The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  As for other vampires, well, the other two—Pitt and Heller—have never been heard from again. We have no idea if they are still alive or if they are in the United Kingdom. Two vampires have been found since Alrich joined us, and both have been killed (one notably by Gestalt). Their bodies have yielded no clues to us, having dissolved away into blood and water upon their deaths. Their possessions give no indication of their origins or whether there are others. I wonder if the two the Checquy killed were related to Alrich somehow—could he perhaps be using the Checquy as his private army, manipulating us in a master game of vampire politics? It is a disquieting theory, and one without any real basis beyond my own paranoia.

  Within the Checquy, Alrich is regarded with a peculiar mixture of fear, pride, and blasé acceptance. He is a vampire, and some people are distantly aware that he was once an enemy of the Checquy. But he’s our vampire, and besides, he’s been here forever. Longer than almost anyone. Newcomers are taken aback at first, but it’s almost a mark of pride to ignore his inhumanity or to think it unimportant.

  And, after all, none of us are normal.

  Alrich is the personification of charm, and so it is easy to forget that he is a predator, a predator of human beings. He does not need to kill his prey, and his ability to mesmerize his victims means that they need never know. However, I have noticed that those who work under Alrich tend to die younger than they should. His staff also suffers from a higher rate of sick leave than any other section of the Checquy. If this were brought to the attention of the organization, there would be a substantial reaction. Is Alrich feeding on his staff? Is he modifying their memories? I don’t know for certain, but a formal inquiry would be a very bad thing for the Checquy.

  Already, within the Court there is wariness. Alrich will never rise above the rank of Bishop, that is understood. Does he chafe at that? What are his priorities? Will he remain with the Checquy forever, or is this simply an apprenticeship, an adolescent phase? Perhaps one evening he will open his eyes and simply leave. His motivations are alien to us.

  If Alrich is our enemy, then you face a foe who has power on every level. His strength means he could shred you like a dried leaf. His mental abilities can prevent you from taking any action. His speed can outdraw your fastest reflexes. His cunning and authority will prevent you from mustering any support within the organization. And his lack of humanity means that he will not hesitate to destroy you if he deems it necessary.

  However, his predatory nature means he might play with you beforehand.

  “So, what are you doing here without any bodyguards?” asked Myfanwy. “Because Security Chief Clovis has two people following me around, and they’re incapable of blending in anywhere, so I had to ditch them.” Although at this exact moment that doesn’t seem like the wisest decision I ever made. “Thank God Clovis can’t see the two of us right now. He’d be furious,” she said, sipping delicately from the apple martini Alrich had ordered for her. If Alrich were going to kill me, surely he wouldn’t have bothered to buy me a drink. Although that doesn’t mean he’s not the traitor.

  “My personal habits mean that I require a certain amount of privacy,” said Alrich, looking everywhere but at Myfanwy.

  “Your personal habits?” echoed Myfanwy. “I don’t underst—Oh!” I guess it’s hard to pick up a fresh piece of meat when you work the night shift for the Checquy. “But a nightclub? With your hair dyed platinum blond?”

  “It’s not dyed, I’m just hungry,” said Alrich. “In any case, I don’t really need bodyguards. Plus, it’s hard picking up sweet young things when I’m being watched. Not everyone approves of my lifestyle.”

  I’ll bet, thought Myfanwy. “So, how about him?” She gestured discreetly with her chin toward a handsome young man who actually looked very much like Alrich, although without the glorious length of hair and with a much smaller wardrobe budget.

  “Oh, yes, he looks suitable,” said Alrich softly.

  “Go for it,” said Myfanwy. “I have to rejoin my party anyway, or they’re going to start wondering where I am.” Alrich put down his untouched beverage, turned to her, and bowed elaborately.

  “Very nice, but I’d be more touched if that move wasn’t subtly calculated to show your arse off to the entire club.”

  Alrich winked and moved smoothly over to the dancing blond. He whispered into the boy’s ear, and a broad grin spread across the young man’s face. He took Alrich’s hand and led him off the dance floor toward the exit.

  Damn, that’s impressive, thought Myfanwy. That kid has no idea what he’s getting himself into. He’s going to have a night he would never have forgotten if it weren’t for the mesmerism. She wandered back over to Bronwyn’s party, where a few hopeful young men were engaging the fashion students in conversation.

  “Who’s the guy?” asked Bronwyn. “He’s super hot.”

  “Friend from work,” explained Myfanwy. And possible murderous traitor.

  “Charisma thought he had to be a model.”

  “I’d have introduced you, but he was here with a distinct purpose.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Too bad. Until he left with that bloke, I was kind of hoping that he was hitting on you. Why are the hot ones always gay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Myfanwy. Or vampires.

  “You want to go dance?” asked Bronwyn.

  “Not at all,” said Myfanwy.

  “Great, let’s do it,” said Bronwyn, gulping down the bottom half of her beverage and standing up abruptly.

  As it turned out, Myfanwy was not a natural dancer. Bronwyn and her friends were swaying around in a manner that Myfanwy recognized vaguely from the few music videos she’d seen. But much to her surprise, Myfanwy was enjoying herself. She was as relaxed as she could recall being since she had opened her eyes in the park and wondered who she was. She had a few cocktails floating around inside her, and she was dancing (badly, but less badly than she had been at first) with her sister and her friends. The music was throbbing, and she watched the pulse of the people around her. Myfanwy closed her eyes and let the beat move her. Then a hand tapped her shoulder and she swung around. Startled, she opened her eyes, and looked into a chin.

  It was a good, strong-looking chin, attached to a strong, good-looking man. He was dancing awkwardly and looked slightly embarrassed about having bothered her. He spoke, but his words were lost in the beat of the music.

  “I’m sorry, what?” she yelled, rather pleased that a decent-looking guy had approached her in a club. Myfanwy watched his lips carefully, looking for something about a drink being bought for her, and managed to miss everything he said. “What?”

  He peeled back his lips, and revealed a smile full of razors.

  Well, naturally.

  29

  Dear You,

  Today has been a very stressful day.

  It was actually supposed to be a fairly tedious day. I had a mountain of paperwork to work through, reports to report on, and, miraculously, all the other members of the Court were far away doing things that were pressing but didn’t constitute dire emergencies. I had settled myself in comfortably and was reading about the talking mice that had infested Lewisham before they were disposed of by our regional office. The extermination had taken months and had resulted in a massive amount of bills and records, all of which I was obliged to trawl through.

  I had just started on the accounts for the third month and was attempting to figure out why the genocide of some vocal vermin required fifteen million pounds and the requisition of a Saracen armored car from the Second Armored Regiment when I received a frantic call from Heretic Gubbins, who was in New Delhi putting down a would-be potentate. He was talking very quickly, but as best as I can recall, the conversation went something like this:

  Me (distractedly): Yes, hello? Hello?

  Him: Hello?

  Me (still distracted): Hello?

  Him: Hello?

  Me: Hello, I can hear you.

  Him: Rook Thomas?

&n
bsp; Me: Yes.

  Him: Yes, this is Heretic Gubbins in Delhi.

  Me: Hel—

  Him: I’m terribly sorry, but it turns out that the Greek woman is coming a week sooner than expected, so there’s no one to meet her except you.

  Me (trying to figure out why we’d even needed to take the mice out): Uh-huh. Right. What?

  Him: The Greek woman.

  Me (still not really paying attention): Yes.

  Him: She is coming in, and you will need to meet her and entertain her today.

  Me: Oh, okay. Wait, what Greek woman?

  Him: You know the one, I can never remember her name, but she does that thing, and is thousands of years old.

  Me (beginning to panic): Does what thing?

  Him: Oh, she turns people into livestock.

  Me: She does what?

  Him: Turns people into—

  Me: I heard! And what am I supposed to do with this woman?

  Him: Oh, you know, the usual.

  Me: I don’t know what the usual is! That’s not my job! That’s your job! If you want to switch jobs, then you can come over here right now and balance the extermination budget in London while (shuffling through papers) figuring out why the hell a two-door wardrobe in the spare room of a country house is considered to be a matter of national concern!

  Him: Rook Thomas, all you need to do is pick her up at Heathrow, escort her around London, and have dinner with her.

  Me: I can’t do that!

  Him: Why not?

  Me: Because… I don’t eat dinner. (Mortified pause.) Because I don’t do well with people. (Snapping completely.) Especially people who turn other people into farm animals!

  Him: I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, I think we’re breaking up…

  Me (shrieking): No, we’re not! You’re just saying that to—

  (Phone goes dead.)

  Now, I’ve managed to cultivate a reputation as the person who knows everything through the simple expedient of having no social life. But the world we live in is strange enough that the description “Greek woman who is thousands of years old” is not enough to identify a specific individual. It didn’t even ring any bells. I had Ingrid ring up Gubbins’s secretary, who had the woman’s name and the time of her arrival at Heathrow. Which turned out to be half an hour from then. Fortunately, we hire extremely good assistants, so in less than ten minutes these two women had managed to rustle up two limousines, some drivers with no discernible personality, an itinerary for a day of entertainment, and my hulking sumo Scot of an honor guard.

  “Ingrid, who is this woman?” I asked as our car stuttered through traffic. We were crushed together on a seat so that Ingrid could point out details from her files; Anthony sat across from us, having been dragooned into serving as an easel for a large strip of paper that illustrated the timeline of the Greek woman’s life. Thus, I was facing backward (which makes me carsick), and Ingrid had her documents spread out over my lap.

  “She is currently known as Lisa Constanopoulos.”

  “Currently?” I repeated, trying to examine my skirt through several layers of files. Was I imagining things or had I put it on backward?

  “The name is a recent acquisition—these ancient ones hold on to names about as long as they hold on to suits,” said Ingrid.

  “Is this skirt on backward?”

  “Yes. Now, bear in mind that Ms. Constanopoulos has a confirmed age of at least three and a half thousand years,” continued Ingrid. A shower of files fell to the floor as I tried to swivel the skirt around. Anthony and I leaned forward simultaneously and smashed foreheads.

  “Ow!” we both yelled, and I reeled back into the seat.

  “… past century she is notable for having kneed Joseph Stalin in the groin during a drinks reception, and she played a large part in the South African diamond industry,” Ingrid went on. “She also cured one member of our royal family of cancer in the 1950s, and infected another with syphilis in the 1960s.”

  “Sweet Mother of God, my head!”

  “Hmmrgmmmrg, Rook Thomas,” rumbled Anthony across from me.

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Ingrid.

  “How long until her plane lands?” I asked, pressing hard against my bruised forehead.

  “Five minutes,” said Ingrid.

  “How long until we get there?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  As we trotted through the bowels of Heathrow, Ingrid gave me further details on my lunch date.

  “She was a close friend of Eva Perón and was briefly implicated in the Great Fire of Chicago. She may be in possession of a quail that lays golden eggs, and she is responsible for four earthquakes over the past two centuries.”

  We were ushered into the special reception room that important people go to so they won’t have to endure Customs. It’s luxurious and private, and you don’t have to mingle with the public. It’s the room that you wait in if you are very, very powerful and once got shitfaced with Joseph of Arimathea. Or if you are Mick Jagger.

  Naturally, the Greek was late. We arrived half an hour after her plane landed, but I suppose when you have all the time in the world, you can afford to wait for the other party to settle in. Also, you learn the art of making a good entrance. Ingrid was in the middle of describing the three modern cults dedicated to the worship of the woman when she came into the room.

  This chick had just arrived from Milan, where she’d been picking up designer outfits and lovers, and she was wearing one of each. Her arm was looped casually through the elbow of an Adonis type who looked to have the intelligence quotient of an ironing board, and behind them were two people, an elderly woman and a large Australian Aboriginal man.

  I had been expecting a glorious beauty, a goddess who carried herself with all the dignity and confidence of the ages. After all, this was a woman who’d dickered with lamas and dueled with a pope. So I was taken aback to see a woman of my height (which is not great, as you well know) with bouffant, peroxide-blond hair. Blood-red lipstick. Massive sunglasses. A cigarette in one hand. And long, crimson fingernails.

  Still, she looked like she was in her forties. No small feat when you’ve lived longer than Methuselah.

  “My darling Rook Thomas!” She swooped across the room, leaned down to me, and planted a kiss on each cheek, leaving massive lipstick smears. Her accent was liquid, sliding smoothly around Europe and South America. She wore enough rings on each finger to bludgeon Anthony to a standstill.

  “You are very pretty!” she lied to me. “I am so pleased to meet you! Did you know your skirt is on backward?” I muttered something inarticulate about how it was my honor to welcome her to the United Kingdom on the unknowing behalf of the monarch and also about Chevalier Gubbins sending his regrets. My tongue was completely tied, and I managed to turn my skirt only halfway around.

  “Oh, yes! Harry! I saw him in Kuala Lumpur a few years ago.”

  “Ten years,” said the elderly woman behind her with a sigh. The male model, who’d been jettisoned as soon as Lisa caught sight of me, shot her a dirty look. From the files, I knew that the elderly woman was Lisa’s personal secretary and that the Aborigine guy wasn’t her bodyguard but her IT expert.

  “Ten years?” repeated Lisa vaguely. “Really? Anyway, I hope he’s doing well, but I am quite confident that you and I will have a pleasant time.” Then, to my intense mortification, she added, “And I think we can quite definitely help you in the wardrobe department. Tell me, are all your clothes so… gray?” Behind me, Ingrid made a sort of muffled snorting sound. I can only assume she was choking on a breath mint. I shot her a look, hoping she hadn’t heard anything, and saw that she was wearing a poker face, which could only mean that she’d heard everything.

  Bugger.

  Lisa bustled through the hallways of Heathrow, a Rook of the Checquy and a cover boy flanking her. It was like hanging out with a woman who was simultaneously my grandmother and my
personal shopper. She reeled off names of clothing stores and tailors we would have to visit. Her elderly secretary jotted them down, while behind them hustled Ingrid and Anthony, listening in increasing dismay as their schedule, meticulously created to ensure political correctness and impeccable security, was jettisoned in favor of a sort of supernatural makeover.

  I attempted to protest, citing variously my salary hindrances (a lie), Checquy policy (another lie), and the fact that I didn’t know any of my sizes (which was true, but I really didn’t like having to admit it). All these were swept aside when Lisa promised to pay for everything, assured me that nobody in the Checquy wanted to offend her, and informed me that when you pay the amount she was intending to pay, they make the sizes fit you.

  Three hours later, my wardrobe had expanded by a factor of five, I was now the owner of several tins of makeup, and Anthony and Ingrid were both carrying armloads of shopping bags. From personal aide and honor guard, they’d been quickly demoted to luggage monkeys. Their shell-shocked expressions matched mine, and Ingrid later confessed to me that she was pathetically pleased that Lisa had deemed her restaurant selection worthy. Given the topic of lunchtime conversation, I was grateful that Lisa had asked for a separate table for our entourages.