Rook

howl.
    “Brilliant,” said Myfanwy, but the word died on her lips. Instead of hanging limply like any right-thinking unnatural flesh-weapon tentacle would, this thing was shuddering. Before her horrified eyes, the wound
blossomed
and sprouted a mass of writhing tendrils that flailed about. Several of them whipped around Steele, slammed him down onto the roof, and flung his chain saw away. Myfanwy drew in breath to scream, but before she could make a sound, dozens of fingers writhed down to entangle her. As she was mummified, she saw one of her large bodyguards get snared, and then she was being whiplashed into the air and pulled toward the police station.
    Myfanwy’s skin burned, and she could feel the return of her headache as she was reeled in by the cube. Her breath was crushed out of her as the tendrils constricted. She tried to focus, to reach out with her powers and grab some control, but she could feel herself slipping away. In some quirk of happenstance, there was a gap between thetentacles, and it was situated over one of her eyes. The sky was rolling crazily in front of her, and then the wall of the police station was there with a gaping hole punched in it, and she was being pulled into a crevice that had opened in the cube. Heat and unimaginable pressure enveloped her, and then there was no more light.

36
     
    Dear You,
    It is now, much to my chagrin, the holiday season. The time of year characterized by the highest suicide rate within the Checquy. We’ve already started to see the annual spikes in poltergeist incursions and chronological abductions—but those aren’t the things that usually push our operatives to end themselves. It’s the fact that we all suddenly remember who we are. And who we aren’t. I mean, sure, there are office parties, and gatherings of friends, and a few of us manage to build relationships with significant others—either inside or outside the Checquy. But when most of us walk down the street and see the normal people, we get a little down. The staff therapists get busy.
    In spite of my total lack of a personal life, I generally do pretty well at Christmastime. Which is to say, I ignore it as much as I can. Someone has to work over the holiday period, so I usually volunteer, and one of the Chevs does too (usually Gubbins, since he and his wife don’t have any kids). Together, we supervise the skeleton crews, drink some sherry via teleconference, and then I go home. Another year taken care of, with barely a taste of the depressing yuletide spirit.
    But there are two seasonal social gatherings that are simply unavoidable: the executive Christmas party and the Court’s Christmas party.
    I had already endured the executive party, to which all the station heads around the nation are invited. It’s always terribly awkward, with various people seeking to ingratiate themselves to the Court in an effort to advance their careers. As a result, I had spent most of the party trying to avoid people who wanted to tell me how marvelous they were, and why they should bepromoted. With that delightful obligation fulfilled, there was still the Court party to attend.
    So two days before Christmas, I found myself knocking on the very lovely door of Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Grantchester’s very lovely house by the river. Snow had begun falling lightly, and I was glumly sniffing at the flowers I’d brought when the door was opened by a subdued-looking maid.
    “Please, come in,” she said.
    “Emily, are the guests arriving already?” came a call, and Mrs. Conrad Grantchester sailed into view, carrying Grantchester Junior—an adorable little blond child who looked like he should be toddling around naked with a bow and arrow and a set of fluffy little wings. “Myfanwy! Lovely to see you, do come in out of the snow.” Caroline Grantchester, thirty-nine years old, was wearing a cocktail dress the color of champagne, and she was beautiful, with dark hair, the bluest eyes in the world, and a figure that proved beyond all doubt that the baby was adopted. Well, that and the letterpress announcement we’d all gotten in the mail that the Grantchesters were adopting a baby.
    “Myfanwy, have you met little Henry?” she asked as the maid took my coat and flowers. “Henry, this is your auntie Miffy.” Henry regarded his newly acquired auntie Miffy with a moment of disconcerting focus, and then blew some bubbles. I smiled politely and allowed myself to be drawn into the sitting room. Grantchester