“I’m surprised that Security Chief Clovis is still providing you with such intensive protection,” Ingrid mused, looking at the motorcycles accompanying them.
“Joshua Eckhart may have killed my skinless friend with a steel javelin to the face, but there may still be Grafters in the city—to say nothing of their endeavors throughout the country. And Grantchester got away neatly, although we have his wife and that little Gestalt baby in custody.” Myfanwy shuddered as she remembered when the apprehended Gestalt body was brought before the Court. She was not going to forget the malice that had stared out of those baby eyes or the high-pitched, slurred obscenities that had come out of a soft infant mouth.
“Did Mrs. Grantchester know what her child really was?” asked Ingrid.
“She says no,” said Myfanwy. “And I believe her. Grantchester was insanely secretive—he didn’t share anything with anybody unless he had to. And besides, would you take a Gestalt baby into your life knowing what it was?”
“It would be well behaved,” mused Ingrid. “And toilet trained from day one. But no. So I suppose not everything is wrapped up neatly.”
“Absolutely not. Plus, there’s still Camp Caius to worry about,” pointed out Myfanwy. Even as they spoke, the Barghests were planning an assault on the facility; they had orders to take as few lives as possible. I don’t know how we’re going to rehabilitate those children, she thought, but I’m going to try. She could not bring herself to pity Norman, but the memory of the dead girl with the talons was dark in her mind.
“And you’re all right?” said Ingrid. When she’d arrived at the Apex and seen Myfanwy’s black eyes, she’d panicked. But at least this time Myfanwy’s lips hadn’t picked up too much scrapage from Norman’s harshly scaled mouth. Myfanwy shuddered at the thought and felt a moment of pity for Thomas, who hadn’t been so lucky. Locked to that mouth, feeling your thoughts slurped out.
“I think so,” said Myfanwy. “I was able to take Norman out before he could tamper with my memories. And I was checked by the medical team in the Apex afterward, bringing my number of hospital visits today to three.”
“Are you certain you don’t want me to stay in the Rookery with you?” asked Ingrid.
“No, it’s fine,” insisted Myfanwy. “Once I’m back, the entire place is going into lockdown for the rest of the night. I’m planning to go straight up to the residence, fall into bed, and stay there for many, many hours. Unless there’s a whole rash of flesh-cubey things across the nation, I don’t want to get any wake-up calls.”
Ingrid nodded, smiling.
When the car finally deposited her at the basement entrance, Myfanwy paused.
“I’m really glad you’re all right, Ingrid,” she said. “Best moment of my life, when they told me you were alive.”
“Thank you, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid. The two women clasped hands, and then Myfanwy waved good-bye to her assistant.
One of the security guards approached her diffidently. “Rook Thomas, we’re ready to go into lockdown,” he said quietly. “The watch office has set up a center in the Apex, so it will just be you and the security staff once you give the word.”
“Close it up, please,” she said and yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. The guard nodded and signaled to his compatriot in the booth. Heavy metal shutters began to slide down inside the garage door. She reminded herself to activate the security systems for the Rooks’ private passages—at least the ones that she knew about. She wondered if she should worry about Grantchester’s other secret entrances and decided to sleep in the guest room of the residence. Maybe she would put some cans in front of the door.
The halls of the Rookery were dim as Myfanwy walked toward her office. A few security guards on their rounds nodded to her, but for the most part, she enjoyed the quiet privacy of the building. In the weeks since she’d arrived at the Checquy, the place had come to feel like home.
I think it’s all going to work out, thought Myfanwy. I can keep my secrets. I just need to figure out how to explain everything without admitting that I lost my memory. But I’ll do that over a very late breakfast. I don’t care if it’s three in the afternoon when I wake up. I am going to order the biggest, most glorious English breakfast in the history of mankind, and I am going to eat it in the living room, looking out at my gorgeous view. I’ll come up with a tight, rational explanation for all of this. Then I’ll call Bronwyn so we can make plans to meet up with my brother. And then I’m going to call a decorator and get the entire residence redone. We’ll knock through walls and check for all the secret little passages.
But first, I am going to bed.
She was humming as she opened her office door and turned on the lights. She was totally unprepared to find a massive, dripping, naked man seated behind her desk.
“Good evening, Rook Myfanwy Thomas. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Graaf Ernst von Suchtlen.”
Myfanwy stared at him. Of course this happened, she thought wearily. After the longest day and night in recorded history, of course there’s a naked man in my office. And he’s a Grafter.
Well, at least this one’s got his skin on, if nothing else.
“So, where did you spring from?” Myfanwy asked casually, spinning out tendrils of her mind to ensnare the nervous system of the naked Belgian. It was an effort. After her nightmarish snogging session with Norman, her brain was tired. Still, she was surprised when her powers slid off his flesh. He’s the boss, she thought. He’s got the best system they can design. Maybe de Leeuwen would have had the same immunity if he’d had the chance to grow some skin.
“You may recall receiving a heart in the mail a little while ago?” asked the Belgian. Myfanwy nodded noncommittally. Thomas had received it, but she’d read about it.
“Yes, well, that was mine.”
Myfanwy took a moment to process this information. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Did you stop by to pick it up?” she asked.
“No, I am sorry—I do not think I have explained well enough. I have grown myself from the heart, in your scientists’ laboratory freezer.”
“I see. And how long did that take?” Myfanwy asked faintly.
“The process began twenty-four hours after your scientists examined it,” said the Grafter dismissively.
“Well, that is impressive,” said Myfanwy. She took stock of her situation and grimly realized that she had left the ankle gun back at the Apex. Almost as distressing was the fact that she was going to have to sit in one of the deliberately uncomfortable chairs, since the couch was too far away. Making a break for it was obviously out of the question. “You weren’t worried that they might notice anything strange about the heart when they were examining it?” she asked.
“We are discreet,” said the Belgian. “And no one in your organization is good enough to detect that technology. It is very new, and very experimental.” Myfanwy nodded. “I’m sorry that I have taken your chair,” he continued. “While I was waiting for you, I found that it was much more comfortable than the ones in front of your desk. But if you would like, I could move.” To her horror, he began to stand up.
“No! It’s fine,” she exclaimed. “Please, don’t get up.” Let’s keep the nudity behind the desk. Plus, she was not keen to see the mess he had left on her chair with all that fluid dripping off him. I’m going to have to get a new chair, she decided. Provided I survive. Myfanwy sat down in the uncomfortable chair that did not have a sheen of slime on it.
“May I ask how you managed to get up from the scientists’ lab fridge to my office, stark naked, without attracting the attention of any of the staff?”
“Well, it is the night,” he pointed out. “And the cleaning staff has gone home. Your security guards do regular patrols, but it’s not too difficult to avoid them when one can hang from the ceiling. And this body is invisible to video cameras.”
“Cool. And now you are here in my office.”
“Yes,” he agreed. There was a pause that Myfanwy found uncomforta
ble but that did not seem to faze him.
“I’m sorry, but why are you in my office?” she asked finally.
“Oh, yes. Well, I have come here in secret to speak with you. It may surprise you, Myfanwy Thomas, to learn that for the past few decades the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen have been maneuvering themselves into positions of power within the Checquy,” he said. “We have also set up a training and experimentation operation, funded by Britain, forcibly drafting British citizens as soldiers.
“The Broederschap has established a weapon of mass destruction based on new applications of our technology; it’s powered by yet more British citizens within a prominent British city. Indeed, we have placed operatives throughout your organization, on all levels, including”—and here he paused impressively—“within the Court of the Checquy!”
“Wow,” she said flatly. “So, um, how?” she asked. “How did you infiltrate us?”
“Oh, well, it is easy enough to turn your Retainers,” he said, a little thrown by her lack of response. “They get sick of being treated like they’re second best. No matter how good they are, they will always be normal, and they can never rise beyond a certain rank. Your Pawns strut around with their special abilities, gliding down the hallways and typing with their tentacles. And those poor Retainers watch them enviously, knowing they will never be respected.
“Of course, we haven’t been able to turn all of your Retainers. But for those who feel such envy, we offer an opportunity for growth. Not so they can strike against you, but so that just once they can look in the mirror and see a person who is remarkable.”
“And the members of the Court?” Myfanwy asked.
“Well,” sighed the naked Belgian. “The more extraordinary the person, the more mundane and predictable the bait.” He leaned back in the chair. “Wealth. Power. The traditional bribes. One of them has received a substantially increased life span.”
Ah, yes, immortality. That old chestnut, thought Myfanwy, mentally rolling her eyes.
“And that is how we gained such power over you,” he finished.
“How sad,” said Myfanwy. “And what now, Graaf Ernst von Suchtlen? Revenge for the indignities forced upon you after the Isle of Wight? Will you smash the Checquy? Without us in the picture, you would be free to take control of England. And then America! I don’t know how strong you all have become, but you might be able to take the Croatoan forces, especially if we were not there to back them up. There are many possibilities for you in a world without the Checquy.” Myfanwy was proud of herself for remaining calm, but as she spoke, she became abruptly aware of the implications of the Checquy falling.
“We were never interested in invasion.” The Belgian snorted. “Not after that disastrous first effort, which, I would like to point out, was done almost entirely at the instigation of the rulers of my country. No, this was a feint, showing you something with one hand while putting a dagger to your throat with the other. The Checquy controls a secret world. An invasion? Please!” He snorted again in disgust.
“The world has grown smaller since the last time we matched wits, Myfanwy Thomas. We cannot keep the conquest of a country a secret, and we cannot allow our existence to become public knowledge. But neither can the Checquy. Some secrets can be kept, and this one is just about the right size.” He raised an eyebrow, and she swallowed, calculating his meaning.
“So, you will take over the Checquy?” she asked. “By force?”
“That idea has found some favor in the higher echelons of the Broederschap,” he said, his voice expressionless. Myfanwy thought of the skinless Belgian floating in his tank. There had been hate and resentment in his voice and a lust for violence in his body.
“I’ll bet it has,” she said.
For a moment, they stared at each other across the desk. A soul that was centuries old regarded a mind that had been alive only a few weeks.
“Graaf von Suchtlen, may I ask a question?” He nodded slightly. “You are one of the two founders of the Grafters?”
“One of the initial investors, yes,” he said, nodding. The fluid had thinned on him somewhat, and his muscles were now more prominent.
“You are centuries old and command all the knowledge and power of Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen—a force as great as any in history. In your lifetime, the leadership of the Checquy has passed from hand to hand, while you have only gained in experience. I cannot guess at the powers and abilities that have been built into your body, but I suspect that you are the beneficiary of every advantage your organization can give you. The forces that you have described are powerful enough to overwhelm the Checquy without your ever needing to leave Belgium. So why have you come to me now? Secret, alone, and naked?”
The Grafter nodded faintly and smiled.
“That is the question,” he said. “And what do you think is the answer?”
“You know that the Checquy would never surrender to you,” said Myfanwy. “Even with traitors in the Court, it would not be an option.”
“This is true.”
“We would have to fight. We might win that dreadful war, but England would never be the same. It would be difficult to conceal an international battle, and that,” she said softly, “is our mandate. To protect, in secrecy.
“And you too have come here in secret. Concealing your presence not only from the Checquy but also from your own partner.” The massive man in her chair was suddenly still, and Myfanwy realized how small she was compared to him. His fingers were tight on the wood of her desk, and though she could not control his muscles, she could sense the strength within him.
“You have come here, Mr. von Suchtlen, because you do not want to fight us. You do not want to hide from us any longer. You know that we would not—could not—permit you to exist freely. Not with your history. I believe you have come to talk terms, not of surrender, but of alliance. You wish to join our organizations together, do you not?”
He smiled.
Perhaps I retained a bit of Rook Thomas’s diplomatic skills after all, she thought.
Graaf von Suchtlen settled back comfortably and told her a story.
I remember it was mid-autumn. It was cold, of course, and the leaves were falling in a torrent on the road leading to my door. I was in a reflective mood, sitting on the front stairs of my country house, wrapped in a fur, drinking something hot and sweet. I was the Count of Suchtlen. I was thirty-eight, wealthy, and, thanks to an easily spooked horse and some inconveniently sharp rocks, I had been missing the bottom half of my left leg for eight months.
It had been a genuinely dreadful year, even apart from the loss of my leg. One of my sisters had died in childbirth, and a fire had destroyed the homes of several of my tenants. Politically, it had been a tricky time, with several people in Brussels—mostly Flemings—disagreeing with some of my ideas. Still, I’d had a few exceptionally successful financial ventures and was contemplating withdrawing from politics and seeing about getting a wife and having some children.
And then, down the lane, through the storm of leaves, my cousin came trotting on his horse. He was ten years my junior, the Count of Leeuwen, and not nearly as wealthy as I. He’d lost some money in a few highly unsuccessful ventures—one of them an elaborate con. Once or twice, he had borrowed money from me and been slow in paying it back. But I was fond of him nonetheless, and he was family. We had gone hunting together several times before I lost my leg and had enjoyed each other’s company, although he was extraordinarily excitable.
I welcomed him, and he helped me inside while a servant attended to his horse. We were soon settled comfortably by a fire, drinking wine and engaged in the traditional chitchat. I noticed that he seemed distracted throughout the conversation, and I braced myself for his inevitable request for money.
“Ernst,” he said, looking at me suddenly, “I’ve found a rather remarkable investment opportunity that I think you may be interested in.”
“Oh?” I asked, trying to sound sur
prised and (I suspect) failing. He caught my resignation, and his intensity wavered for a moment. He nodded and leaned forward in his chair, casually drawing a belt knife.
“Yes, I concede that I’ve had some bad luck in business,” he said. “But Cousin, I believe this could redefine our future!” He was excited now, and I sat back in my chair. I hadn’t liked his use of the word our. And I particularly didn’t like the way he was holding the knife.
“Like that business with the man from Florence?” I asked dryly.
“No, not like the business with the man from Florence!” he snapped, his cheeks flushing. The business with the Italian had almost lost him his house and had led to his fiancée’s breaking off their engagement.
“All right, Gerd, I’m sorry,” I said, casting an uneasy look at the knife.
“This is different,” he said. I began to wonder if he was drunk. Or possibly mad.
“I believe you,” I said, cautiously reaching down for my own belt knife. My fingers closed around the handle and I drew the blade.
He smiled. “I’ll show you.”
And he cut off his own forefinger.
“Holy Christ!” I exclaimed. Gerd’s eyes were beatific, with an ecstasy that I found almost as unnerving as the blood gushing onto my carpet. I drew in breath to shout for someone—whether to restrain him or clean up the blood, I wasn’t sure—but he held up his unmutilated hand.
“Wait,” he said calmly and I noticed, with a small thrill of horror, that he was still holding his sliced-off digit. Even more distressing, the severed end of the finger was turning a strange sky blue. I darted a glance at his wound and saw that it was turning the same color.
I’ll confess that at this point the possibility of satanic possession began to occur to me, and I tightened my grasp on my knife. I was bracing myself to stab the blade into his eye and call for the servants when he brought the severed finger up to his hand. Before my eyes, the blue patches writhed, and I watched tendrils reach out to one another. I heard a faint sucking sound, and then his hand was whole again. He stared at his fingers with rapt fascination as he wiggled them all.
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