Rook

dangerous.
Thomas, I can see why you were hesitant, but you never needed to be afraid of it!
    Bemused, she allowed herself to be ushered into one of the chairs in the center, and she received her cup of coffee. She looked at Gestalt in wonder and saw smug satisfaction on his handsome face.
You think I’m in a daze because you’re handsome? I’m in a daze because I could crush you.
She looked around and saw other people settling themselves in the chairs. Two rows of comfortable chairs, in a horseshoe pattern, the inner row sunken slightly so as not to obstruct the view of those behind them. It was like being in a very expensive private box at a very small, underground soccer game. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a suit stood before the curtains. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
    “My Rooks, lady, and gentlemen,” he began, “we have had this individual under surveillance since he entered the country three days ago. His passport is for a Peter Van Syoc of Holland, and his cover was a business trip for his employer, the Zeekoning Fishing Company. Upon his arrival at Heathrow from Amsterdam, certain factors caught the attention of our agents, and in accordance with the procedures codified by Rook Thomas, he was placed under discreet observation. His room in a bed-and-breakfast was entered, and subtle listening devices and cameras were placed there by our people.
    “The Checquy agents observing Mr. Van Syoc noted that in the course of his movements about the city, he passed by the Rookery several times and devoted some attention to the building. Yesterdayevening he engaged the services of a prostitute and paid her to remain in his accommodations for the entire night. This morning, the subject activated inhuman abilities and began the murder and, we believe, consumption of the prostitute.
    “At this, the Pawns moved. When they appeared, the subject demonstrated further abilities, demolishing part of the architecture of the bed-and-breakfast before he could be restrained.” The man’s voice was carefully dry, giving away no emotion. His subdued tone made the entire recitation ridiculous. “He was then transported immediately to the Rookery.”
    Bloody hell,
thought Myfanwy.
That’s pretty hardcore.
She twisted around to find Ingrid and saw that her secretary was sitting behind her. She was obviously ill at ease but carried herself well. Myfanwy smiled at her, and caught by surprise, Ingrid smiled too. As Myfanwy turned back to the curtains, there was a crumpling beneath her, as if she were sitting on a sheet of paper. She felt about and pulled out a carefully folded wax-paper bag.
    “Gestalt?” she said, turning to the body seated next to her. “What’s this?”
    “But Myfanwy!” he exclaimed. “You always have a paper bag. You know how often these interrogations make you ill,” he said with a tone he might have intended to be comforting but that she found patronizing.
    “Oh, of course. I simply did not expect to sit on it,” Myfanwy replied, placing the bag on her lap.
Thomas got sick at these things?
She could just picture the timid person in this little body throwing up in front of these men. Aside from Ingrid, whom Myfanwy had invited on the spur of the moment, she was the only woman in the room.
Poor Thomas,
she thought.
How humiliated she must have been.
And then, eyeing the curtains in front of her dubiously, she wondered:
What exactly is going to happen?
    The curtains trembled and then parted. As the red cloth flowed to the sides, the lights in the room dimmed.
It’s exactly like a theater, and we are in our private box,
she thought uneasily. In front of them was a thick pane of glass, and beyond that a room tiled in a pale blue. Softlights glowed from the ceiling. Myfanwy’s imagination had summoned up a slab of stone with some poor soul bound to it by chains and straps, but instead she saw something more like a thickly cushioned dentist’s chair. Seated upon it was a man with his eyes closed. The sleeves of his shirt had been carefully cut off, and the pants legs had been rolled up. He was still. There were soft cloth straps binding him to the chair at his wrists, waist, and ankles. Something about the clinical matter-of-factness of it all was more alarming than the medieval images she’d conjured up.
    “Oh God,” Myfanwy murmured to herself, and drew a pitying glance from Gestalt. She tensed as a man entered the room. He had glasses, was dressed in scrubs, and wore a surgical