The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  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.

  They found nightmares.

  Taylor’s only dispatch was brief and to the point:

  Have lost my boots to the mud, Ryan to an explosion, and an eye to the claws of something unnatural. The evidence you desired has been collected and is en route.

  The samples Taylor brought back were enough to provide firm evidence that the Grafters were continuing their work. The Court panicked, convinced that the Grafters were poised to sweep down on them, and more Pawns were dispatched to the front. But though they ventured out into the most dismal and dubious areas, after months of observations, they found nothing.

  The war ended, and there were still no developments regarding the Grafters. There was no hint of them during the Second World War, and the Checquy allowed themselves to relax a little. Although they knew their enemies were out there, no hostile moves had been made. Perhaps, the Court members told themselves, the Grafters have no interest in settling old scores. Perhaps they are devoting themselves exclusively to their obscure, if disturbing, studies. Perhaps we can afford not to think about them.

  Perhaps.

  For decades, there has been no reason to be concerned. Through conflict and peace, the Grafters have not surfaced. A lingering doubt remains, but with so much to divert its attention, the Checquy strives to remain focused on its responsibilities. The Court agreed that the memory of the Grafter invasion still holds too much terror among the Checquy rank and file for the evidence of their existence to be widely shared. The students at the Estate tell stories about the Grafters to scare one another.

  For the Checquy, the Grafters remain one of the most frightening foes we’ve ever faced. Should they surface in force, it will be a disaster.

  Amazing, thought Myfanwy, shaking her head in disbelief. Thomas had included some photocopies of old sketches, and though they were rough and blurry, those details that could be made out were enough to turn her stomach. Glittering carapaces, jagged barbs. How big were these things supposed to be? She looked at the description. In 1677 they were breeding horses the size of Humvees? Well, animals like horses—horses with scales and fangs. I’ll be goddamned. Then she thought back to the revelations of the interrogation.

  These are the people invading us? She flipped through some more recent pictures. She bit her lips as she perused the details and notes.

  Oh, well, we’re totally fucked.

  And I’m supposed to be going out to dinner with Lady Linda Farrier.

  We’re being invaded by evil Belgian fleshcrafters, and I have nothing to wear.

  Myfanwy grimly contemplated the contents of the residence’s wardrobes. Did Thomas wear nothing but black and gray? she asked herself. I mean, there are thirty good-quality suits here, and not a single one with any personality. No skirts cut above the knee, no blouse that isn’t white. She trailed her fingertips along the coats and then, struck by a sudden thought, slid her hand into the inside pocket of one of them. She pulled out two envelopes, carefully marked To You and 2. The rest of the coats yielded identical envelopes, and she put them in a little precarious stack on the floor. I’ll have to go through every coat I possess and shred all these envelopes, she thought.

  She grimly opened another closet and found a number of dresses in the same vein as the suits. More offerings from the House of Puritan Blah, she thought. Still, she made the best of a bad lot and managed to put together an outfit that said both elegant and I control a secret government organization.

  The meeting with the head of building security turned out to be easier than she’d anticipated. She’d actually been dreading it, since it was her predecessor who had called it, but fortunately the head of security opened the discussion, and Myfanwy learned why there was a small group of fanatics camped outside the building. Apparently, they were convinced that the Rookery was the government base for covert supernatural agents.

  “I realize that this may sound a trifle naive, but isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat confused. “I mean, that’s what we do here, right?”

  “Oh, yes,” agreed the head of security, a tall man of Sudanese descent named Clovis. She realized that he’d been one of the men at the interrogation, standing quietly at the back and observing everything. “They’re completely right.” He smiled cheerfully.

  “And you’re not concerned that our elaborate smoke screen, the safeguards designed to deceive the public and conceal our existence, has been penetrated by a group of computer nerds and conspiracy theorists?” she asked. “I mean, our best minds have gone to a great deal of effort so that we can operate in secrecy.”

  “This is true,” he said and nodded.

  “And they have failed.”

  “Yes. In fact, the group is doing its best to educate the passersby about the nature of our operations.”

  “Are we trying to do anything about this?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied calmly. Myfanwy sighed. She’d taken an instant liking to Clovis and had decided not to make him sit in the deliberately uncomfortable chairs. She ran her fingers through her hair in agitation.

  “Okay, Clovis—may I call you Clovis?” she asked.

  “Certainly, Rook Thomas,” he said.

  “And in private, you can call me Myfanwy,” she invited, on the spur of the moment.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, explain to me why we are not bothering to drive off these people.”

  “Myfanwy—”

  “These people who have built what amounts to a tent village outside our service entrance,” she said, rapping her fingers sharply on the coffee table.

  “Yes, but—”

  “These people,” she continued, “who are trumpeting the truth about us to every Kev or Nigel who wanders past.” She took a breath and stared at him with her two black eyes. “Explain that to me, please, Clovis.”

  “Nobody pays any attention to computer nerds and conspiracy theorists,” he replied blandly.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, taken aback.

  “Myfanwy,” he said smoothly. “Nobody pays any attention to protesters. Even environmentalists are routinely ignored, and their arguments make sense. Think about what these people are claiming, and you will realize that no sane person walking through the financial district is going to listen to them. They’re not even going to give them pity money.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked. “It seems like a distressing breach of security.”

  “Please,” Clovis said. “These X-Files fans are shooting themselves in the foot. Have you seen the way they dress?”

  “Well, if you’re certain, then,” said Myfanwy.

  “Quite certain,” said Clovis. “Now, there was just one more thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, and I believe it may be a matter of deepest concern to our national security,” he said in ominous tones.

  Bloody hell, she thought. This is all getting a bit much for my first day of work.

  “Someone has been Googling you.”

  “I—what?”

  “Someone has typed your name into Google,” said Clovis, leaning forward as intently as if he’d just announced that the Prime Minister had exploded.

&nbs
p; “Gosh,” said Myfanwy. “That’s, um, yeah. Are we sure it was me?”

  “What?”

  “Well, I mean, Myfanwy is a Welsh name—they didn’t just make it up for me. And Thomas is a pretty common name too. There’s got to be a few Myfanwy Thomases running around the place.”

  “There are twelve that we know about,” said Clovis seriously. “Nine of them are in the United Kingdom, one in Australia, one in the United States, and one in New Zealand.”

  They keep a list of Myfanwy Thomases? thought Myfanwy. Well, that’s your tax dollars at work.

  “However,” continued Clovis, “you are the only Myfanwy Alice Thomas. Plus, they typed in your birth date.”

  “Oh,” said Myfanwy.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait, how do we know that someone’s Googling me?” asked Myfanwy. We don’t own Google, do we?

  “We’ve placed the names of all the members of the Court on a watch list,” said Clovis. “The various organizations with which we have agreements and relationships inform us if any of those names pops up.”

  “Okay,” said Myfanwy. I don’t suppose it’s the Grafters. I mean, they already know where the Rookery is; Van Syoc was observing it. And I like to think that they’d have greater resources at their disposal than Google. “Well, do we know where this Googler was?”

  “This morning they were in London,” said Clovis. “In an Internet café. They paid with cash.”

  Who would be looking for information on me? Myfanwy wondered. Other than me, that is.

  “They wouldn’t have found anything, would they?” she asked.

  “No, you have no presence on the Internet,” said Clovis. “We’re very careful to keep all Checquy personnel off the Web, of course. But can you think of anyone who would be looking for you? Someone outside the Checquy? Who else knows you exist?”

  Are you kidding? thought Myfanwy. I didn’t even know I existed until a couple of days ago.

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “Well, it’s very strange,” said Clovis. “But we’ll keep watch for any more hits on you.”

  Myfanwy was asking if there was any other way someone might be able to track her down when Ingrid sailed in.

  “I’m sorry, Rook Thomas, but your car is here,” she said.

  “My car?” Myfanwy said.

  “It’s time for your dinner with Lady Farrier.”

  “Oh, crap,” she sighed, then noticed Clovis’s shocked expression. “I mean, oh, good, this should be delightful.”

  10

  Lady Linda Farrier

  Is regarded nervously by everyone in the Checquy. It’s not just that she’s the boss. Or that she is an actual aristocrat from an old family and is close personal friends with the monarch of our nation. It’s not even the fact that she can actually enter your sleeping mind.

  It’s that she exudes authority. And she looks at you as if she knows everything you’re thinking and everything you’ve ever done wrong. Her gaze makes you want to straighten up and pee yourself at the same time.

  The extent of her power and influence is uncertain. Although everyone in the Checquy knows that Lady Farrier can enter and control your dreams, there are also whispered rumors about other powers. That she can place hypnotic suggestions in your mind (some say she has gone all Manchurian Candidate on several key members of Parliament). That she can lock you into a dream permanently. That she can drive you mad.

  I wonder—if she can enter one’s mind and do as she pleases, then is she perhaps the traitor? Is it she who will sneak into my head while I sleep and obliterate my memories?

  If it is, you’re screwed.

  11

  Why was Thomas so afraid of using her powers? Myfanwy mused as the car whisked her away from the Rookery and toward a much more gastronomically inclined district. She herself was terrifically aware of her abilities. Even as she looked through the tinted glass behind the purple-clad driver’s head, she knew that she could cut the light out of his eyes. Of course, that would probably have led to his veering the car directly into a crash barrier. But the point was that she could if she chose to. She didn’t need to touch him, as Thomas had implied in her letter. It seemed that her predecessor had misjudged the extent of her powers.

  However, it was evident that the years of training Thomas had undergone at the Estate had given her a much finer control than Myfanwy currently enjoyed. Thomas’s letters had mentioned feats that Myfanwy had no idea how to accomplish. At the moment, she felt she could affect only the most basic bodily functions. But unlike her predecessor, she was eager to explore her abilities. If I could sit down with somebody for a few hours and just read his system, I’d have a much better understanding. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of any way to do that beyond engaging the services of a prostitute. Which would definitely be out of character.

  Myfanwy was still musing when she was delivered to the front door of Simpson’s. All of the hippest young things were dressed as formally as their budgets would allow, while the powerful old things dressed as they normally would. A charming maître d’ led her through the crowds, her black eyes drawing a few stares, to the table where sat, in all her importance, Lady Linda Farrier.

  “Good evening, my Lady,” Myfanwy said, debating whether to curtsy. It was the woman from her dream, of that there was no question. Those eyes, that intense concentration, and the unflappable poise that came with power. The last time they had spoken, both had been asleep, and Myfanwy had been only a few hours old.

  There was a pause in which Farrier looked at her steadily, and then she gestured for her to sit. Under that gaze, Myfanwy busied herself with tidying her skirt and examining the cutlery.

  “Do you know who I am?” the lady finally asked.

  “You are Lady Linda Farrier, the female head of the Checquy,” Myfanwy replied smoothly.

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “To a certain degree.”

  “Indeed?” Farrier said. “When last we spoke, you had no idea who either of us was. At least one problem has been solved.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you have managed to turn up on Monday at the Rookery and start conducting business. Very impressive. It was never an option that you leave. After all, I knew you had lost your memory, but I doubt that any of the others would have believed it. And, of course, no one leaves the Checquy. Myfanwy Thomas was privy to state secrets at the highest level. Even if you have not retained those memories, simply by showing up to work today you have learned things that no one outside our organization can know. You are a horrendous security risk. Still, I had vaguely hoped to make some sort of arrangement for you. Perhaps some sort of sequestered retirement.”

  “That’s it?” Myfanwy asked. “Didn’t you owe Myfanwy Thomas a debt?” Which reminds me, I need to find out what that debt was, she thought to herself.

  “Young lady, I don’t know what kind of relationship you think I had with Myfanwy Thomas, but we were not friends. She fought me, in her own way, on many issues. We were civil, and that itself was not easy. My keeping your secret—a secret of massive implications, by the way—and permitting you to assume this life served to pay back that debt.”

  “But what if I had been killed? I have enemies, clearly. You can’t just leave somebody wandering around without any memory of who she is!” She didn’t know what she thought Farrier should have done, but leaving her to sink on her own didn’t seem like much of a favor.

  “Of course you can. And I’m very sorry, but if you’d been killed, that would simply have served to tidy up an inconvenience,” Farrier said calmly, taking a sip of wine.

  “An inconvenience,” repeated Myfanwy.

  “What do you call a Rook who has no memory of who she is? At best, you were a liability, at worst a danger. Fortunately, you have proven far more resilient than I anticipated,” Farrier said with some satisfaction.

  “Oh?”

  “Of course. You knew nothing, and now, only two days later, I lear
n that you have been firmly ensconced in the Rookery, meeting successfully with some of the most powerful people in the land, and ruling on matters that are both secret and terrifying! Do you not find that a trifle peculiar?”

  “Lady Farrier, that’s not the most peculiar thing I have heard today. It doesn’t even make the top ten,” Myfanwy said levelly.

  “No, I suppose it would not,” Farrier said, with a small smile. “That’s the problem with our profession. Hardly anything manages to strike us as unlikely.” The waiter arrived and, sensing the tension between the two women, was very nervous in taking their orders. “However, we can still be surprised. And you, you are the most surprising thing I have seen in a long time. I wonder, how did you learn about who and what you are?”

  Myfanwy stared at her, and, for a moment, she was tempted. Could she explain that Thomas had known what was coming—had known and had made preparations? Farrier wielded power and would make a valuable ally. And besides, she thought to herself, it’s hard going through this alone. It’s only been a day at work, and already I know so many terrible things. A monstrous army is about to descend upon the country. Somebody in the Court wants me dead, and I still don’t know why. I am responsible for fixing these things, and I can’t even remember my middle name! I want to tell somebody!

  It was tantalizing, and yet Myfanwy knew that she could not. If she had inherited Thomas’s powers, she had inherited her enemies too. Whether Farrier was a true enemy or not, she was not a friend.

  “It appears that I am a quick study,” Myfanwy said and took a long sip from her water glass.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Farrier asked.

  “Please,” said Myfanwy.

  “This may sound strange, but who do you think you are? Do you think of yourself as Myfanwy Thomas, Rook of the Checquy? Or are you just the person wearing her body? Do you have any memories of being her?”

  “Good question,” Myfanwy said with a small smile. “I’m still coming to a decision on that one.”