She’s very good, thought Myfanwy. Of course, she would have to be. If she’s summoning up these images, the Estate would have made sure she could draw well so that she could show them to other people.
The second picture, however, was the one that made her hands sweat. According to the caption, Clements had recorded his expression at the moment that he’d unleashed the crystals in the bathroom. It was the same look that Myfanwy had seen when he’d stabbed her through the hand and in the back. The gritted teeth, the staring eyes, the expression of exertion. But in this picture, there was a look of satisfaction on his face that made her want to vomit.
“The pursuit is under way?” asked Myfanwy tightly.
“Yes, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid, “but you know we have to be discreet. There’s the fear that if we just started slapping this picture up on television screens and in post offices, we might push him to lash out with his powers in public.”
“If we go public, so might he,” mused Myfanwy. “God, this job is ridiculous. The monsters and the monster-hunters both have to be circumspect. So, what are we doing?”
“We’ve spoken with his family — they’d actually gone to the police and filed a missing-persons report when he didn’t return home after the races. We’ve got Checquy people posted in Northampton and searching the area around Ascot. But honestly, he could have gone anywhere. His car was still in the parking lot, but so many attendees traveled by train, he could be anywhere by now.”
“Hmm. My concern is that, since he knows someone is onto him, he’ll do a Lord Lucan and vanish. Either he’ll go on the run in England or he’ll bolt out of the country. I don’t want this man getting away from us, Ingrid.”
“They’re doing their best, Rook Thomas.”
“I know,” said Myfanwy tiredly.
“Do you want some good news?”
“Desperately.”
“The BBC’s fashion team liked your hat.”
Myfanwy looked up at her in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
Ingrid produced a printout and handed it to her. There, in glorious color, was Myfanwy in her hat. The caption gave no name but described the hat in loving detail. “Oh. Gosh. Does this constitute a security problem?”
“I shouldn’t think so. To be honest, Rook Thomas, no one would recognize you without the hat.”
“Thanks,” said Myfanwy sourly. “Well, that is nice. Remind me to write a thank-you note to that Greek woman who bought it for me.”
“Lisa Constanopoulos.”
“Right. Oh, and she was one of the people who prophesied the amnesia, so it’ll have to be a letter of introduction as well.” The intricacies of etiquette in the supernatural world would make Emily Post stab herself in the heart with a fork, she mused. Admittedly, it would be whichever fork was completely appropriate for the occasion.
*
“I’m afraid that the shooting season won’t start for several months yet,” said Sir Henry. “Pity, too, because we get some excellent pheasant and partridge here at the hall. Still, I thought some sporting clays might be a nice way to spend the morning. Give you a chance to try out the guns.”
Odette held her gun carefully. After breakfast, in the library, Sir Henry had presented her, Marcel, and Ernst each with a long, hard leather case with brass corners. Inside, nestled in red felt, were two shotguns. Made of rich, warm wood and gleaming steel, they were works of art. Intricately scrolled initials had been engraved onto the back metal bit, the name for which Odette didn’t know. It looked like a weapon for royalty.
“Anderson Wheeler,” Sir Henry had said. “Shop in Mayfair. I had them made for you as a welcoming gift. The stock and forend are Turkish walnut, and your initials have been incorporated into the engraving. Lovely things, aren’t they?” Odette touched one of the guns hesitantly. The polished wood was flawlessly smooth under her fingertips. She’d never had anything to do with guns, but these were, quite possibly, the most beautiful gift she’d ever received. They were even nicer than the eyes she’d gotten for her twenty-first birthday or the spleen that Pim had made for her for Valentine’s Day.
“A custom pair of side-by-side twelve-bores for the gents,” Sir Henry had said. “And then I thought a pair of twenty-bores for the lady.” He’d gone on, talking about the guns and pointing out the accessories in the case: cleaning rods, snap caps, an oil bottle, and turnscrews.
Now she was standing on the grass with one of her twenty-bore guns in her hands. She was wearing safety glasses and earmuffs, trying to remember everything the gamekeeper, Pawn Farley, had told her.
“Ready?” asked Farley. She nodded tightly. “Pull!” And the target went flying.
Odette tensed and went into the same sort of trance that she entered while doing microsurgery. Her eyes sharpened and the world jumped into razor clarity. She tracked the disc easily, and the muscles in her arms and shoulders activated. Her gun snapped up, almost automatically, and she squeezed the trigger, felt the gun punch back. The clay pigeon shattered, and everyone applauded.
“Well done!” said Sir Henry. “Very good for a first-timer.”
“I may have cheated a bit, Sir Henry,” she confessed, and she pointed to her eyes. “These are augmented.” He laughed.
“Not to worry,” he said. “We’ve been known to deviate a bit from the standard ourselves. Farley, would you show her?” The gamekeeper nodded.
“Pull!”
The clay disc cut through the air, and the gamekeeper stepped forward. Odette saw him tense his shoulders, and then there was a crackling sound in the air. As they watched, a gray cloud coalesced swiftly around the pigeon. The target grew denser and darker until there was a rough brick of dull iron tumbling through the air. It landed with a muffled thunk, lodging itself in the turf.
“My God,” said Marcel.
“Of course, we don’t do that sort of thing during the pheasant season,” said Sir Henry.
“It upsets the gundogs,” muttered Farley.
“Very impressive,” said Ernst. “May I try? Without the gun?” He handed his shotgun to the startled waiting loader. “As high and as far as you can, please.” The man at the thrower nodded and made some adjustments. “Pull.”
The disc took off, and so did Ernst. His feet tore up the grass as he blurred across the field. The thud of his shoes against the ground was like a drumbeat. He launched himself meters high into the air, pivoted, and kicked the disc into fragments. As they watched, he twisted on the descent and landed, crouching, in the grass, not even puffing.
There was silence, and a hum of tension hung about the party for a moment. It wasn’t clear if a challenge had been made or answered. Then everyone who wasn’t Odette started laughing. She rolled her eyes and carefully took her finger off the second trigger of the gun.
*
“This is it,” said Sander in a tone of deepest satisfaction. Bart looked around suspiciously. They had stopped at a T-junction. In front of them, across the road, was Hyde Park, again. Behind them was the maze of streets and houses that Sander had led them through for hours.
“This is what?”
“The house they’re in; it’s three back on the left. I didn’t want to stop in front of it in case they were watching.”
“You’re certain?” said Laurita.
“Do you want to go sniff the doorstep?” Sander asked tartly. “Yes, I’m certain. Our boy went in there about an hour ago and hasn’t come out. Or at least, he hasn’t come out the front door. There are four others inside, matching the samples we were given.”
Bart nodded. He leaned against a tree and surveyed the road they had just come down. It was lined with tall white houses merging into one another. Behind railings, steps led down to basement entrances. In such houses, neighbors were separated by the thinness of a wall. Sounds might carry through. It was not the ideal place to stage an assault.
“We’ll wait until dark,” he decided. “I’ll alert Marie. We will need the others.”