  “Well, she shouldn’t be,” said Marcel tightly. “That chemical could knock out a hippopotamus.”

  Myfanwy’s eyes opened a little. She was facedown, and while her head was cushioned by a bunched-up, formerly white tablecloth, she could feel that the rest of her was lying on polished wood. Her hands twitched, and she felt a warm liquid pooling around them. Her back was wet and hot. As she woke up a little more, her brain pointed out that there was a horrendous pain lancing through her lower back. Instinctively, she thrashed and screamed and felt her powers flash. There were shouts of pain and confusion.

  “Jesus!” said somebody.

  “It’s her!” said somebody else.

  “Knock her out again!” exclaimed Odette. Myfanwy felt two firm fingers pressing against her throat, and then she was gone.

  Well, that was unexpected,” said Lady Farrier. “More tea?”

  “Please,” said Myfanwy breathlessly. The other woman poured the tea into the cup that was suddenly back in front of her. “It—it didn’t seem to be going very well.”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” said Farrier. “When they removed the spike from your back, you started bleeding rather badly.”

  “How boring,” said Myfanwy tightly.

  “Well, they seem to be doing a lot of surgery,” said Lady Farrier. “And I must say, if you have to get operated on in these sorts of circumstances, I expect that the Grafters would give you the best chance on earth.” Myfanwy took a deep breath. Of course, it was only an imaginary breath, but it helped her to calm down. It was difficult to reconcile the serene sunshine of this moment with the bloody, panicked reality she’d just experienced. Be calm. Be cool. Be collected. She was secretly rather grateful to Farrier for bringing her here. It was such a lovely scenario that the possibility of dying abruptly seemed quite absurd.

  “Speaking of the Grafters,” said Myfanwy, “I suppose I’d better tell you a few things, just in case I don’t pull through.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, it’s best to be prepared for the worst.” She smiled a little smile. She’d been able to assume her predecessor’s life only because the old Myfanwy had been extremely well prepared. “I have some grave concerns about the merger.”

  For the first time, Farrier’s reserve cracked. “What on earth are you talking about? You’ve been the main force behind this!”

  “I know, and on the face of it, everything is going well. Yesterday they provided the list of all the Checquy operatives they’d suborned. There’s only a few left, by the way. Most of them were killed at that drinks reception, and then a guard at Gallows Keep was killed in a car accident a couple of months back. Oh, and a morgue attendant at the Rookery committed suicide a few weeks ago. So the Grafters are showing good faith there. They’ve turned over huge swaths of information about themselves, and I’ve had it all checked. It’s legitimate. The real estate holdings, the personnel details, the bank accounts and investments—everything is as they said. Of course, inevitably there are some peculiarities. Their finances, for instance.”

  The personal wealth of the Grafters was substantial, but most of it was in assets that were decidedly nonliquid. Rather, they were gelatinous, viscous, bony, oleaginous, gastric, and cartilaginoid. Broederschap funds tended to be sunk into unique biological items or substances that were rare but that appeared to be of no material use to anyone except the Broederschap. They did not hold stocks or shares, instead investing their money back into their own research and themselves. An astounding amount of money, for instance, had been poured into Ernst’s body, but he was not living the lifestyle of the rich and famous. They were discreet, circumspect. “Their cash reserves are less than you would expect, but I’m not surprised that they’ve lied about the money.”

  “Well, I am!”

  “I anticipated Ernst would have some assets tucked away just in case negotiations were to break down,” said Myfanwy dismissively. “I would estimate he’s kept fifteen to twenty percent of their wealth off the books, but if anything along those lines ever comes to light, I would urge you to overlook it.”

  “Overlook it?”

  “Once they’re part of the Checquy, their finances will be under the same scrutiny that ours are.”

  All operatives of the Checquy had their finances gone over with a fine-tooth comb by the fiercest and most merciless auditors in HM Revenue and Customs. The unique position of the Checquy and the dangerous repercussions of any corruption meant that every penny every employee earned and spent was accounted for. Random audits of private accounts were an irritating but not unexpected occurrence. As a result, every employee was fanatical about getting a receipt for every transaction, including charitable donations to street beggars.

  “If it’s not the money, then what are your concerns?” asked Lady Farrier.

  “It’s what I’m not seeing. There are gaps.” Warming to her topic, Myfanwy put down her teacup. “Look, I’ve plotted all the data they’ve given us, and some things just don’t make sense. For instance, they maintain a research residence in the capital of every Western European country except France? Their facilities in Seraing and Vienna happen to catch fire and be destroyed now? And there are other things. I’ve identified a lacuna in their population demographics.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Odette Leliefeld appears to be the only Grafter between the age of nineteen and twenty-six.”

  “That’s not why you gave her a bodyguard, is it?”

  “No, but there are a number of things about that girl that worry me. She has far fewer implants than anyone else in the delegation except the kid.”

  “She’s young,” said Farrier. “Perhaps they don’t give them too many to begin with.”

  “Perhaps.” Myfanwy shrugged. “But the disparity is notable. Someone should go through the profiles of all the Grafters and compare.” The Lady nodded. “Especially given the fact that she was added to the delegation at the last minute, both she and her brother.”

  �
�These could all be coincidences,” objected Farrier.

  “Yes, which brings me to the final point.” Myfanwy described the mission in which Clements had lost her entire team, and the possible implications. “Talk to Clements about it. And don’t punish her for withholding information—I ordered her to be silent.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve kept this to yourself.”

  “I don’t know for sure that it means anything,” said Myfanwy. “And you know the tensions that exist at the moment.”

  “So what do you think is going on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Myfanwy. “Not for certain. As far as I can tell, either the Grafters are not committed to the merger, or there’s some other party that has followed them. Miss Leliefeld was shocked at the Italian restaurant, but I’m certain it was the shock of recognition. In any case, I don’t want you to be caught off guard.” She winced and put her hand to her back. In the dream, her skin was smooth and unbroken, but she’d felt a jag of pain. That can’t be good. “Lady Farrier?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes?”

  “Could I ask a favor? If the Grafters aren’t able to save me, would you mind staying with me here until I . . . until I go?”

  “Of course,” said the Lady.

  “And just one more thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a little tired of tea. I don’t suppose we could have some champagne?”

  And the Antagonist stood here for half an hour?” asked Bart.

  “About that, yes,” said Sander. The Chimera tracker rubbed his nose, which was bigger than it had been at the start of the mission but was still within the bounds of plausibility. Bart and Laurita looked around. Over the past three days, Sander had led them through the streets of London, tracking their quarry from the Italian restaurant to a spot on a busy street by Hyde Park. There were tall, impressive buildings in front of them, and the park behind them, but nothing of any particular interest. “He’s been back here several times since.”