Chapter Text
"Hey, babe!” Bronwyn said enthusiastically when she opened her apartment door to find Myfanwy. “You look great! Except for what you’re wearing.”
The sisters hugged, a little awkwardly. “What can I say? I came straight from the office, and this outfit is only this good because it was a casual Friday.” Myfanwy's voice made a shiver of tension run through my already strained body.
“Your office must be really dusty. I suppose the jeans will cut it, but we’re going to have to find you a better top. Come in.” Bronwyn ushered Myfanwy into the flat, then looked seriously at her. “I’m going to finish getting changed, and I’ll find something for you to wear. But there's another reason I've asked you to come here tonight.” Without explaining, she retreated to her bedroom.
Myfanwy looked around curiously. The flat was still a mess, but that wasn't what she noticed. She saw me; sitting, uneasy and apprehensive, on the couch behind her.
She froze.
Recovering, she cocked an eyebrow. "This is the only place you could think of that Grantchester doesn't know about?"
"I've been staying in Jonathan's bedroom. He's away." I said, needlessly. "I'm sorry if I've made any trouble for your family."
Myfanwy opened her mouth, various instinctive responses arising. But, she seemed to think the better of them. I waited on tenterhooks while she deliberated. Eventually, with a glance to check if Bronwyn was in ear shot, she said quietly. "After I came to see you in Scotland, I've been working on following the money trail to Grantchester. But it's slow going. Without a statement from you, I don't have enough evidence yet to have a charge of treason stick."
"Would a statement from me actually be worth much?"
“I think so,” Myfanwy said, “despite the fact that eighteen people were killed during the uprising event, none of the people you attacked had fatal wounds. Even Gubbins is recovering, and he was in the most critical condition."
"Are you suggesting, I'll be believed because I didn't kill people?" I asked.
“We all know that if you wanted to, you could have killed every one of those people... and more. It does appear to the Court that you weren't as committed to the Grafter uprising as many of the retainers who fought to the death.”
I looked up at her and asked the question I was really thinking. "Do you believe me?"
Before she could respond Bronwyn appeared wearing something as risque as the crimson dress Myfanwy had worn just a few nights ago.
“I know that you two aren't going to be able to sort out all your stuff in one night. But, may I suggest,” said Bronwyn, “that dancing and getting drunk together is a good step forward.”
In the conversation that followed Myfanwy rejected several clothing options before Bronwyn declared that she was the one studying fashion, the one who knew where they were going, and the one who would decide what Myfanwy would wear. I meekly accepted an outfit she had chosen for me and several minutes later we were headed for the most dubious and trendy of nightclubs in the city. It was absolutely crazy.
Myfanwy had eluded her bodyguards and ignored the Checquy lockdown in order to go dancing with her sister...
I was a wanted criminal who should not be casually taking a night out. I was probably going to end up with three bodies in Gallows Keep.
Yet, despite having no supernatural coercive powers Bronwyn soon had us seated in a club making polite conversation with a group of her friends.
“I’m going to get some water,” Myfanwy told us. I watched as she walked across the club, subtly directing the movement of the dancers so that the crowd opened up in front of her and closed behind her. She walked up to the bar and people moved aside, not even realizing they were doing it.
I hid a smile. Drawn into a discussion about the outfit that Bronwyn had dressed me in, I didn't notice at first that Myfanwy was talking to someone at the bar. Someone tall and powerful, dressed in leather pants and a mesh top, with long straight hair hanging to his waist. Bishop Alrich.
The hair was blonde. Alrich was thirsty.
I didn't stop to think. I was across the room in seconds, though no crowds parted for me. I had killed a vampire before but needed all my bodies to do it. The thought of Myfanwy facing an attacker like Alrich, without the advantage of her powers to protect her, made me feel nauseous.
But when I arrived next to them, it became clear that the atmosphere between them was not murderous after all. Myfanwy was sipping delicately from an apple martini and Alrich was observing the crowd with the hungry look of a predator choosing his prey.
“So, how about him? ” Myfanwy was saying, gesturing discreetly with her chin toward a handsome young man who actually looked very much like Alrich, dancing nearby.
“Oh, yes, he looks suitable,” said Alrich softly. Then looked straight at me. “Gestalt,” he said. “Myfanwy had explained the situation to me, and I will work with the two of you to expose Grantchester. But for now, we are all having a night off. He passed me his untouched beverage, turned to Myfanwy, 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.
I took a sip of Alrich's abandoned drink. Myfanwy let out a breath that I hadn't realised she'd been holding. "Well, that was unexpected. He stalked us here, relying on our scent apparently."
"Mmmm..."
Her blue eyes met mine in the semi darkness. "Did you know my powers wouldn't work on Alrich?"
I shrugged. "Not for sure. But vampires have no human elements, despite their appearance, so I didn't want you facing him without having a way of controlling him."
Her lips curved softly upwards. "So you dashed across the dance floor to give me back up? Despite the fact that - if he didn't believe me - he would be taking you into custody?"
I was thankful to be interrupted by Bronwyn and her friends arriving to drag us on to the dance floor. Perhaps I had over reacted to the threat that Bishop Alrich posed. The music was throbbing and the other young women were swaying and bobbing. I had spent enough time in clubs over the years to be a fairly competent dancer, but as it turned out, Myfanwy was not a natural dancer at all.
For someone so elegant and graceful it made me smile to see her flailing attempts to imitate the movements of the others. She punched me lightly in the shoulder and shouted in my ear over the music. "Stop laughing at me! Just because you somehow now how to do this!"
To my surprise, Myfanwy was smiling up at me, enjoying herself. She was as relaxed as I had ever seen her. We had a few cocktails floating around inside us, and we were dancing together, her body beginning to tune in with mine. The music was throbbing, and she closed her eyes and let her body collide with mine in suggestive ways.
Despite everything that was happening, I could feel that she wanted me. I was able to put aside all of my fear, worry and heartache... for just a moment. Then a hand tapped Myfanwy's shoulder, a man stood there swaying slightly. Myfanwy raised her eyebrows in a question, braced for anything. He didn't look too unusal. Shaved head, pointed nose, pale lips drawn back in a tight smile. Then he peeled back his lips, and revealed a smile full of razors.
He gestured toward a table that was a little away from the speakers and miraculously free of people. Myf hesitated, and he slowly lifted up one hand, holding a mobile phone. He discreetly offered it to her.
Five minutes later, we left the club.
Bronwyn was disappointed but unsurprised to have her sister urgently called away to deal with a work matter. Now outside, we looked around and saw neon light glinting off a shaved head.
“Rook Thomas,” he said, smiling his smile.
“Nameless Irritating Man with Aggressive Teeth,” she said, smiling hers. “So, where’s your friend?”
“Just across the street, if you’ll follow me.”
We walked hurriedly across the street, and he opened the door of his car for us. “You’ve got a pretty shit job with this, you know,” she pointed out to him. He flushed uncomfortably, and nodded. “Still, you were very polite. Are you Belgian, by any chance?” He nodded awkwardly. “Thought so.”
She got into the car first and I followed closely after. Myfanwy settled back into her seat and took great care to compose herself before she raised her eyes to look at her host.
I was less wise, but managed not to throw up at the sight of the creature that reclined, partially submerged, in a waist-high tank that had replaced a row of seats in the limo. The tank was filled with a viscous fluid that shimmered with oily rainbows..
It looked as if it had been flayed right before we got in the car. It was shiny with fluids that usually flowed exclusively beneath several layers of skin. The eyes were mismatched, one of them glinting a bright Teutonic blue that would have done Hitler proud, and the other so bloodshot that it was orange. Chitin plates trailed delicately through the angry flesh, seemingly placed with calligraphic care. Rangy cords of muscles wrapped around limbs with alarmingly irregular ridges and spurs.
The skinned thing rested its arms on the rim of the tank and laid its chin on the back of its hand. “Good evening, Rook Thomas,” it said, "Rook Gestalt." Myfanwy nodded and smiled politely, pressing her lips together so hard that the blood rushed away.
“I am Graaf Gerd de Leeuwen of the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen,” it said to us. “I apologize for my current appearance. A new skin is being grown for me, but I did not want to wait. Once we heard that you were unattended, I knew this would be the perfect opportunity to meet with you both.”
Myfanwy nodded sharply, glancing at me.
"Why did you want to meet us? Er, Graaf Gerd de Loon?" I managed to ask.
“I gather that we have something you want.” Myfanwy said tightly.
The thing’s muscles jerked in vexation along its neck, and tendons tightened in its fingers. “I do not like being in this country,” it said peevishly. "I would still be in België, but unfortunately circumstances have dragged me here.”
“That must be trying,” said Myfanwy with as much false sympathy as she could muster.
The skinned man in the tank looked at us with his head cocked to one side. “Yes,” he said dubiously. “It displeases me that I am obliged to speak with members of the Checquy. I have not forgotten the Isle of Wight.”
We gaped at him, realizing what this man was saying. He had been there when the Grafters invaded. The thing in front of us was over three hundred years old.
“I can understand how vexing it must be for you, but if you are the leader of the Broederschap, we can't be the first members of the Court you've spoken to. What about Grantchester?” Myfanwy said brusquely.
“Pah!” he said. “That man has a handler. The scion of a notable family, but no one truly important! He is nothing to the leaders of the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen. Bishop Grantchester is interested in nothing but profit, he does not truly respect the deep knowledge of the ages.” His eyes were burning with rage as he leaned forward out of the tank toward us. "Stop playing games with me. You Rook Thomas are the one who has what I want!"
“I am not playing games!” she shouted back at him. He jerked in surprise, but did not move. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want!” he screamed. Yellowy foam sprayed from his lips onto us, and we both flinched.
“What the hell—look, I have no idea what the fuck you want, but you better talk now or we are getting out of this car.”
“I want my deelhebber! I want Ernst von Suchtlen!” he snarled.
Genuinely bewildered, Myfanwy blinked. “What?” she asked.
"What?" I asked.
“What what?” he spat.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“What?” he yelled.
“We don’t understand,” I said, trying to calm him down. “What is it that you want?”
“I want you to produce Graaf Ernst von Suchtlen!”
“Who?”
“The other leader of the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen,” he said through teeth that would have been clenched if they’d lined up.
“I’m sorry,” Myfanwy said carefully. “But we don’t have this person.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he said, sneering. “He vanished from our fabriek months ago, leaving instructions for the continuance of our strategy here and for the concealment of his absence. From me.” He clenched his fingers on the rim of the tank.
As the conversation between them continued, my mind raced. This person was the key to the evidence that we needed, but how could we get anything useful out of him? He also seemed to be a raving lunatic.
He gnashed his weirdly rotating teeth together as he spoke. “Once I discovered he was missing, I tracked him. We found a record of a piece of mail sent to Myfanwy Thomas, who is a Rook of the Checquy. Our mortal enemies. It is the only thing that indicates where he has gone. I sent my personal agent to find him, and you promptly took him and tortured him!”—ah Von Syoc—“Now, where is Ernst?”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea,” said Myfanwy.
“If you fuck with me, I will start killing right now!” he yelled. “Do you want murder in your streets?” He was thrashing in his tank, sending waves of the goop sloshing everywhere.
“Listen to me, you flayed fuck,” Myfanwy shouted in his face. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but you need to calm down.”
“Do not speak like that to me! I possess the knowledge of the ages!” he gargled.
“Big deal,” said Myfanwy with a snort. “You know, fifteen minutes ago I had drinks with a vampire. The man has been dead since the eighteenth century, and he still manages to be quite well mannered.”
Alrich. Yes. That was clever. I fished out my phone and unobtrusively dialled the Bishop while Myfanwy held our host's attention. As if on cue, as soon as Alrich answered his phone, the Belgian began shouting his demand again.
“Where is Ernst von Suchtlen?”
“Are you on crack?” asked Myfanwy. “Think back to what I just said. I know it may be lost somewhere in the centuries of accumulated material in the filing cabinet of your brain, but I just said that we… Do. Not. Have. Him. Now, we will do our best to help you, but if you’ve misplaced one of your men, then you have only one person to blame, and it’s not me.”
“If you do not produce him, I will release a wave of horror upon your people that will blight your country!” shrieked the skinless Belgian. “I will drown this city in bile and blood!”
I raised both hands placatingly, my phone tucked into my lap. "Stop and listen, Sir. Neither Rook Thomas or I know anything of this person."
“You do! Rook Thomas at least does! Ernst sent something to her, the general of our greatest enemy." He turned his disturbing eyes back on Myfanwy. "If I did not think you knew where he was, you would be flayed, your sister would be dead, and I would be watching troops vat-grown in Mechelen rape your Prime Minister in Trafalgar Square on a pyramid of Cockney skulls.”
It was definitely the wrong tack to take with this new Myf. “What?” she whispered. He seemed to think he had cowed her, but I expected that a storm was building up behind her sheet-white face and horrified eyes.
“That is right,” the Belgian confirmed in a tone of deep satisfaction. “So, I suggest you drop this little pretense that you do not have him because now you understand exactly how serious this is."
“You motherfucker. Where do you get off threatening my family?” Myfanwy shouted suddenly. “You make one single move toward Bronwyn and I will have your country carpet bombed. I will seize control of your body, and you will tear your own guts out of your arse. You fucking corpse!”
“You do not talk to me like that!” the Belgian shrieked. He began a long-winded diatribe of seventeenth-century Belgian abuse that only made Myfanwy more furious.
We were getting no where.
"Give us three days!" I interrupted. Both verbal combatants stared at me, silenced.
“If this 'Ernst' sent Rook Thomas something in the past few months, she will still have it. She doesn't ever throw out correspondence. We just might not have realised the significance of it yet. Give us three days to figure out what it was, then we can have a more informed conversation."
“Where is he, that you need three days to produce him?” the skinless Belgian asked suspiciously.
“Oh God.” Myfanwy sighed. "We don't have him! But... we can try to find him for you."
"I will allow this, Rook! Three days to produce him! You have only the time I give you!”
We climbed out of the car to the sound of incomprehensible ravings. The bald man was standing by the door, looking anxious. When he heard the shouting from within the car, he paled.
“Get him out of here,” said Myfanwy shortly.
“Did you do what he wanted?” said the man frantically, as he got into the front seat.
“Does it sound like it?” she asked, already stalking back towards the club. I grabbed her arm as she joined the que to re-enter, flagging down a passing cab with my other hand.
I spoke quickly. "Myfanwy, I'm going to follow them. You need to trace the licence plate. Also find Alrich -" I saw the Bishop striding towards us, his hair no longer blonde but a bright crimson. "Strike that, I'll take Alrich with me. Get Chevalier Eckhart and stand by with the Barghests in case we find the rest of the Grafters."
Myf stared at me. "Oh my god. You're right." Her head snapped around to look at the departing limousine, which was thankfully heading down the street at a snails pace due to unruly traffic and drunken pedestrians. She pulled out her phone and started typing in the letters of the limousine's registration number.
"Is that the car?" Alrich was on us as I climbed into the cab.
"Yes. The black limo." I answered.
He nodded, "I have my own transport. Stay in touch on this number."
He disappeared faster than humanly possible as Myfanwy wailed, "fucking hell, Gestalt, this was supposed to be my night off!"
As it turned out, the bureaucratic rehashing of the events that followed took almost as long as the events themselves. Eckhart’s account of our assault on the Grafter home base had included a clinical description of they way that he and I had killed the skinless Belgian.
Myfanwy had listened, openmouthed, as Eckhart explained that the Grafter leader had grown blades of bone from his arms and that we had fought in a chamber in which giant sacs and cocoons hung from the ceiling. Pods had burst open, warriors had sprung forth, and Alrich and the Barghests had fought them off while we dueled with Graaf Gerd de Leeuwen, 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 everyone how he had torn down a chain from the ceiling and shaped it into a javelin. He had passed the weapon to me and watched as I placed it with great precision through the skinless Belgian’s head. After Eckhart’s description, the conversation had turned to Myfanwy’s adventures in confronting Grantchester. I found myself gritting my teeth in further anger at Grantchester during this retelling.
Security Chief Clovis was still providing the Court with intensive protection. I may have killed our skinless friend with a steel javelin to the face, but there could still be Grafters in the city—to say nothing of their endeavors throughout the country. Grantchester had evaded capture, and no one knew what lengths he might take to exact revenge.
The Barghests were planning an assault on Camp Caius; they had orders to take as few lives as possible. Myfanwy had already begun making plans of how to rehabilitate the children there.
Due to the latest revelations about Grantchester, I had been released from Gallows Keep. I had agreed to willingly remain under 'house arrest' in my residence at the Rookery, awaiting a trial regarding my actions during the night of the uprising. In return, the Court had agreed that my child should be returned into my custody.
This was done without fanfare. A retainer knocked on the door of my residence, and there I was. A tiny child, securely strapped into a stroller, looking up at myself. The two escorts began bringing all sorts of child related paraphanelia inside, half of which I wouldn't instinctively know the use of. But I had eyes only for my baby.
Reaching down and unstrapping the seatbelt I scooped him up into my arms (Teddy). Junior wrapped his pudgy hands around the back of my neck and looked into my eyes with a direct gaze. And even though it wasn't exactly a hug, and we weren't exactly a family. There was something warm and special about holding this younger part of myself. The chance to nurture myself. To celebrate childhood. A childhood that the rest of me had not had the opportunity to experience...