Rook

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 gestureddiscreetly 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 toher 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