The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  “Rook Thomas?” Ingrid whispered. The lights in the office were off, and when she fumbled at the switch and turned them on, she was half relieved to see that there was no one there. She peeked guiltily into her boss’s office, but it was similarly empty, and the portrait door leading to the residence was shut. Sighing, Ingrid tried to think of what to do. Had she been certain about the sound? Was it worth bothering Rook Thomas?

  A noise from the Rook’s private bathroom drew Ingrid away from her dilemma. She moved carefully to the portrait door that featured a past Rook with a large powdered wig and compound eyes. It crossed her mind to do something sensible. She could leave the office and lock the door behind her. She could call security or find a powered member of the Checquy to help her. The only problem was that when you worked for the Checquy, you learned that conventionally sensible ideas often turned out to be unconventionally foolish. Like the story of that cleaning lady who opened the closet because she’d heard plaintive cries for help coming from within. Or Declan the accountant, who had thought it best to back away quietly and try to summon help when the escaped Portuguese land squid came squirming down the corridor. No doubt at the time the moves had seemed wise, but the cleaning lady had been rendered sterile and blind, while Declan’s whispered phone call had made the land squid feel threatened. As a result, the accountant had been permanently stained purple and obliged to learn how to operate a calculator with his tongue since he no longer had any arms.

  Now Ingrid could hear a pained whispering coming from inside the bathroom, and she immediately recognized the voice. She turned the knob and opened the door. Lying on the floor in front of the sink was Rook Thomas, curled up with her knees to her chest, her body shuddering uncontrollably. Ingrid stepped back in shock.

  Thomas’s eyes were wide, and her lips were blood-red. No, Ingrid corrected herself in horror, those frantically whispering lips weren’t just red but bloody and raw. It looked as if someone had given the young Rook’s mouth a few licks with some fine sandpaper.

  “It’s all collapsing,” Thomas moaned. “I’m breaking up.”

  “Oh, Myfanwy,” Ingrid breathed in horror. “What happened to you?”

  “My thoughts,” Thomas whispered desperately. She looked up at Ingrid, and the horrified secretary saw threads of blood slide down her lips. “They’re drifting away. He licked them out of me, and now they’re fading.”

  “What? Who did this to you?” asked Ingrid, going down on her knees and reaching out a trembling hand. Thomas flinched away. “Myfanwy, I’m going to get help. I’ll call security, and the medics—” Ingrid broke off when her boss grasped her arm with a surprising strength.

  “You can’t, because that’s not how it’s supposed to play out,” said Thomas frantically. “Today’s the day, and I have to leave. Besides, I can’t trust anyone, they might be sent to kill me. There’s a traitor. There’s—” Her brow wrinkled. “It’s gone already.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s gone. I finally knew. I finally knew who it was and… God damn it!” she shrieked. Ingrid jumped at the sudden sound and saw that Thomas was now looking at her with burning eyes. Thomas looked around desperately. “Did you hear that?”

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” said Ingrid briskly. “Whoever it is will know to look for you here.”

  “There’s a door,” said Thomas. “A door in the office.” She struggled to her knees, although she was still shivering terribly.

  “The one to the residence?” Ingrid asked.

  “No, that’s where they came from,” said Myfanwy, her eyes rolling in panic. “Some of them are dead now, and the others are stunned, but I know more can get in.” She stiffened. “More have come into the residence, I can feel them. The door’s locked, but it won’t stop them.”

  “There are dead people in your residence?” asked Ingrid.

  “Please, help me to the office,” insisted Myfanwy, ignoring Ingrid’s question. With a visible effort, she used the wall to stand herself up. She swayed, and Ingrid hurriedly reached out to support her. Ingrid felt her own muscles tense and then relax abruptly as Thomas’s powers coursed through her. For a moment, Ingrid looked through the younger woman’s eyes and saw herself. Her lips burned, and pain tore through her head. And then it all snapped back.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Thomas weakly.

  “It’s fine,” said Ingrid. “Don’t worry about it. Now,” she said briskly, “into your office?”

  “Hurry,” said Thomas. “They’re coming.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can feel them.”

  Ingrid stared levelly at her boss. Though nominally composed of secretive people, the Checquy was a relatively small community. The nature and limitations of Thomas’s talent were a matter of common knowledge.

  “You can feel them?” She looked at Thomas and saw dark bruises rising up around her eyes. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Hurry.” Together, they managed to make their way into the office, and Ingrid moved expectantly toward the portraits.

  “No,” said Thomas. “Not there.” She tottered over to a corner of the room and drew back the carpet. Built into the floor was a metal hatch with a keypad set into it. The Rook knelt down awkwardly, punched in a code, and the metal door slid up smoothly, revealing an extremely steep and narrow spiral staircase that disappeared into darkness.

  “Where does that go?” asked Ingrid. She was a trifle taken aback by the discovery of a hidden hatch in an office she’d been in hundreds of times. But on this night, it didn’t rank as the most startling thing to happen.

  “Garage,” said Thomas. “Private section in the parking garage across the street.”

  “As in cars?” said Ingrid incredulously. “You can’t drive like this! You can barely stand up!”

  Thomas opened her mouth to say something, and then gave a little jerky nod of acknowledgment. She shrugged Ingrid’s hand off her shoulder and swayed a little, but she stayed upright as she put her hands to the sides of her head and took a deep, shaky breath. Then, under Ingrid’s horrified gaze, the Rook’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Ingrid bit her lip but assumed that this part was deliberate.

  A couple of minutes passed, during which Ingrid kept looking anxiously over her shoulder, waiting for whoever had done this awful thing to Rook Thomas to emerge from behind a portrait, brandishing dreadful weapons. Then, without warning, the Rook began convulsing. Her hands were still locked to the sides of her head and she stayed upright, but it seemed as if every other muscle in the woman’s body was jerking violently. Ingrid stood by helplessly, afraid to touch her in case Rook Thomas’s powers zapped her. Finally, the seizure stopped, and Thomas brought her hands down from her head.

  “All right,” said the Rook, breathing heavily. Her eyes were focused, and she seemed to be much more in control than she had been before.

  “All right?” repeated Ingrid. “All right what? What was that?”

  “I did some stuff to my brain,” said Thomas. “Which is something I’ve never done before, and was probably a really bad idea. But I think I’ve got a bit of time before I lose it completely.”

  “Lose what?”

  “All my memories,” said Thomas. “So I’ve got to go. Now. While I still can.”

  “Wait! Don’t forget your jacket,” said Ingrid. “It’s pouring rain out.” The Rook caught her gaze, and the two women smiled at each other, thinking of all the times that Ingrid had reminded her to wear her coat.

  Thomas let Ingrid help her on with the jacket and then began easing herself down through the hatch, but she looked up when Ingrid grasped her wrist.

  “You said you knew who did it,” said Ingrid urgently. “Who did this to you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Thomas, her forehead wrinkling. She stared at Ingrid for a moment. “Thanks,” she said awkwardly. “For everything.” Then she turned her attention to the complicated task of negotiating the steps. She disappeared, and the hatch swung
down over her.

  Outside, the rain beat down more heavily.

  And that was the last I saw of her,” said Ingrid. “I left the office immediately and ran down the fire stairs to the parking garage, got in my car, and picked my daughter up from the station. Then I spent the entire weekend with the doors and windows locked, waiting for a phone call. Nothing came, so that Monday I went into the Rookery. When you walked in, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “And you didn’t say anything,” Myfanwy said warily.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “To whom should I have spoken?” asked Ingrid defensively. “To you? I didn’t know what had happened, although the lips and the eyes looked like Rook Thomas’s. She’d said that her memories were going—I thought that maybe you were her, and you’d just lost the past few days. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Rook Gestalt. And anything I could have said to the Bishops or the heads of the Checquy would only have led to more problems for Rook Thomas.”

  “And you cared about Myfanwy Thomas that much?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Apparently I did,” said the secretary. There was a strange little pause. “I do.” The two women smiled cautiously at each other.

  “So, she just disappeared down a spiral staircase,” said Myfanwy finally.

  “Yes.”

  “I think I’ll have to check that escape route,” said Myfanwy thoughtfully. “There may be some clues down there as to what happened.”

  “What did happen?” asked Ingrid. “I’ve been dying to know.”

  “Well,” said Myfanwy, who had made a decision. She unclasped her powers around Ingrid, and the older woman slumped a little as her muscles were unlocked. “I opened my eyes and I was standing in the rain…”

  It was a selective retelling, and all mention of Bronwyn was edited out. Myfanwy was also careful not to reveal how much information had been left behind by her predecessor.

  “So you’re not some plant,” said Ingrid. “In the beginning I was a little worried that there might be some sort of invasion of the body snatchers happening in the office next door.”

  “And what changed your mind?”

  “No plant would have done such a spectacularly obvious job of not being Rook Thomas. Especially since—let’s face it—she wasn’t that difficult to impersonate. All one would need to do is keep one’s head down and look meek. I was fairly sure within the first four hours of your appearance. I knew for certain at the reception. The Rook Thomas I knew would never have worn the crimson dress. That was why I suggested it.”

  “So do you think anyone else suspects anything?” asked Myfanwy carefully. She had also kept to herself the fact that Farrier knew who she was, and who she wasn’t. Ingrid sighed, and rubbed her eyes.

  “I really don’t know,” the secretary said wearily. “It’s such a difficult time. I’ve been reading up, and the Grafters are the only force that ever came close to really defeating us. But they came very, very close. And now suddenly they’re here, and it looks as if they’ve been among us for a long time. Richard Whitlam, did you know him?” Myfanwy shook her head slowly. “Well, the old Rook Thomas would have known him. Everyone knew him. Lovely chap. He was one of Bishop Alrich’s aides for thirty years. Recruited right out of university, and he was always very kind to all the new Retainers. Went out of his way to make us feel welcome.”

  She smiled. “My first day, he came down to the office and gave me a cactus—the one that’s still on my desk. A lovely fellow, really kind, and utterly devoted to the Checquy.” Ingrid sighed. “The news around the office is that at the reception he unsheathed a stiletto made of bone and tried to stab the Bishop.” Ingrid looked at Myfanwy helplessly.

  “If a man like that—a man who watched over a Court member while he slept, a man whose loyalty was never in doubt, a man who was loved—can be a Grafter, then I don’t know what we can do. Because, Rook Thomas, I don’t know if the Court members realize this, but the Grafters already know our secrets.”

  Myfanwy felt a sudden sense of doom wash over her. Ingrid was right. In their shock over being attacked at the reception, the Court had failed to look at the big picture. They were afraid their secretaries and cleaning ladies would stab them. But all the secretaries and cleaning ladies needed to do was unlock the front doors and usher the Grafters in.

  Correction: the rest of the Grafters, because they were already here.

  “These people aren’t infallible, Ingrid,” Myfanwy said, making a tremendous effort to be calm. “That thing at the reception wasn’t planned. They weren’t prepared for a full insurrection.”

  “You don’t think smuggling weapons into the Apex represents a fair amount of preparation?” Ingrid asked. “They could have killed us all!”

  “Maybe if we were talking about the House of Commons, but this is the Court of the Checquy,” said Myfanwy. “Going up against Eckhart armed with a dagger and a pistol is like going up against a tank armed with a stick of butter. I can’t believe that a centuries-old organization was about to infiltrate us and decided to stage a coup using the equivalent of feather dusters. Maybe they are getting ready for it, and that’s why they had weapons on them. But if they are planning a putsch, then the reception was not the way it was supposed to happen. No, that happened because I outed Gestalt.”

  “So you think Rook Gestalt was behind it all?” asked Ingrid. She perked up a little. “If Gestalt was the head of the Grafter infiltration, then…”

  “Then several centuries haven’t been long enough for the Grafters to develop any talent-spotting abilities. Gestalt is lots of things but nowhere near sophisticated enough to head a coup. I read the files, and I know Gestalt was promoted to the Court for its extraordinary combat abilities.”

  “Of course, and that’s why they also promoted you, to balance him,” said Ingrid, apparently forgetting for the moment that an entirely different person had been promoted. “Everyone knew they needed someone to take care of actually running the Rookery and the domestic operations.”

  “Yes, well, they also needed someone who wouldn’t assert herself in inconvenient ways,” said Myfanwy dryly. “Gestalt let that little tidbit slip while I was wearing my scary face. The Grafters put me on the Court.”

  “One person wouldn’t be enough to get someone promoted to the Court,” said Ingrid. “Not even one person with four bodies.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Myfanwy with a sinking feeling.

  “I’m saying that there are more Grafter agents in the Court.”

  27

  Rook Thomas?” Ingrid’s voice came hesitantly through the intercom.

  “Yes?” Myfanwy yelled from her desk, where she was intently working on an analysis of the Grafter investigation and the greater implications of Gestalt’s treachery.

  “Your mobile phone is ringing on my desk, where you left it for me to recharge,” said Ingrid accusingly.

  “Can you answer it, please?” asked Myfanwy, who was aware that this report would be scrutinized by the Courts of two nations and didn’t particularly want it to sound like it was written by a moron. She ignored the heavy sigh that came over the intercom.

  “It’s a Miss Bronwyn?” There was an unspoken implication that if Myfanwy had been willing to trust her secretary with the secret of her amnesia, she should have been willing to tell her about anyone who’d be calling to ask for “Ms. Myfanwy Thomas.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll take it.” Myfanwy saved her document, got up from her desk, and went to retrieve the mobile phone, stepping gingerly between the teetering stacks of papers that covered most of the floor. Since getting back from Scotland, she’d been sifting through the personnel files of the traitorous Retainers, looking for some insight. So far, there had been no blinding revelations, but there had been some memorable avalanches of documents. Ingrid flatly refused to bring any more pieces of paper into the office, and a member of the cleaning staff had almost gone into hysterics when asked to dust.

  �
��Hullo, Bronwyn?”

  “Heya! How’re you doing? I got your e-mail about your job crisis.”

  “Well, things are a little more under control, but people are still pretty stressed.”

  “So it’s a big deal, then. I mean, it’s been five days since you went to Scotland.”

  “Five days?” repeated Myfanwy. “Seriously?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s Friday. That’s why I called. I was wondering if you wanted to come out tonight. A few of us are going clubbing and I thought that if you weren’t busy, you might want to come.”

  “Clubbing? Clubbing what?” asked Myfanwy.

  “What?”

  “Do you mean self-defense?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the girl whose world did not consist primarily of supernatural security.

  “What are you talking about?” asked the girl whose social life consisted primarily of occasionally going out to lunch and visiting sites filled with paranormal malevolence.

  “Going clubbing—dancing.”

  “Oh… hmm,” said Myfanwy warily.

  “You don’t seem very enthusiastic.” Bronwyn sounded a bit hurt.

  “Oh, no,” said Myfanwy hastily. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever actually been clubbing.”

  “Really? Oh, right,” said Bronwyn, remembering the backstory Myfanwy had given her. “Well, you should come, then. I mean, it’s a good time, and Mum always said that Thomas girls are born to dance. Unless…” She trailed off uncomfortably.

  “What?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Well, I just remembered that you said you were… kind of nervous about going out.”

  What? thought Myfanwy confusedly. Oh, right. My purported agoraphobia.

  “No, I really should try and go out,” said Myfanwy definitely. “Let me just check on a few things.” Like finding a way to actually get out without an escort. “I’ll get back to you.” The sisters agreed that Myfanwy would make the call later in the day and that if she did come out, Bronwyn would not have any unrealistic expectations about Myfanwy’s ability to dance.