Rook

At least, they had failed to emerge in any recognizable form. After a flickering of the violet lights and many subsequent screams, a torrent of viscous, meaty fluid streamed out one of the windows. The fluid was currently being analyzed to see if it contained any of the personnel.
    Much to Myfanwy’s surprise, this had not automatically bumped the incident up to emergency status. Good old standard operating procedure made another appearance, and a second, larger team of Pawns was sent in, this time with cameras and a protocol of constant radio contact. The camera feed fizzled, radio contact cut out, screams set in, fluid emerged, and the chanting continued unabated. At this point, Poppat (following the manual rigorously and scrupulously, he assured the reader) contacted the Rookery. A special Barghest team was dispatched from there, and Rook Thomas was notified.
    And here I am, on the way to Bath, to observe the chanting house that eats people.
A word in the précis had caught her eye, and she opened the purple binder and thumbed through until she came to the appropriate section.
     
The Barghests
    In theory, every member of the Checquy is well versed in the art of kicking ass and could be mobilized as an effective soldier. An integral part of our education on the Estate is martial arts and weapons training—as central to the curriculum as algebra (which I was very good at) and music (I sucked; they made me play the French horn). But of course, not everybody is destined to be a fighter. Even those students who don’t have hang-ups about confrontation are sometimes just better suited to fulfill some other function within the organization.
    Still, an awful lot of Checquy members are soldiers, and they are very good. I want to make it clear that the average Checquy fighter would rank high in the echelons of international special forces. They are identified while still young, so the instructors are in a unique position to build them up as
warriors. From a very early age, they embark on the same sort of training that adult career soldiers receive. They become proficient in numerous styles of fighting, are experts with hundreds of weapons, and learn survival, counterterrorism, and strategy skills. Plus, they possess superhuman abilities.
    They are equipped to go to war against the monstrous unknown.
    And the very best go on to be in the Barghests.
    My research has indicated that the Barghests are what the Checquy grew out of. An elite squad of supernatural soldiers sent in to fight the worst of the nightmares. There’s not a person among the Checquy today who would not, were the call given, put down her pen, take up a weapon, and march into the darkness. When we offered our services to Cromwell, we were only fighters. In the centuries since, the Checquy grew into the organization that it is now. Nevertheless, the Barghests stand as the epitome of what we are. They do not exist for research, administration, or record keeping. They are not bodyguards. They are not police. They are warriors.
    There are ten teams of Barghests; six are scattered around the globe, and four are based in the United Kingdom. The six international teams are under the command of the Chevaliers: two teams in Canada, one in New Zealand, two in India, and one in Australia. The four UK teams are under the control of the Rooks and are generally used as heavy backup. When bad shit goes down in the Isles and the local forces can’t handle it, they call in the Barghests.
    But while in theory I possess authority over them, Gestalt is the one who does the on-site commanding, so I don’t know them that well. Every three months I have to do one of those reviewing-of-the-troops things, and they’re all lined up in their killing uniforms. Gestalt and I walk authoritatively down the line, and it’s just so uncomfortable. I’m always aware of how much they do, and they exude this sense of extreme capability, with their eyes straight ahead and every muscle clenched. To be honest, I’m kind of intimidated.
    Not to mention that my incompetence in all things martial and physical is a fact of general knowledge in the Checquy. It’s a small community, and there are people in the Barghests with whom I was at the Estate. I can’t help but feel ridiculous in front of them. I have never dared to stop and stare pointedly at a Barghest’s uniform and claim that he is mussed or rumpled or has in some way failed to be the perfect soldier.
    Still, I’m the one who