“What would the Checquy have done if it had been explicitly unnatural?” asked Leliefeld curiously.
Chief Clovis took on a lecturing tone. “The Internet has proven to be both tremendously inconvenient and tremendously useful for us. It’s much more difficult to keep a secret contained. However, the public’s skepticism has also increased.” The security chief smiled. “I know of at least two instances where footage of real harpies fighting in the Shetlands was criticized online for being poorly executed. People didn’t even call it a hoax — to them, it was simply low-quality CGI.”
“The Rookery also has Liars who deal with public perception,” put in Rook Thomas.
“Liars?” said Alessio in puzzlement.
“The Tactical Deception Communications Section,” corrected Chief Clovis patiently. “They send out disinformation after any manifestation that has gotten significant public notice.”
“Fascinating,” remarked Leliefeld.
“Has the Broederschap encountered many other supernatural elements?” asked the Rook. “You must have, surely.”
“Very few,” said Leliefeld. “And it’s never been pretty.” Felicity thought of Marcel’s story about the woman in Paris who killed all those Grafters. And Marcel had hinted at other, even worse incidents.
“I was hoping that you would be able to tell us more about what the supernatural scene is like on the Continent,” said Rook Thomas. “We know so little.”
“We probably know even less,” said the Grafter girl ruefully. “We have always been extremely cautious about anything to do with the supernatural. Almost reclusive.”
Rook Thomas nodded thoughtfully and then looked over as her executive assistant came to them through the crowd. “Hello, Ingrid, you look stressed. I take it something is going to ruin what’s left of my evening?”
“Rook Thomas,” said Mrs. Woodhouse urgently, “the Prime Minister has decided he is going to make a speech. Now.”
“Oh, hell,” said the Rook, looking pained. She held out her hand and took a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter who had just appeared at her shoulder and who looked rather surprised about it. The Prime Minister, flanked by the Lord and Lady of the Checquy, waited by the orchestra. As the song came to an end, Sir Henry stepped forward to a microphone.
“Good evening,” said the Lord, and the conversation in the room died away. “And the warmest of welcomes to you all. The Checquy Group is delighted to host tonight’s festivities at Apex House, an evening in which old friends and colleagues join together to welcome new allies. Now, I give you the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” Applause swept through the room as the head of the government stepped forward.
“Distinguished guests,” began the Prime Minister. “It is, as always, a privilege to spend time at a gathering such as this.” Felicity’s mind wandered a bit as he went on to praise the Checquy for its centuries of steadfastly defending the kingdom. There was applause, but Felicity saw that the Rook remained tense.
“The reception tonight was meant to be a celebration,” he went on, “marking the first steps toward reconciliation and union between old adversaries. This merger is an exciting idea, an inspiring idea, and I am confident that it will result in something greater than the sum of its parts. It is a tremendous pity that tonight’s pleasure should be marred by tragedy.
“The heinous attacks on innocent civilians have, once again, brought the world’s eyes to our country for the worst of reasons. I have received messages of sympathy and support from nations around the world. In times of misfortune, the importance of friends and allies cannot be overestimated. That is why the work toward the joining of the United Kingdom and the Broederschap is, in these dark days, a thing of hope.”
“This isn’t too bad,” said the Rook in a low, cautiously optimistic tone.
“It is provident to have you all here tonight,” said the Prime Minister. “In the days ahead, all of you will be called upon to lend your strength and courage as we work to track down the enemy that has struck at our people with such cowardice and spite. I say all of you because these attacks have come from the world that the Checquy polices. Indeed, we are already aware of the identity of those responsible.”
“Oh, shit,” said Thomas.
“The attacks were the work of rogue elements from within the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen. They are a small group of extremists, zealots who have torn themselves away from their families and their oaths and who are determined to use terror and cruelty to prevent peace.”
“Well, that was a nice secret while it lasted.” The Rook sighed. She threw the rest of the champagne down her throat and looked about for another waiter.
Around the room, reactions were mixed. The civilian guests were, for the most part, confused and antsy as they absorbed this information. The Grafters were looking about warily and seemed to be drawing together into tighter clumps. Among the Checquy, however, there was the sound of angry muttering.
Felicity became aware of pointed and none-too-friendly stares directed at Leliefeld and Alessio. As she watched, the Grafter girl put out her hand and drew her little brother in closer.
Scents suddenly hovered in the air, musk and compost and electricity. Felicity felt a strange sensation run through her stomach, as if, for a moment, the liquids there had sloshed a little to the left. The glass in her hand hummed a little, vibrating in harmony with a sound she could not hear. A wave of humid air washed over her, followed by a cooler one from a different direction.
Whether or not they realized it, the Pawns of the Checquy were letting their feelings get the better of them.
Automatically, Felicity moved closer to the two Grafters, and she found herself casually standing with her legs shoulder-width apart and her knees and elbows slightly bent. She was ready to defend them.
And then the tension in the room was gone, dissipated. The resentment and the outrage remained, of that she had little doubt, but the moment was over. A decision had been made. The Pawns of the Checquy were too disciplined, too civilized, to turn on their guests. The civilians did not appear to have noticed anything, and the Prime Minister had continued to speak without a break.
Felicity looked at Rook Thomas and saw that the woman’s face was absolutely blank. She must have been ready to do something pretty damn dire if it came down to it. Clements didn’t care to imagine what that could be — everyone in the Checquy thought they knew what Thomas’s powers were capable of, but some startling rumors had been going around. For a few moments, the Checquy had teetered on the brink of disaster.
And what would I do, she thought, if some Checquy Pawn did make a move against that girl and her brother? Would I stand between my people and their worst enemy?
And at that moment, she knew she would. She absolutely would. She had been given a task: she was responsible for Odette Leliefeld. If anyone lays a finger on her, they’ll lose it.
“All of us will work together,” the Prime Minister was saying solemnly. “I expect full cooperation between security personnel, the military, elected officials — indeed, every organization represented in this room. Most encouragingly, our new friends in the Broederschap have already pledged their services and their expertise to both track down their treacherous former comrades and assist the victims.” This announcement was met with cautious, measured applause.
“This will take a tremendous amount of organization,” the Prime Minister went on. “Everything will be coordinated through a central authority. It has been decided that my longtime friend Bishop Raushan Attariwala will oversee our efforts, and he, along with the Lady and Lord of the Checquy Group, will be reporting to my office.”