Rook

itself against her. She tightened the web and smiled a small smile of satisfaction. She
had
Gestalt. She had him and there was noway the Rook could escape—no body to slide into, no extra sibling to mobilize.
    But then, suddenly, the mind was gone, evaporating through her fingers. Mental activity in the brains faded.
    “What?” Myfanwy cried out, loosening her grip in shock. She swept the area frantically, but she couldn’t detect even the slightest trace of the traitorous Rook. The siblings’ knees were buckling, but then they straightened. Wherever Gestalt’s mind had gone, it was back now, and the bodies were escaping. Myfanwy wildly spun tendrils out of her psyche and, straining, snared one of the twins. She snapped her mind around him, and then she
wrenched
at his senses, warping his perception so that he ran straight into a wall, knocking himself out.
    Eat that, you prick.
    The Retainers were also running, and the other siblings got lost in the crowd. Lost, that is, until Alrich launched himself impossibly across the room, scattering people like skittles. The Bishop snagged a brother by the shoulder, swung him up, around, and then down, crashing him onto the floor with tremendous force. The other twin stumbled over a dead secretary but made it to the door. He and Eliza vanished, and the treacherous Retainers—the few Alrich hadn’t shredded—blocked the passageway, preventing anyone from chasing the fleeing Rook.
    Myfanwy cut the Retainers’ legs out from under them, and Alrich looked out the door.
    “They’re gone,” he reported grimly.
    “Damn it!” spat Myfanwy, slumping to the ground. She sighed heavily. “Can somebody get this man off me, please?”
    W ell, Bishop Morales is safely back in Miami,” said Shantay, folding up her mobile phone. “Our superiors inform me that I’m supposed to fly back to the States tomorrow and report your decisions of tonight.” She sank down on the couch next to Myfanwy, kicking her shoes off. A waiter approached discreetly. “I’ll have a gin-gin mule,” saidthe American Bishop. The waiter bowed politely and looked to Myfanwy.
    “Yeah, me too,” said Myfanwy, trying to ignore the doctor who was tending to her ankles. Immediately after the chaos, she had wondered whether the heads of the Checquy should repair to a secure location. Perhaps the Prime Minister should be informed? Her suggestions had been brushed aside by Farrier “until we’ve decided what we want to say,” and instead, the entire party had migrated into an adjacent receiving room, which resembled the ballroom except for a conspicuous lack of corpses and blood. Now there were ten people from the original dinner party, and four doctors tending to them.
    Only three loyal Retainers had survived the battle. Ingrid and one of Gubbins’s secretaries were standing uncomfortably against the wall, despite repeated invitations from various members of the Court to sit down. Lady Farrier was seated next to Wattleman’s bodyguard, a tall redheaded man, each of them sporting a black eye. They held identical cocktails in their hands and looked identically pissed off.
    “I simply cannot believe that more than twenty-five people were killed at an official Checquy function!” seethed Wattleman. The old man had shaken off a bullet to the head and seemed somewhat irritated that others in the party hadn’t done the same. “There hasn’t been a slaughter of this magnitude on Checquy soil since… since…” He looked to Myfanwy for help.
    What, am I also the historian here?
she thought in irritation. She searched her memory for any relevant information and came up with nothing.
    “It’s been ages, sir,” she said firmly.
    “Exactly!” he exclaimed. “Ages! And to do it when we’re entertaining such distinguished guests!” Myfanwy was fascinated that it wasn’t so much the attempted assassination of members of the Court that was filling him with rage but more the fact that Gestalt and his people had broken the laws of decorum by doing it during a drinks reception. And in front of the Americans.
    “Yes, they seemed surprisingly unconcerned with obeying the laws of hospitality, and of this kingdom,” said Eckhart scornfully. Inthe middle of the battle, Myfanwy had seen him grab a metal drinks tray, melt it in his hands, and form it into poniards. Now he was briskly winding the metal into bracers around his wrists. “After all, that’s why Thomas accused Gestalt of treason.”
    “Yes,”