Rook

Myfanwy.
    “Rook John Perry, the most renowned Checquy operative ever to come from Reading,” said Cyrus. “Rook John Perry, one of the most renowned Checquy operatives ever.”
    “Oh,” said Myfanwy, shooting dirty looks at everyone else in the car who did not have amnesia and so had no reasonable excuse for not being able to identify Perry. “Refresh my memory,” she directed.
    “He was key in stopping the invasion of the Isle of Wight by the Grafters,” said Cyrus.
    God, this skinned Belgian really holds a grudge,
thought Myfanwy as she and everyone else who wasn’t from Reading sank into a guilty silence, and Cyrus managed to look simultaneously insulted by their ignorance and concerned about the prospect of the Grafters in his town. He placed a call on his mobile phone and began speaking in a tone that was both hushed and frantic.
    “Rook Thomas, are you all right?” asked Ingrid suddenly. Myfanwy looked up in surprise and realized that she was pressing her knuckles against her temples.
    “I’m getting a headache right in front of us.”
    “Right in front of us?” repeated Cyrus.
    “It’s highly specific,” Myfanwy said shortly. “Do we have any aspirin in this car?” Everyone looked around vaguely.
    “We have Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” said Ingrid, who was examining the minibar.
    “Really?”
asked the large bodyguard with unseemly enthusiasm.
    “I am not going to drink whisky on an empty stomach on the way to a manifestation,” said Myfanwy. “Nor are any of you,” she added pointedly as the large bodyguard cast a wistful look at the bar. “Now, Ingrid, you have nothing in your purse?”
    “I’m sorry, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid. “Perhaps there is some sort of first aid kit. Would you like us to check with the driver?”
    “No… yes… I don’t know,” said Myfanwy, wincing in pain. “This is not normal. It feels like, like…”
    “Like what?” asked Li’l Pawn Alan, excitedly.
    “Like it’s coming from outside my head,” said Myfanwy.
    “What?” asked Alan. “Where?”
    “There!” spat Myfanwy, pointing ahead of them to a large building surrounded by Checquy troops and vehicles. “Right there!”

34
     
    Dear You,
    The heart wasn’t much of a lead. They ran it through every scanning device known to man and got that anorexic girl who claims to be psychometric to try a reading, but even she got nothing. So the heart is now down in one of the locked fridges, and I am without a clue as to why it was sent to me. If I were in a better mood and had a shit sense of humor, I’d suggest that it was a valentine, but I shall restrain myself and instead talk about our latest acquisition—and how I got stuck with a hasty cover-up operation.
    There has been a rumor going around the community for years that there was some sort of animal out there, in private possession, that could tell the future. Now, the Checquy sees its share of precogs, psychics, and ball-gazers (both crystal and otherwise), and they are, without fail, absolute crap. Usually we get an irritating prophecy that will, inevitably, rhyme but not scan and that is so metaphor-laden as to render it completely incomprehensible. Or else it’s some twit who wants his epilepsy to have a greater meaning. So, while we feel somewhat obliged to keep looking for psychics, we don’t pay too much heed to what they say.
    You can see why we would be quite keen to get our hands on any creature that could accurately predict the future—an animal would be much less likely to be faking it for attention. A team of agents had been tasked with finding and acquiring it through fair means or foul. They followed hundreds of leads, scoured the kingdom, and managed to spend an astonishing amount of money. (I know, because guess who did the accounting and administrating of this little fiasco.) Agents retired and were replaced. Several times they thought they had found the beast—although the rumor had never been clear on what species it actually was.
    As a result, over the course of the endeavor, I received several swine, a goat, a rabbit, a Jack Russell terrier, and, my personal favorite, a cardboard box containing what the finder proudly declared were “the prophetic snails of Beccles.” Each of these had been unveiled, with great fanfare, to the members of the Court. Needless to say, none of these specimens were able to see the future. Or if they could, they were unwilling to communicate their findings to us. All that