“Obviously, this would not do. The odds of your being able to communicate what you knew before you lost it were slim, but still unacceptable. We could not take the risk that you would encounter any members of the Checquy, so I dispatched my team of loyal Retainers to the passages within the Rookery.
“As it turned out, none of them ever came back,” said Grantchester tightly. “Several were found dead in a park in Pinner, and I was obliged to send a cleanup crew after them. Oh, we have your car, by the way. Several other operatives simply never reported in, and I assumed that you had eliminated them as well.” Myfanwy thought of the rotting corpses down in the tunnel that led to the garage but said nothing. “And then there was the disastrous incident in the bank. Those poor souls have had to undergo extensive therapy—both physiological and psychological—as a result of your attack on them. It was a pity too, as they were the most able infiltration team in my possession. They had tracked you to the hotel after, in a stroke of brilliance, you used your card in the hotel’s ATM to check your bank balance. They listened in on your driver’s radio in order to get to the bank before you, after you took a bewilderingly convoluted route.”
“I happened to be taking in some of the sights,” said Myfanwy with dignity. “And how do you know what route I took?”
“This is London,” said Grantchester. “The ring of steel? We have enough cameras in the city that I could have put together a miniseries on your trip to the bank. We lost you after that, however. Our attention was on that team you left comatose.
“We had never been certain of the extent to which you had lost your memory. Norman swore up and down that he had done the job thoroughly—that all vestiges of your identity had been denatured, leaving us with a blank slate. You would retain your skills and some of your education, but the thoughts and memories that made you Myfanwy Thomas were gone. He was positive.
“However, he’d also been certain that after he was finished with you, you’d be completely incapacitated. And the corpses scattered liberally around London definitely disproved that assertion.”
He sighed, seeming rather put out.
“In any case, you turned up at work that Monday looking like you’d been through a war. And I’ll admit, I had a little bit of a panic. I immediately activated the listening devices in your office and had you monitored constantly. If you’d done anything that indicated you remembered—if you’d made any accusations—well, there are contingency plans for seizing control of the Checquy ahead of schedule. It would have been messy, and risky, but I think we might have carried the day.
“But you did your job and never brought up anything unfortunate. You seemed a bit confused by things, a little hesitant when it came to routine matters, but I thought that you might have lost only a few days of memory, or perhaps even hours. After all, you knew who you were and did your job competently. Gestalt, who did not know about your memory modification, had no idea anything was going on, although he noticed that you were more assertive than usual.”
“You didn’t tell Gestalt?”
“The fewer people who know secrets, the easier the secrets are to keep,” said Grantchester. “And besides, I wasn’t certain. But thanks to your little exposition this evening, I now know that Norman was right—you are not her. And whoever you may have grown to be—well, you have already proven that you know too much.” Myfanwy was again conscious of the long fingers on her neck. “It’s a pity, in a way. We should love to find out the whole story, but at this point, I’m inclined to cut my losses.”
“You’re going to erase me?” Myfanwy asked shakily. “Just like you got rid of Thomas’s personality?”
“Or lack thereof,” said Grantchester. “And yes, we shall. But obviously it’s not going to be done the same way. Before, we wanted a cooperative, malleable mind in your body. One that could communicate effectively and prove useful. Clearly, that’s a risk we cannot take again. This time, Norman will clear out your brain entirely. The next person to look out of those eyes will be a complete newborn. We’ll keep you alive for some tests—tracing some impulses, seeing you react in a laboratory setting. And then later, they’ll saw you up into pieces suitable for viewing through a microscope.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“We were always going to make a thorough study of you,” said the Bishop expansively. “You terrify the Grafters. A woman who can control living matter. Their great advantage—the weapons with which they can smite the Checquy—are all biological. They wouldn’t be able to shoot their guns if you decided that you didn’t want them to. Any enhancements their agents possess could tear themselves out at your command. You, my dear, are their worst nightmare. And also their greatest possibility. You’re our uranium. If we can reverse-engineer you, there’s nothing we can’t achieve.”
“The Estate scientists couldn’t,” pointed out Myfanwy tensely. Norman’s fingers were tracing their way down, inside her coveralls to her shoulders.
“The Estate scientists are children with Legos compared to these people.” Grantchester snorted contemptuously. “The Grafters have been doing this for centuries. They mapped the human genome when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. They surveyed the territory of the human body and built skyscrapers!” His eyes looked beyond her. “Ah, perhaps you would like to speak with my other guests before we have you obliterated?” Out of the corner of her eye, Myfanwy saw two figures passing around the desk to flank Grantchester.
Eliza and Alex Gestalt eyed Myfanwy with utter loathing.
“Of course, Eliza might not appreciate some of the comments you made about her postpartum depression, but you might like to congratulate the parents of my child,” he said with an amused look. “I shall leave now, but Gestalt has expressed a desire to watch as Norman does his work. Good evening,” he said, getting up. Myfanwy could hear his steps as he walked through the room, opened up a portrait, and climbed the stairs hidden behind it.
“So, bitch Thomas,” said the Gestalt siblings in unison. “I can’t tell you how pleasant it is to see you pinioned this time. I shall definitely enjoy this after a week of having to hide in Grantchester’s residence.”
“Do you know what it’s been like?” the Gestalt sister demanded. “Afraid to go into my other bodies in case the Gallows torturers are mutilating them? In case I open my eyes just at the moment that they put them out?” She leaned forward across the desk and punched Myfanwy awkwardly in the side of the head.
“This is going to be so satisfying,” the brother said.
Myfanwy didn’t say anything, not even to lie to them about what had happened to the other bodies. In point of fact, nothing had yet been done to Teddy and Robert. Currently, they were restrained, with blindfolds, in soundproof rooms. Alrich and some of the scientists and torturers were attempting to work out an approach that would let them take advantage of Gestalt’s hive mind and torture all four of the bodies simultaneously. Myfanwy had smiled weakly at their enthusiastic ideas and resolved not to have anything to do with it. Now she was rather wishing she’d chipped in.
Norman kept his hand in contact with Myfanwy as he turned her chair toward him and then drew her up to her feet. His eyes stared into hers, and she flinched away. Her skin was numb where he touched it, and he pulled her closer. The cold spread down to the tops of her arms as he grasped them within her clothes so that she could not struggle. If she were to kick, it would only be a blow on the shins, like a child throwing a tantrum. Myfanwy resisted the urge to scream as he opened his mouth and leaned over her. His breath wafted into her face, and she wrinkled her nose at its chemical odor. He smelled just like the Grafter in the club.
Norman’s tongue, a pallid purple, suddenly bristled with long white fibers. The hairlike tendrils pressed against her lips like a half-remembered nightmare. His lips grated against her own as he shoved his tongue into her mouth. She gagged as it scraped down her throat.
Myfanwy’s eyes rolled around, adding images to her memory that she knew would soon be dissolved
. To one side stood the girl, watching them impassively. Behind her were the simultaneous breaths of Gestalt. Her attacker’s scaly cheeks lightly grazed her own as he greedily probed her mind.
It’s coming, she thought. The end of me. Her mind hyperfocused, and every detail gained significance. The warmth of her shoes, the coarse chafing of the ankle holster, the smoothness of her coveralls, and the comfortable warmth of her coat. Her fingers caressed the softness of her clothes. It’s all going to be gone, she thought, and then she felt something under her hands.
She dug her right hand into her coat pocket and came out clutching something. Do it! she thought desperately. Fight! It’s worth a try! She could feel the boy drawing himself back, getting ready to smash forward with all the force of his vile powers. Frantically, she shifted her hand to get a better grip on the object. Norman felt her movement and hesitated. She clenched her fist and, staring into her attacker’s eyes, stabbed his thigh with the epi-pen that Thomas had put in the pocket of every coat she owned in case she was stung by a bee.
There was a click.
A spring-loaded needle glided through the membrane in the tip of the epi-pen, piercing the cloth of Norman’s trousers. The needle slid through his skin and delivered 0.3 milligrams of epinephrine into his system.
The medication roared into Norman’s bloodstream, binding itself to receptors in his body. Myfanwy watched as his pupils dilated. She could hear his heart rate increase. Chemicals shifted, and the man-made additions to his body screamed. His grip on her powers loosened, then failed entirely. She reached out with her mind and punctured the shields around his consciousness. They both stood, unmoving, joined in a horrible kiss, and Myfanwy felt him dying. All the delicate systems that the Grafters had stitched into him were failing, the fragile balance destroyed completely. Not yet, she thought. Under her command, his heart kept beating, and his legs held him up. His tongue, with all its fibers, retracted into his mouth, but their lips were still locked. Don’t want to give the game away just yet.
First things first.
The little girl raised her gun and, against her will, fired at the Gestalt siblings. Alex was hit in the shoulder and fell to the floor with a startled cry; Eliza was struck in the head and neck, and she stumbled back against the glass. Cracks spiderwebbed out around her, and then she was gone, falling back through the glass and into the night. A low horrible wail rose up from her brother, who was flailing on the ground.
The little girl was staring stupidly at the gun in her hand when Gestalt’s remaining free body, screaming with rage, clawed his way up the desk. He drew a gun and emptied the clip into the little girl. She crumpled to the ground. Gestalt scrabbled weakly at the desk but seemed to be going into shock and fell back. Myfanwy made sure he couldn’t stand up, and then turned her attention to the next matter at hand.
Okay, now you can die, she thought, and let Norman’s heart stop beating.
“Oh,” she sighed, and there was a hint of a moan in that sound as the body of Norman fell away from her. She rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, and it came away with traces of blood. She could feel the skin around her eyes swelling and bruising. This is familiar, she thought wearily, and leaned against Grantchester’s desk, gasping.
“You bitch” came a despairing voice, and Myfanwy looked around at the floor behind the desk.
“Oh, hey, Gestalt,” she said wearily.
“You fucking bitch—do you realize what you’ve done?” he asked. “She was the only one who could bear a new child, and now I’ll die.”
“What?” she asked, dully, taking deep breaths.
“I can’t get any new bodies! For a new child to be part of me, both parents have to be my bodies, and now…” He started to weep brokenly. “Now, the only body that could carry a child is dead, and I’m going to die!” Myfanwy stared at him in horror at the implications of Gestalt’s words. Her eyes fell to a Grantchester family photo on the desk. It had been bad enough knowing that the blond baby held Gestalt’s mind, but that it was a product of incest, with one mind forming both parents and the new child—her stomach turned at the thought. My God, Gestalt could have been immortal—an army. She stared down at the weeping, bleeding individual on the floor and didn’t know what to feel.
I’ll have to bring the baby in and let the Court decide what to do with it. And Gestalt doesn’t know about the amnesia… But fuck! Grantchester! She picked up Norman’s gun and eyed the portraits before picking up the phone to call for help.
“Myfanwy” came Grantchester’s voice over the line.
“Conrad,” she breathed.
“I was watching on the camera,” said the Bishop. “I’m very impressed—you are clearly far more capable than your predecessor. I don’t suppose you would care to join me?” His effrontery took her breath away, and Myfanwy didn’t trust herself to reply. “No? Well, I suppose I should have expected that. But in any case, it is evident that I have been beaten in this particular battle. Accordingly, I am withdrawing from the Apex and heading for a slightly more relaxing clime. I made plans for such a possibility long ago.” Looks like Thomas wasn’t the only one who liked to be prepared, thought Myfanwy.
“But rest assured, Rook Myfanwy Thomas or whoever you think you are”—and here his voice became hard—“I have spent years within the Checquy paving the way for the coming of the Grafters. They will come, and they will triumph, and then you and I shall have words.” There was a click at the other end of the line, and he was gone.
Myfanwy put the phone down with weak fingers. In a minute, she would alert security and have Gestalt (or what remained of Gestalt) arrested. She would find out how Eckhart’s raid had gone, and summon the Court to hear what had happened. She would check on Bronwyn, and call Shantay with the news. And she would mourn for Ingrid and Li’l Pawn Alan.
She would do all those things, but first she needed a minute to collect the thoughts she’d come so close to losing.
41
Wait, so Li’l Pawn Alan can kick arse?” said Myfanwy incredulously in the back of the car. “Against a soldier with a gun?”
“Li’l Pawn Alan can break down the composition of inorganic material, rendering it brittle,” said Ingrid primly. “If he’s touching the material, he can affect a portion the size of your torso. If he’s not touching it, then he can only affect a very small amount. But it’s enough to cause a trigger to shatter. Fortunately for us.”
“Yes, you look fortunate,” said Myfanwy, eyeing Ingrid’s arm sling and swollen black eye.
“I’m not complaining,” said Ingrid.
“You got shot!” exclaimed Myfanwy.
“It didn’t hit bone,” said Ingrid. “And while getting belted in the face and then shot in the arm is not a treat, it’s certainly preferable to getting executed.”
After Myfanwy had caught her breath in Grantchester’s office and called security, she’d found the watch office in an uproar. Apparently, a Rookery graphic designer working overtime had walked past the entrance to the command suite and seen an adolescent Pawn fighting with a security guard while the Rook’s executive assistant bled, unconscious, on the floor. Uncertain of which side to take, the designer had elected to cover all the bases, and she’d shocked both combatants into unconsciousness with her electricity-casting abilities before calling security.
“I’m just glad that they were able to patch you up so quickly that you could come for part of the Court meeting!” said Myfanwy.
“Some medic plugged the bullet hole with a resin that he extruded out of his glands,” said Ingrid darkly. “Directly out of his glands.”
“Ew,” said Myfanwy. “Which glands?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ingrid. “The meeting was interesting though.”
“It was one of the most awkward meetings I’ve ever had.” Myfanwy yawned. “I thought they all took it pretty well, considering.”
“The Court has been subject to a number of shocks recently,” pointed out Ingrid. “They
were all fairly pliable, especially after Chevalier Eckhart produced the photographs of the Grafter bodies.”
“Well, yeah, but the revelations about Grantchester—I mean, he was a member of the Court!”
“So was Rook Gestalt.”
“True. But Gestalt was a member of the Court whom no one actually liked,” amended Myfanwy.
“I always rather fancied Bishop Grantchester,” confessed Ingrid. “He used to flirt outrageously whenever he came to the Rookery.”
“He was hot,” admitted Myfanwy. She looked out the window. It was nearing dawn, and London was quiet, with only a few stray cars out. The convoy of limousine and attendant motorcycles was a tiny parade of movement in the streets. The coffee she had finally been permitted at the meeting of the Court was fighting a losing battle against the cumulative effects of a night of clubbing, a morning of testing, an afternoon of being absorbed by a flesh cube, and an evening confrontation with a traitor.
As it turned out, the bureaucratic rehashing of events had taken almost as long as the events themselves. Eckhart’s account of his assault on the Grafter home base had included a clinical description of his killing the skinless Belgian. Myfanwy had listened, openmouthed, as Eckhart explained that the Grafter leader had grown blades of bone from his arms and that the two of them had fought in a chamber in which giant sacs and cocoons hung from the ceiling.
Pods had burst open, warriors had sprung forth, and the Barghests had fought them off while Eckhart and Graaf Gerd de Leeuwen dueled, metal scraping against bone. Two members of the Barghests had been traitors, and they turned on their comrades. Their Grafter enhancements had not saved them. Finally, without any emotion, Joshua told them how he tore down a chain from the ceiling, shaped it into a javelin, and placed it with great precision through the skinless Belgian’s head.
After Eckhart’s description, the conversation had turned to Myfanwy’s adventures in Reading, followed by Myfanwy’s adventures with Grantchester. At that point, she’d done some rapid thinking and come to the conclusion that perhaps she could avoid admitting to the memory loss. She’d had to walk a narrow and confusing tightrope to explain what happened, and in the end she’d gotten out of giving a fully detailed exposition only by feigning light-headedness. The bruises around her eyes had everyone looking at her strangely, but they’d all been too distracted by the revelations about Grantchester and the Grafters to draw any incriminating parallels between her current injuries and those of two weeks ago. Myfanwy had been deliberately vague about Norman’s capabilities, and no mention had been made about anyone’s losing his or her memory.
The Rook: A Novel Page 49
