Discount Armageddon

Six

A small semilegal sublet in Greenwich Village, cranky and in pain

RECOVERING THE HEIGHT I LOST during my getaway would have been too much trouble, especially when I could feel the bruises forming as I ran. My left ankle was throbbing steadily, making my footing questionable at best. One of the first rules of successful free running talks about how you do it with injured ankles, wrists, knees, or hips. It’s a simple rule: don’t. It’s a good way to do permanent damage, and unless you’re being chased by a hungry wendigo, no shortcut is worth that.

I found a fire escape three blocks from home that was close enough to the ground to let me finish my descent. I made the rest of the trip on foot. It was late enough that the only people I passed were drunk, homeless, drunk and homeless, or in the middle of traveling from one nightclub to another. None of them gave my outfit, or the blood covering it, a second glance.

The mice had either finished their religious ceremony or moved on to one of the quieter parts of the liturgy. The apartment was silent when I came in, and stayed that way as I dug my phone from my backpack and retrieved the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet. I dropped my windbreaker in the bathtub. I didn’t know whether ahool blood was acidic, but I’d be finding out soon. There was a little blood on my skirt. I stripped it off and threw it into the tub on top of the windbreaker. Then I turned and limped back to the living room.

The couch was covered in last week’s laundry. I swept it onto the floor as I sat down, groaning a little when my bruises brushed against the cushions. Once the aching slowed, I removed my left shoe and rolled down the sock.

The damage was both better than I’d been expecting and worse than I’d been hoping; not an uncommon combination when it comes to me and injuries. I’m pretty resilient. That doesn’t mean I enjoy getting hurt, or the complications that come with it. At least it was all just surface damage; the snare had done a good job of scraping my skin through the sock, but the rope never actually touched me. I slathered the scrapes liberally in antibiotic cream, pasted on some gauze, wrapped an Ace bandage around it, and called it good. As long as I didn’t need to win any foot races or dance any Paso Dobles for the next few days, I’d be fine.

I leaned back into the couch, wincing, and snapped open my phone. If the Covenant was in Manhattan, there was only one reasonable place to call.

Home.

The story of my family winding up in a sprawling farmhouse outside of Odell, Oregon is simple, even though it takes the mice three days to tell. My great-great-grandparents left England and settled in Pennsylvania; the Covenant promptly sent a man to check on them. The family sent him packing and moved inland, to Michigan. The Covenant sent another man to check on them. They didn’t send this one packing. Instead, my grandmother married him.

The family stayed put for a few years, largely due to issues involving a contract with a demon, an open dimensional rift, and preschool, but once the demon finished doing its thing, the survivors weren’t that keen on Michigan anymore. They moved to Oregon. According to the mice, the whole family originally lived in the house where I grew up, which was selected for reasons of geographic isolation and ease of potential defense strategies. I find that concept horrifying. Putting Dad and Aunt Jane in a room together on the holidays is bad enough. Making them share a house should have resulted in homicide. Dad went to Cleveland, met Mom, and brought her home; Aunt Jane went to Portland, met Uncle Ted, and settled down close enough to be a nuisance, yet far enough away that nobody dies.

We don’t really have a family tree at this point; it’s more like a family branch, given the way people keep getting themselves killed or sucked into alternate dimensions that may or may not be capable of supporting human life (the jury’s still out on what happened to Grandpa Thomas, although Grandma Alice insists he’s alive, and my mother raised me never to contradict anyone who regularly carries grenades).

It’s always been assumed that my siblings and I will settle in the Pacific Northwest. It’s not empty nest syndrome: it’s practicality. We’ve lost a lot of family members since Alexander and Enid Healy decided to move to America, and none of their tombstones say things like “died peacefully in her sleep” or “lived a good long life.” If we don’t stick close to home, we don’t make it home.

And people at school used to wonder why I laughed when they tried to tell me how weird their families were.

“Can I help you?” That was all. No hello, no “this is the Price residence, Antimony speaking,” nothing that might encourage the person on the other end of the phone to keep talking. My baby sister wasn’t being rude; that’s how we were taught to handle unexpected callers. There was always the chance that cold call might be someone from the Covenant. Paranoia as a family tradition: it’s not a good one, but it’s ours, and we’re fond of it.

Sarah once asked why we didn’t just change our surname and go all the way into hiding, rather than screwing around with unlisted phone numbers and keeping our heads down. Sarah’s a cryptid, and the concept of not letting the bastards win wasn’t something I could explain to her. She understood hiding. What she didn’t understand was being willing to be found, as long as it was on your own turf and your own terms.

“Hey, Timmy. Is Mom there?”

“Don’t call me Timmy,” said Antimony, the words carrying the distinct stamp of reflex. “Mom’s not home.”

“Not home where? Will she be back soon?”

“Uh, no.” Antimony is three years younger than I am, but what she lacks in age, she constantly makes up for in insulting my intelligence. “Did you miss the part where there’s a big planetary alignment going on? This week is going to be one of the only times of the year where there’s half a chance in hell of getting into, y’know, Hell.”

I groaned. “Mom’s spelunking the Underworld with Grandma, isn’t she?”

“Mom’s spelunking the Underworld with Grandma,” Antimony confirmed.

“Crap.”

The dimensions align between six and fifteen times a year, depending on the position of the stars, whether or not the groundhog saw his shadow, and lots of other mystical crap I’ve never bothered trying to understand. When that happens, there’s an even chance my grandmother will show up demanding ammunition, additional grenades, and a shower. Thanks to the time dilation that happens in most of the layers of the Underworld, she looks like she’s about my age, which gets a little weirder every year, and means she’ll probably still be making these little visits when the house belongs to my grandchildren.

My mother’s unique skills can come in handy in the various layers of the Underworld, and they’re most required when attempting to navigate the Netherworld, a confusingly named subdevelopment that Grandma Alice is convinced borders on the Christian version of Hell. She’s been trying to find her way into that dimension for the past twenty years. There is no cellular network that extends beyond the first three levels of the Underworld. Mom would be out of touch until she got back.

At least Grandma’s field trips were usually entertaining. But it always took weeks to get the smell of sulfur out of my hair.

“Well, if Mom’s in the Underworld, can I talk to Dad?”

Antimony paused. “Verity? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know. Is Dad there?”

“Do you need me to come out there? I can be on the next plane.”

The image of Antimony in Manhattan was enough to bring me stuttering to a horrified stop. She considers pit traps and high explosives the appropriate solution to almost every problem. There was no scenario I could envision where putting her in contact with the Covenant would improve the situation. Elevate it to explosive new heights, possibly, but improve, no.

“I’m good for right now, but I really need to talk to Dad.”

“But—”

“Dad.”

“Oh, fine,” said Antimony, pouring every ounce of scorn she could muster into the word. Putting a hand over the receiver, she shouted, “Dad! It’s your other daughter!”

There was a clunk as my father picked up the extension. “Thank you, Annie. You can hang up now.”

“But I want to know why she’s calling.”

“I’ll brief you later. Hang up now.” He went silent. An old trick: he was waiting for the sound of Antimony hanging up her end of the line. After a few seconds, a click signaled her doing exactly that, and he said, sounding only a little concerned, “Now what’s this about, Very?”

“What makes you think I’m not calling to bask in the loving warmth of my family?” Silence greeted the question. I laughed, more from exhaustion than anything else, and said, “Okay, you win. Dad, do we know anything about a ‘De Luca’ family?”

“Covenant, Spanish branch, joined up about three hundred years after the Healys,” he said, without hesitation. One advantage to having a history nut for a father: if it’s ever encroached on the supernatural world, he probably knows its pedigree. “The last recorded encounter with a member of the family was your great-grandmother, Fran, when she met Jacinta De Luca during a routine sweep of the naga breeding grounds outside Albuquerque. Jacinta was in the process of destroying several nests when—”

“Dad?”

“—she was located, and requests that she—”

“Dad!”

“—stop were met with—what?”

One disadvantage to having a history nut for a father: sometimes it’s hard to keep him focused on what’s actually going on. “That’s not the last recorded encounter.”

“What do you mean?” I could practically hear him frowning. “It’s in her diary, and since there’s no mention in any of the volumes since then—”

“The last recorded encounter happened about a half an hour ago, on a rooftop in Manhattan, between Verity Price and Dominic De Luca.”

Silence.

“He was setting rooftop snares on my route. He may still be setting snares, although if he’s smart, he’s gone home to lick his wounds and write ‘here be dragons’ on his subway map. He killed an ahool! In my city! It wasn’t doing anything wrong! I mean, eventually, sure, but it hadn’t been given the chance!”

More silence.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, thank God for that. Did he ID you?”

“Afraid so,” I said, leaning farther back on the couch. “I lost my temper. It’s hard to remember to play the innocent bystander when you’re hanging by one ankle a couple hundred feet above street level.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing there?”

“The Covenant’s decided Manhattan’s ripe for a purge. I think he’s the only one in town, at least so far, but there’s no guarantee things are going to stay that way. Before you say it, no, I’m not willing to be pulled out of here. I’m still in the middle of my survey, Sarah just got settled at her new hotel, and I promised Dave I’d give at least two weeks’ notice before I left.” I also had an Argentine tango competition in three weeks that could qualify me for Nationals, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I’m not intending to pull you out of there.”

I hesitated. “You’re not?”

“You’re already involved. I’m not going to pull you out just because a member of the Covenant is in town. I will, however, warn everyone that we may be needed for backup, and I’ll email you anything I can find in the records about the De Luca family, their methodology, and any previous Manhattan purges.”

“You’re the best Daddy ever.”

He chuckled. “Let’s see if you’re saying that when you’re getting swarmed by Covenant assassins and wanna-be conquistadors.”

“That’s when I’ll start saying you’re gunning for Father of the Year. Give Mom my love when she gets back from the Underworld.”

“She’d hurt me if I didn’t.”

We exchanged the standard pleasantries and I rang off, feeling considerably better. Sure, I was the one standing at what might be about to turn into ground zero, but if the Covenant took me out, the family would descend on New York in a heavily-armed, extremely irritated wave. None of that would make me any less dead, but it would make me feel better. Besides, if I died, I could be the first person in thirty years to figure out whether Grandpa Thomas is alive or not.

After testing to be sure my ankle was willing to bear my weight, I stood and made my way to the bedroom. Things would look better after a few hours of sleep. Things usually do.

I was on the verge of drifting off when I remembered my earlier determination to eat something healthy. Getting up would have been too much trouble. I rolled over, pulled the blankets over my head, and slipped into the comforting simplicity of sleep.

I opened my eyes to the sound of my alarm blaring a cheerful imitation of a fire siren. I rolled over to smack the snooze button, triggering an ecstatic cry of “Hail the renewed consciousness of the Arboreal Priestess!” from the Aeslin mice surrounding my bed. None of them were on the bed, a fact that I attributed less to politeness than to their admittedly stunted sense of self-preservation. Not even the Aeslin are dumb enough to get too close to someone who sleeps with as many guns as I do.

“The Arboreal Priestess isn’t awake enough for you to hail things,” I informed the congregation. They answered with muted cheers. Sitting up, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and glared at the time displayed on the clock. Nine-thirty in the morning. These double shifts were going to kill me if they went on for much longer.

“Oh, shit,” I said, remembering. “I trashed my uniform socks.” That meant buying a new pair. Dave recommended we all keep backups, but since the socks seemed to get shredded as quickly as I bought them, buying extra just doubled my bill.

“Hail the purchase of the socks!” cried the mice, before dissolving into general rejoicing.

I had to smile. There’s very little that won’t inspire Aeslin mice to religious ecstasy, which is why we’ve kept them around for so long. Having a tiny church choir singing the praises of fixing the garbage disposal does a lot to keep things tolerable. Also, they’re too damn cute to kill, and ecological curiosity generally suppresses any homicidal urges that may get past the “awww” impulse. After living with them for seven generations, we have yet to figure out what Aeslin mice are for.

“Okay, guys,” I said, as I swung my feet around to the floor. “Why am I getting the morning congregation experience? Again, I know this isn’t a major holiday.”

“It is the sixth day of the Month of Do Not Put That in Your Mouth!” proclaimed one of the priests, sounding incredibly pleased about that fact.

It took me a moment to figure out what that meant. The Aeslin schedule their celebrations according to the standard human calendar, but maintain their own calendar for private use. How they keep the two straight is something I will never understand, especially since they celebrate approximately thirty-two months every year. (That really is an approximation. Several of the months are intermittent, and may skip a year or more before making a return engagement. Religious mice are weird.)

“You want cheese and cake, don’t you?” This was the right answer: the room erupted into cheers and jubilation.

I was going to need to get up sooner or later. Probably sooner, if I wanted to make it to work on time. I’m less inclined to take the rooftops when the sun is out—something about not wanting to cause a mob scene when people decide I’m a cat burglar or a masked vigilante—and I didn’t trust my ankle yet. I would have needed to have two broken kneecaps and maybe a dislocated hip before I was willing to take a taxi. It was me and the two-foot express, and that would take time.

I stood, careful to keep myself centered on the bed so I’d fall on something soft if my ankle refused to hold me. There was a twinge of pain and some protests as the bandage scraped against the raw skin, but that was all. I could stand, I could walk, and I could probably even dance, as long as I didn’t expect to be up to competition standards. It was better than it could have been. “I’ll take it,” I said, aloud. The mice greeted what must have seemed like a total non sequitur with more cheering.

That’s the nice thing about Aeslin mice. You don’t have to make sense to keep them happy. You just have to let them worship you unconditionally, move into the attic (or the closet), and occasionally pester you for manna from Heaven. Which, them being physically mostly mouse and all, usually takes the form of dairy products and baked goods. It works out okay.

Once in the kitchen, I dished up plates of flourless chocolate cake, slices of cheese, and soda crackers, cutting a piece of cake for myself and leaning against the windowsill as I ate. The mice made a production number out of breakfast that Disney could have taken some tips from. The dance routine with the soda crackers was a particularly nice touch.

The mice vanished after they finished eating, scurrying off to do whatever it is that they do all day. For the most part, when they’re not underfoot or enacting weird religious tableaus on my counters, they go their way and I go mine. Things are less dangerous that way. I put my plate in the sink, stretched, and sighed. Time to go check my email and see what sort of apocalypse the Covenant was so generously providing me with.

I don’t know how people accomplished anything in the days before email. When I logged into my account, I had three messages from Dad, one from Aunt Jane, and one from Sarah. Sarah wanted to confirm that we were on for dinner; I shot her a note saying I’d be there by eight, and warning her to stay out of dark alleys and subway tunnels. Not that Sarah’s the kind of cryptid who likes to hang around in the places monster hunters tend to frequent, but you can never be too careful.

Dad’s messages managed to be more useful and more worrisome at the same time. We had records of three confirmed Covenant “purges” in the Manhattan area, along with two in New Jersey and six more that weren’t verified but looked likely. They seemed to come through every fifty years or so, spend a summer slaughtering anything they could get their hands on, and then go home, serene in the knowledge that they were doing holy work.

I may sound prejudiced against the Covenant. That’s because I am. They’re a huge society with nigh-infinite resources and access to research materials I can only dream about. So what do they do with all that power and potential? They hunt innocent cryptids for the crime of having been born to a species that didn’t make it onto the “approved” list. There’d be hundreds of special interest groups dedicated to stomping them out if they were hunting panda bears and dolphins. Since they hunt bogeymen and basilisks, they’d probably get a medal if anyone knew that they existed.

Dad’s notes went on to say that the De Lucas were among the worst of a bad lot, since they actually bought the party line about the extermination of cryptids being the will of God. It’s hard to reason with someone who thinks he’s got a holy calling. Violence is sometimes the only answer, and I hate killing people. It’s messy, it’s inconvenient, and while body disposal is surprisingly easy when you know what you’re doing, it’s not a pleasant way to spend an evening. Apparently, most of the De Luca family had already ridden the party line to extinction, since Dad had death records for a whole stack of De Lucas, including “Christabelle and Antonio De Luca” who were survived by their only son, Dominic. Poor guy must have been raised by the Covenant. That was just going to make him more annoying.

Aunt Jane’s letter was a sort of supplement to Dad’s information. He may be the family historian, but she’s the family nosy gossip columnist—a more useful function than you might guess. It helps that my Uncle Ted’s an incubus, which gives her a direct connection to the cryptid community. She’s an honorary succubus, and she gets on all the mailing lists.

According to Aunt Jane, asking her lists “Does anyone know what’s up in New York?” resulted in a positive deluge of information, all of it pointing back to one worrisome conclusion: nobody knew what was going on, and everybody thought it was going to be big, whatever it was. Which explained why the locals weren’t evacuating. Until they knew whether or not there was a problem, they wouldn’t want to risk losing their nesting spots, or deal with cell phone cancellation fees and forwarding their mail.

I printed the messages and stuffed them into my backpack before starting for the bathroom. It was time to get ready for my second shift in twenty-four hours. At least once I got there I could have a little word with my boss about why he hadn’t been clueing me in on gossip that might pertain to my chances of survival.

Wow, all this excitement and minimum wage, plus tips. Who says you can’t make a living in New York City?