Discount Armageddon

One

A nightclub in downtown Manhattan

Now

MUSIC PUMPED THROUGH THE CLUB’S SPEAKERS, distorted until it was barely more than a pounding bass line with a sprinkling of grace notes. It was perfect dance music, the kind that makes feet tap and thighs twitch with the need to get up and move. My own feet were tapping. I forced them to stop. There’d be time for that soon enough, but for the moment, waiting was still the name of the game.

I hate waiting.

Sarah had managed to acquire a half-circle booth that was empty except for us. It would have been impossible for anyone else. I’m not even sure she realized she was doing something impressive. I leaned sulkily back in my seat, trying to look casual as I sipped my nonalcoholic “Cosmopolitan”—club soda, grenadine, and a maraschino cherry for that finishing touch—and scanned the dance floor.

“So, Verity, tell me, are you looking for our nasty friend, or are you sizing up the competition?” Sarah’s tone was mild, but I could recognize the warning lurking underneath the question.

“Sorry,” I said, looking guiltily away from the floor.

“Aren’t you always?” Sarah was sitting in the center of the booth, partially so she could lounge nonchalantly against the burgundy vinyl cushions, and partially so she wouldn’t be in the way if I needed to move suddenly. Her choice of seating had the added bonus of keeping the crowd at a distance, since the full length of the table was between her and the rest of the club. Sarah doesn’t like being touched, something that’s generally viewed as a major loss by the male population of whatever city she’s in. She has classical black Irish coloring, with pale skin, thick black hair, and eyes that are an almost perfect ice blue. Add in her svelte figure and delicate features, and it’s no wonder she’s beating the boys off with a stick.

Not that most of them would know how to handle the revelation that she bleeds clear and doesn’t have a heartbeat, but hey, what’s a little inhumanity between friends? Sarah’s family, even if it’s through adoption. And there’s something to be said for bringing a telepath along when you’re hunting rogue cryptids through Manhattan’s hottest party spots. Without her, I would never have been able to get past the velvet rope.

She was still eyeing me. “My mind’s on the job,” I said defensively, plucking the cherry from my drink. “Really. I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Do we have to have the ‘don’t lie to the telepath’ talk again? It won’t take long. I say ‘don’t lie to the telepath, it never works,’ you glare at me, and then you go find something you can hit.”

“Finding something I can hit is the plan.” I popped the cherry into my mouth as I glanced at the dance floor. Mmm, food coloring and sugar. “He’ll show. His patterns have been regular up to now, and this is the next stop on his circuit.”

“Well, I don’t know how much help I’m going to be. Ghoul minds are hard to tell from human minds under the best of circumstances. With this many drunk, horny people in one place, I’d be lucky to spot a serial killer, much less a ghoul.”

“If you do spot a serial killer, let me know. Sitting here is making my feet itch.” My shoes were doing worse than that, but that’s what I get for wearing five-inch heels. They have a practical application—it’s almost impossible for me to pull off a good salsa without heels on. That doesn’t make them comfortable. At least when I was dancing, I had something to distract me from the way they bent my arches.

Neither of us was dressed for comfort. Sarah was playing the bored celebutante, which necessitated that she wear the appropriate “uniform”: a skirt that could double as a belt, a backless silver handkerchief top, and knee-high leather boots. The temptation to snap a few pictures with my phone and mail them to our cousin Artie was almost impossible to resist. His head would probably explode.

Sarah looked miserable. That didn’t matter; no matter how miserable she was, her telepathy would keep everyone around us seeing what they expected to see when they looked our way. Wearing the right things and drinking the right drinks just made it easier, since she didn’t have to work as hard to convince them.

My skirt was slightly longer, but only because it’s borderline impossible to fit a thigh holster under a micromini. I made up for my shameful modesty with a blood-red velvet bustier that looked appropriately scandalous—and better yet, had steel corsetry boning and gave me room for five strategically placed throwing knives. Between those, the steel tips on my heels, and the perfume bottle of holy water in my purse, I was loaded for bear. More accurately, I was loaded for ghoul. This one was hunting in midtown, which is a big no-no, and had killed fifteen girls that we knew of. There were probably more that we’d managed to miss. Not okay.

“If he’s here, he’ll be on the floor,” I said, trying to sound casual.

I could tell from the look on Sarah’s face that she wasn’t buying it, but her sense of telepathic ethics wouldn’t let her admit that. She raised her eyebrow again before sighing and waving toward the floor. “Go. You’ll feel better. I’ll toss up a flare if I pick up on him.”

“You’re the best!” I was out of my seat almost instantly, leaving my drink on the table as I made a beeline for the teeming mass of bodies on the dance floor. Steel-tipped heels can go a long way toward clearing a path, especially when you’re not opposed to “accidentally” stepping on a few toes. The smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and a hundred different perfumes assaulted my nose, making my head swim. I dove into the crowd.

The secret of good club music is the downbeat. Even the world’s worst dancer can’t help picking up a little rhythm when the bass is pumped high enough, and a good DJ can work a crowd like it’s just another kind of musical instrument. This DJ wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t terrible, and that was all I needed. I worked my way past the first tiers of dancers—the ones too drunk, too disinterested, or too interested in looking for a different kind of “dance” to defend their places in the center of the floor—and gave myself over to the beat, letting it tell my body where to go. It didn’t matter that I was there because something was killing club kids in what was currently my city. It didn’t matter that my clothes were Scotchgarded against bloodstains, not sweat. It didn’t even matter that all of my formal training was in the ballroom styles. I was dancing. Everything was going to be okay.

The natural pulse of a good dance floor means the best dancers wind up getting pulled toward the center, sucked inexorably forward as they pass through the ranks of the less invested and the less skilled. I had half a dozen partners within the first five minutes, each trying to catch my eye as they shook whatever they had in my direction. They knew the rules of the floor, and when the tempo of my steps knocked theirs out of the game, they were graceful enough to let me go.

I wound up packed into the place where the circles of dancers compressed to nearly nothing, sharing that coveted spot with three couples, two other single women, and a man about my age who seemed to be comfortable dancing by himself while he sized up his options. He looked like he’d just about settled on one of the women—a lanky brunette in hip-hugger designer jeans—when I hit the circle. His attention shifted, a predatory gleam lighting up his eyes.

Single white male seeks single white female for …what, exactly? I gave him a once-over as he moved toward me, disguising the look with a flirtatious wink. All his clothes were dark, and the fabrics looked naturally stain-resistant. No scars, no tattoos, no jewelry; good-looking in that generic movie extra sort of way. The kind of guy you’d happily dance with for a little while, maybe even follow home if you were in the mood for something nastier than a little grinding.

“Hey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “I haven’t seen you here before. You’re good.”

“You, too,” I shouted back.

“Wanna dance?”

“Sure thing!” That seemed to complete the pleasantries, and it was straight to business for my mystery man. He closed in like a heat-seeking missile, cupping my hips with his hands as he matched his rhythm to mine. A little tacky for a first date, maybe, but that’s nothing for a first dance. I’ve done tangos with men who thought my ass was a squeaky toy. Compared to them, Mr. Mystery was being nothing but polite.

I looked at him more carefully as we writhed around the center circle together, and frowned. His teeth were white, slightly crooked in an adorable way, and normal. He couldn’t be our ghoul. Human flesh is tough to chew, and ghouls who take their dinner straight off the bone inevitably do a number on their choppers. If my dance partner had been a ghoul passing for human, he would have either had perfect dentist-purchased caps or been keeping his lips shut. This wasn’t our guy. I let my body go back on autopilot, scanning the crowd around us.

The normal ebb and flow of dancers continued, people falling back as they got tired or being pushed forward as they caught their second wind. Only the inner circle stayed mostly the same. Emphasis on the “mostly”—one of the couples was leaving, the woman laughing, the man giving a tight-lipped smile that completely hid his teeth.

Shit.

“Oopsie. I think I drank too many martinis. I need to go puke,” I said, and ducked away from a startled Mr. Mystery, shoving my way after the departing ghoul and the woman who was about to be his next victim. It was easier to get out than in, mostly because there were so many dancers happy to take my place, and to shove me farther toward the edge of the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of my former dance partner as he turned his attention to a redhead in a sparkly tube top, already forgetting about me. Oh, well. He wasn’t that hot.

Who was I kidding? He was insanely hot, and I haven’t been able to finish dancing with a guy—or “dancing” with a guy—since I got to New York. Still, with a woman in immediate mortal peril, this wasn’t the time to worry about my love life. I kept moving forward. I was surrounded enough that there was no way Sarah would pick up on my mental distress call, and it’s not like she could do anything about it if she did. Sarah’s not a fighter. All she really knows how to do is sit calmly and camouflage herself until the trouble goes away.

I finished pushing my way off the dance floor and stopped to scan the club, searching for my quarry. I finally spotted them by the front door, him helping her into her coat, her grinning ear to ear. Such a gentleman. Only once he got her outside and alone, all those good manners would go right out the window.

Out the window. Grabbing the nearest waitress by the shoulder, I gasped, saying with what I hoped was believable panic, “I wait tables at Dave’s. I called in sick tonight, and the boss’ asshole assistant just walked in. Is there another way out of here?”

Her initial irritation died when I invoked waitress solidarity. “The fire escape’s behind the DJ,” she said. “If he says anything, tell him Liz sent you.”

“Thank you, thank you!” I let her go and turned to run for the DJ. If I hurried, I just might make it before things got bloody.

If there was going to be gore, I wanted it on my own terms.

The DJ was so caught up in his groove that he never even looked up as I ran past him, shouldered open the fire escape door, and slipped out into the hot Manhattan night. Since the club was below street level, the fire escape was actually a steel stairway leading up to the street behind the club, which was narrow and grubby enough to have been considered an alley anywhere else in the world. Manhattan is not a city with space to spare.

I grabbed the rail and pulled myself along, careful to keep my heels from hitting the steps. Stealth isn’t one of my strong suits, but it has its place. Not that I needed to try all that hard; the music inside was loud enough that it was thumping through the wall, providing the outside world with a skeletal downbeat.

The street behind the club ran between two other, larger streets. As I watched, the ghoul came walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand with his date-slash-dinner. I tensed, ready to run after them. I never had the opportunity. The woman tugged at the ghoul’s arm, possibly in reaction to something he said, and started leading him toward the street where I was waiting.

It’s always nice when the thing you’re hunting decides to walk straight into an ambush. I waited for them to get close enough that he wouldn’t be able to run without me catching him. Then I stomped up the steps, my earlier attempts at stealth abandoned in favor of making as much noise as possible. “There you are, you pig!” I shouted, leveling a finger at his chest. “Cindy told me she saw you here, but I thought she was just fucking around with me again. How dare you?!”

The ghoul stared at me with gratifying surprise. His nightly order of club kid takeout, on the other hand, stepped away from him like he’d been set on fire. That wasn’t a bad idea. Too bad I didn’t have any matches. “You have a girlfriend?” she demanded, ignoring me in favor of glaring at the ghoul.

“Girlfriend?” I echoed, planting my hands on my hips. “Honey, he’s married.”

That was all I had to say. “You asshole,” she said witheringly, and slapped him hard across the face before turning to stalk away, all drunken indignation. She’d be back on the dance floor within ten minutes, hunting for a guy who wasn’t cheating on someone. I know the type. Hell, I’ve been the type, when I wasn’t working.

The ghoul watched her go, his shocked expression transforming slowly into anger. He swung his head around to face me, eyes narrowed. “You just made a big mistake, little girl. I wasn’t in the mood for blonde tonight.”

“Aw, too bad for you.” I simpered, tucking my hands behind me in a cutesy-pie gesture that concealed the act of drawing the knives from the back panel of my bustier. “See, this is how things are going to work tonight. I’m going to tell you to get out of town, just as fast as you can, and you’re going to agree with me. Won’t that be fun?”

“I have a better idea,” said the ghoul, and grinned. It was a horrible sight. Most of his teeth were blackened and broken, some all the way down to the gum line. He’d grow a new set in pretty short order—ghouls are like sharks, they’re constantly teething—but for the moment, he was basically gumming his victims to death. Not a good way to go. “I’m going to make sure there’s not enough of your body left for your family to identify.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Not the most original line in the world, but originality is secondary to not getting eaten when I’m in the field. I pulled my hands from behind my back and fell into a relaxed starting position, knives ready for throwing. “Come on, big guy. Let’s dance.”

A flicker of consternation crossed his face as he took in my reaction. Then it faded, and he lunged.

You’d think the predators of the world would eventually learn that it’s not a good idea to charge the sort of person who brings throwing knives to a dance club. Then again, if they were smart enough for that, they’d be smart enough to figure out that eating humans is a bad idea. You need meat, go to a steakhouse. You need it raw, go for sushi. But if you think your local nightclub is the place to go for an easy meal, you’d better be ready to pay for it. My first knife caught him in the forearm while he was in mid-lunge. My second knife killed what little was left of his forward momentum when it hit the inside of his leg, just above his left knee.

He went down hard.

Ghouls are badass hunters when all they’re dealing with is drunk, unarmed party girls, but they’re no match for somebody who knows what she’s doing. He was still trying to decide whether he wanted to clutch his knee, his arm, or both when I delivered a hard kick to his ribs, rolling him onto his back. I promptly placed one foot on his breastbone, keeping him there.

“Hi,” I said, pulling the gun from my thigh holster and aiming it at his face. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Verity, and you’re leaving.”

“What are you, Covenant?” he snarled.

“Worse,” I said, pressing my weight down a bit harder on his chest. He moaned as my steel-tipped heel bit into his skin. “I’m a Price. You’re interfering with my ecosystem. Two choices, buddy. Out of the city and off the humanitarian diet, or down into the sewers to feed the mole people. What’s your preference?”

Naturally, he chose to live another day, swearing he’d never touch living human flesh again. We’d never tangled with him before, so the family code said I had to let him off with a stern warning. If we heard about him so much as thinking the words “long pork” ever again, we’d come down on him so hard he’d barely have time to shit himself before he shuffled off this mortal coil. I was feeling generous, and he hadn’t actually managed to bleed on me. I told him he had forty-eight hours to get out of New York City entirely.

My name is Verity Price. I’m a cryptozoologist. And this is why I can never get a goddamn date on a Saturday night.