Midnight Blue-Light Special

Nine

A semilegal sublet in Greenwich Village, twenty minutes and a lot of shouting later

“OKAY, DADDY,” I said, over the sound of my mother and father yelling at each other, and my little sister yelling at no one in particular. Sometimes I think Antimony yells just so she won’t feel left out. “Daddy? Okay. I’m hanging up now. Uncle Mike says the pot roast is almost ready, and I haven’t had anything to eat today.”

“Why are you eating pot roast?” demanded Antimony. “It’s not even lunchtime yet!”

“We’re probably going nocturnal for the duration, and shut up. You think cold pizza is a breakfast food,” I said.

“Only if you put Captain Crunch on it,” she replied.

There was a moment of silence as all of us considered this. Even the mice stopped their chattering, although they were probably less horrified than reverent. Finally, my mother said, “I want you to listen to your uncle, Verity. I know you’re supposed to be doing your journeyman studies, and I wouldn’t dream of impinging on your independence, but there’s being independent, and then there’s being stupid. If you get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you.”

The idea that she wanted me to just hand my city over to Uncle Mike stung. Still, she was probably right, and so I forced the rancor from my voice as I said, “I know, Mom. We’re going to relocate soon—and no, I’m not telling you where we’re going. I’ll keep in touch via email as much as I can.”

“I’ve left a message for your grandmother, but I haven’t heard back yet. She’s in one of the border worlds right now, and she may not get back in time to help you,” said Dad. He didn’t push the issue of where we were going. He knew as well as I did that when you try to drop off the grid, the fewer people who know your location, the better. “The same goes for your Aunt Mary. The routewitches say they’ll notify her if she pops up on their radar, but . . .”

“It’s okay, Daddy. I have Sarah, the gang from work, and Uncle Mike. We’ll be fine.” My paternal grandmother, Alice Price-Healy, spends most of her time wandering around various parallel dimensions looking for her missing husband, Thomas Price. The rest of us are pretty sure he’s dead, but try telling that to a woman who’s abandoned everything she ever cared about for the sake of bringing her true love home. As for Aunt Mary, we know she’s dead—she’s been a crossroads ghost since she was run off the road in 1937. Not that it’s slowed her down any. Like Uncle Mike and Aunt Lea, she’s not actually a relative, but she fills the same ecological niche, and ghosts are always fun at Halloween parties.

“I’m still not happy about leaving you there on your own,” Mom said.

“I know, Mom, but I really do need to go, or we’re not going to have time to eat before we have to go and negotiate for a new place to hole up. Email if you’re sending anyone else. I won’t be here to meet them.”

We exchanged our farewells—even Antimony sounded worried about my well-being, which was sort of terrifying—and I ended the call, triggering more cheering from the mice. This discussion was probably about to become a permanent part of their religious canon—the Holy Ritual of the Phone Call Home. I sighed, but I didn’t tell them to shut up. This sort of thing was the whole reason I had a colony in Manhattan with me.

Mice—especially intelligent, tool-using mice—are hard to kill, and it would practically take a nuclear strike to wipe out the entire colony. If things went wrong and I didn’t make it out of the city, the Aeslin mice who lived with me would be my little black box. They would tell my family what happened, because they would be the only ones who’d been there.

With that particularly cheerful thought in mind, I turned and walked back to the kitchen, where Uncle Mike was busy carving his roast. I stopped in the doorway, not wanting to crowd the large man with the knife. “Did you hear all that?”

“Every word,” he said, and held his knife out toward me, a chunk of steaming red meat impaled on the tip. “It’s too bad we can’t get Mary out here. She’d be great for recon work.”

“Right up until she got exorcised,” I replied, and plucked the piece of roast from the knife, popping it into my mouth. I made appreciative noises as I chewed, and flashed him a thumbs up.

“Pot roast is easy,” he said, dismissing the praise. He still looked pleased. “You should try my lasagna.”

I swallowed. “Maybe next time we have a few days in the same place without the specter of imminent death looming overhead.”

“That’d be a change, huh?” He opened a cupboard, and frowned. “Where do you keep your Tupperware?”

“I mostly live out of takeout containers,” I said. “I don’t even know if there is Tupperware.”

“I don’t know how you haven’t starved to death, I honestly don’t.” He pulled a roll of tin foil from the cabinet above the stove. “What’s our next move?”

“Head for the Freakshow. A bunch of the dragons work there. I can ask them about renting the old Nest.”

“How much authority do they have?”

I smiled a little, leaning over to snatch another piece of roast. “Well, one of them is the current Nest-mother and first wife of their male, so I’d say they have plenty of authority.”

Mike paused and blinked at me. Finally, he said, “When you decide to mess with the status quo, you don’t think small, do you?”

“Not really.” Prior to discovering William asleep under Manhattan, everyone in the cryptozoological community had assumed that the dragons were extinct, and that the dragon princesses were the cryptid equivalent of oxpecker birds—a species of symbiotic hangers-on who had evolved to live alongside the dragons, and didn’t know what to do with themselves once their hosts died off. Finding out that dragon princesses were really female dragons changed everything . . . except for the dragons themselves, who continued on their single-minded path toward total control of the world’s gold supply.

Now that the old Nest wasn’t necessary for the safety of the Manhattan colony, Candy would probably let us use it, as long as we paid what she considered a fair price. If we talked to her at the Freakshow, I could get Kitty to arbitrate, and make sure that Candy’s “fair price” didn’t wind up being something that would bankrupt my entire family for the next hundred years.

“You Price girls, I swear.” Mike produced a loaf of bread from one of the brown paper bags clustered on the counter. “I’m going to pack some roast to go and make a few sandwiches. You’re too thin. Then we should get moving. I want to be out of here by nightfall.”

“Works for me.” We’d have to come back to the apartment at least once. I wouldn’t be crushed if I wound up leaving the majority of my possessions behind—it would sting, but I’ve done worse. There was no way that we could move the mice without having a place to move them to.

And there was no way we could move the mice at all without their permission. I turned and walked down the hall to the linen closet, leaving Mike to his roast. The mice who had been in the living room followed me, cheering again as I opened the closet door.

Most of the closet was taken up by a modified Barbie Dream House. All the windows had been punched out and replaced by wooden scaffolding, which twisted around and around the house like a ribbon around a maypole. The pink paint was entirely gone, covered by a thick coat of gunmetal gray nail polish. The mice had done that part themselves. All I provided was the heavy lifting.

I knelt, putting myself on a level with the top windows of the Pantheistic Cryptid Mouse Dream House. “I request audience with the Head Priest,” I said. “I don’t have any cheese, or cake, but there’s pot roast in the kitchen, and we’ll share.”

For once, there was no cheering. Instead, the mice sat silently, and more tiny rodent faces appeared in the other windows, all of them waiting to see what was going to happen next. Finally, a white-whiskered mouse with a squirrel’s skull atop his head stepped laboriously out onto the scaffold in front of that top window.

“Your audience is granted,” he squeaked, in a voice that used to be sonorous—by mouse standards, anyway—and now barely carried past the lintel of the closet. “What do you require, O Arboreal Priestess?”

Aeslin mice live a long time by normal rodent standards, but their lives are short by human standards. I remembered when this Head Priest was young and vital, and full of potentially blasphemous ideals. I grew up, and he grew old. There would be a new Head Priest soon. That knowledge made me deeply sad. “The Covenant of St. George is here,” I said.

He nodded. “I know. The God of Questionable Motivations is one of theirs, at least in body, if not in heart or mind.”

I decided not to think about that too hard. “They know where we live. They have this address.”

“Ah,” he said, sagely. “You are here to tell me that we must leave this pleasant home and move to somewhere new, that we might survive to carry the gospel to another generation.”

“Something like that,” I said. “Can the colony pack up and be ready by tonight? We want to move as soon as possible. It’s not safe here anymore.”

“If I tell them we must go, they will be ready,” he said. He reached out one grizzled paw, clearly beckoning. I held my hand out to him, and he placed his paw gently on the tip of my index finger. “Do not trouble yourself with us, Priestess. We exist only to serve.”

“You do a damn good job,” I said. “Get them ready. I’ll leave the pot roast outside the closet, so you can provision yourselves for the trip.”

“So shall it be,” he said, and pulled his paw away. I withdrew my hand and stood, recognizing a dismissal when I saw one. The rest of the mice ran into the closet before I could close the door, swarming up the scaffolding as they fought to get into the best position to hear the coming sermon.

He was already beginning to speak when I shut the closet door and turned away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but from the cheers of the other mice, it was something stirring and inspirational, at least to them. I shook my head and walked back to the kitchen.

“That seemed to go well,” said Mike, handing me a roast beef sandwich.

“We’re going to get them all killed,” I replied. “I don’t know where they get that much faith in us.”

“Same place anybody gets faith in anything, I guess,” he said, and shrugged. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Come on. Let’s go see a dragon about an apartment.”

Mike’s car was parked a block down the street from my apartment, where I would have seen it if I hadn’t come in via the rooftops. It was a black Lincoln sedan, and it would be practically invisible in the traffic of any major city. I paused, eyeing it.

“Did you trade in the other car?” I asked.

“Always stay two years behind the times,” he replied, clicking the button to unlock the doors. “Any newer, looks like you’ve got money, you become a viable target. Any older, you risk sticking out. Two years is the sweet spot.”

“I’m assuming that means ‘yes,’” I guessed. “See, I avoid that problem by never driving anywhere.”

“Not all of us want to be Batgirl when we grow up,” said Mike, and got into the driver’s seat. There was nothing to do at that point but get in on my side, and trust him not to kill us horribly.

(To be fair, Uncle Mike is an excellent driver. He has to be, if he wants to stay alive in Chicago, which seems to have been outfitted with more than its fair share of hitchhiking ghosts, phantom roadsters, demonically possessed convertibles, and idiots who don’t know how to use their turn signals. There are cities that just reinforce my decision not to get a driver’s license. Chicago may not be at the top of the list, but it’s right on up there. The first two cities on the list are Los Angeles, for obvious reasons, and Warsaw, Indiana, for less obvious ones.)

“So how’s things with the dancing?” asked Mike, as he steered us around a double-decker bus full of tourists who were gawking, for no apparent reason, at a street mime. Tourists are weird. If you can accept that, everything about New York starts making infinitely more sense. “Lea and I both voted for you every night while you were on TV, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said, touched. “That’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”

“Hey, it was our pleasure. You’re pretty good, you know that?”

“I’m aware.” I wasn’t bragging. I just wasn’t arguing with him. There was no point in false modesty: pretending you don’t understand your own skills is a good way to get yourself killed when you’re out in the field, and once you’ve given up on underestimating yourself in one area, you might as well give it up entirely. “The dancing is going . . . I mean, it’s going, I guess. I spend as much time on it as I can, but other things keep getting in the way, and a lot of the time, they seem way more important. So I guess it’s not going as well as I hoped it would be by now, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” He made a right turn, following the silent instructions of his car’s GPS. “I used to want to be a bartender, you know.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s the perfect job. You mix a few drinks, you listen to people’s problems, you get smiled at by pretty girls, and at the end of the night, unless you have a drinking problem, you get to leave it all behind and go back to a nice little apartment where nothing’s lurking in your closet to rip your guts out. It seemed pretty much ideal if you asked me.”

Like most of us, Uncle Mike is a hereditary cryptozoologist. His family didn’t start with the Covenant—in fact, they didn’t even know that cryptids existed until after they’d settled in Chicago, when there was some sort of an incident involving his great-grandfather, a hungry river hag, and my great-grandparents, Frances and Jonathan Healy. At the end of it, they had a dead river hag and a new associate, Arturo Gucciard. He raised his kids knowing about the cryptozoological world, and his kids did the same with theirs, leading us, three generations later, to me and Mike, driving through downtown Manhattan.

“I didn’t know this wasn’t always what you wanted,” I admitted. “What changed?”

“I met Lea. Realized I couldn’t trust that other people would always keep her safe—no offense to you or your family, but since you split out of Michigan, it’s not like you’re exactly the folks next door, you know?”

“No offense taken.”

“I wanted to make sure things stayed safe for her, and that meant staying a part of the community. Besides, it turns out that I’m pretty good at monster hunting and cryptid social work. It’s hard to fit on a résumé. It still keeps the bills paid, and it keeps my wife nice and breathing, which is a priority for me.”

“Yeah.” I leaned back in my seat, sighing. This seemed like an odd time for a heart-to-heart—Covenant, eminent danger, possible purge—but Manhattan traffic doesn’t respect dramatic tension. We’d get there when we got there, and not a minute before. “I want to dance. I mean, it’s what I’ve wanted my whole life. But it’s a daylight career, and so much of what we do happens at night. I’ve missed three competitions, I’ve had to stop working as a dance instructor . . . I don’t know. I’m just not seeing how I can make both things work at the same time, and if I have to choose one over the other . . .” I stopped.

Mike chose cryptozoology for Lea. I could do the same for Sarah and Ryan and Istas and the mice—all the people that I cared about who didn’t fall on the “human” side of the fence. Even my cousin Artie and Uncle Ted, although they had Aunt Jane to make sure nothing came after them. But dance was what I loved. How long would I be able to go without resenting everyone I cared about if I felt like they had forced me to give up the thing that I loved most in the world?

Uncle Mike patted my knee as he pulled into a parking space that had just opened up on the block across from the Freakshow. He neatly cut off a taxi in the process, and the driver leaned hard on his horn, shouting obscenities that were drowned out by the noise. I smiled a little. Uncle Mike smiled back.

“You’ll figure it out, Very,” he said, turning off the engine. “You think you’re the first one who didn’t want to grow up and take over the family business? Hell, your daddy didn’t always want it. He was going to teach history. And my grandpa used to say that your great-grandpa Johnny wanted to be a librarian.”

“Great-Grandpa was a librarian,” I said.

“That was his daytime job. He never made it out of Buckley, because his real job was in those woods, with your great-grandma. They figured it out. So will you.”

I frowned. “Has anyone ever figured out that what they really want to do is walk away and have that daylight job all by itself, forever?”

“No,” said Mike. “Come on. Let’s go meet your boss.”

The dragon from before was no longer in the ticket booth. She had been replaced by a more familiar, less friendly face: Istas, who was sitting calmly behind the glass, stitching another layer of lace onto the edge of her parasol as she waited for a paying customer to demand her attention. I rapped on the edge of the booth. She lifted her head and frowned, eyes narrowing.

“Why are you on the ground?” she demanded. Her gaze flicked to Uncle Mike, who was standing behind me and trying politely not to loom. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I’m five-two, and almost any adult male will wind up looming over me if he stands too close. “Who is this man?” Her expression brightened slightly, although the frown remained, which was a neat trick. “Are you being held against your will?”

“No,” I said quickly, skipping pleasantries in favor of stopping Istas before she could decide to disembowel my uncle. “Istas, this is Mike Gucciard, a friend, associate, and honorary member of my family. Uncle Mike, this is Istas, one of my coworkers.”

“It’s a pleasure,” said Mike, giving Istas a thoughtful look. Istas looked unflinchingly back.

This is Istas: picture a drop-dead gorgeous Inuit girl, about five-six, and roughly an American size sixteen. Now give her a wardrobe entirely based on the concept that one can never have too much lace, too many ribbons, or too many puffy skirts. She’s possibly the only waheela in the world devoted to the Gothic Lolita school of fashion, which means she’s almost certainly the only waheela in the world who regularly wears her hair in spiral-curled pigtails.

“Waheela?” he asked finally.

“Yes,” replied Istas, without batting an eye. “Human?”

Waheela come from the upper reaches of Canada, where they normally spend their days running around in the shape of huge man-eating wolf-bear things, and view dried blood, unspecified muck, and the occasional half-tanned hide as perfectly acceptable wardrobe choices. They aren’t very friendly, and no one really gets too upset about that. As members of her species go, Istas is practically a social butterfly. There are days when she not only talks to six whole people, she manages not to threaten any of them.

Uncle Mike nodded. “At least that’s what my parents tell me.”

“We’re going to go inside,” I said, before the two of them could start comparing family trees. “Is Kitty in her office?”

“I believe so.” Istas resumed stitching lace to her parasol. From a predator, that was a serious compliment. She didn’t feel the need to watch me while we talked. Insisting on eye contact would have been a lot more worrisome. Sometimes, dealing with cryptids is all about understanding the social cues they don’t share with the human race. “She has said that she will be remaining here as much as possible while she prepares for a siege. Angel is at the Costco, buying things.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “See you.”

“Probably,” Istas agreed, and kept sewing.

“Come on,” I said, and led Mike past the bouncer on the door, into the canvas-draped hallway beyond. He came quietly, looking around as we walked. I felt the sudden urge to start justifying my place of work, explaining how it wasn’t as bad as it looked and how really, Kitty’s design choices were completely reasonable and understandable. I swallowed it and kept walking. The Freakshow was what it was. If Mike had a problem with that, nothing I said would change it.

We stepped through the last doorway into the main club. Mike stopped, blinking. I followed his gaze to the floor. The lunch rush was over; the people who were left were the truly devoted, the deeply bored, and the ones with no place better to go. A few waitresses circulated, but most of them were clustered near the bar, where Ryan and Daisy were busily setting out the remains of the appetizers they’d over-prepared for the lunch crowd. Marcy was eating a bowl of gravel with whipped cream and what looked like kitty litter on top. Carol was taking mincing bites from a buffalo wing. She’d given several bones to her hair, and the tiny serpents were fighting over them.

“Wow,” said Mike, finally. “You know, Very, from what your mother told me, this isn’t what I was expecting.”

I winced. “It’s not?”

“No. This is amazing.” He shook his head, turning toward me. “Lea would love this place.”

“Well, once New York is no longer being threatened by the Covenant, you’ll have to bring her for a visit. I can even let you guys use my staff discount. Come on.” I started down the stairs, waving to the crowd at the bar. Most of them waved back, but kept eating. Breaks are rare, precious things in food service; breaks that come with free snacks are only to be surrendered if you have no other choice.

Ryan cast a wary look toward Uncle Mike and raised his voice to call across the music, “Hey, Very. You need anything?”

“That’s concerned friend-ese for ‘do I need to break this guy’s legs for you,’” I said, just loud enough for Uncle Mike to hear me. Louder, I called, “No, I’m good. I’ll come back for introductions in a sec. Is Kitty in her office?” A few of the patrons looked our way, and then turned disinterestedly back to their drinks or their perusal of the bored-looking dancers on the main stage. I made a mental note to talk to Kitty about punching up the quality of our midday entertainment.

“I think so,” said Ryan, still watching Mike with suspicion.

I decided to cut this off before there could be some kind of “emergency” that caused him to come charging in to Kitty’s office while we were trying to explain what I needed from the dragons. I gestured for Mike to follow as I approached the bar. Once I was close enough that I no longer needed to raise my voice, I gestured to Mike, and said, “Ryan, this is my Uncle Mike, who is not with the Covenant, but is here to help me keep us all from getting killed. Also, he made me a pot roast, and stood over me while I ate a sandwich.”

“An entire sandwich?” asked Ryan, who knew far too much about my occasionally spotty eating habits.

“Yup.” I looked toward Mike. “Uncle Mike, this is Ryan, our bartender and bouncer. He’s also Istas’ boyfriend, which means he’s either insane or preternaturally patient, and he makes a mean cocktail.”

“We’ll have to trade tips some time.” Mike extended his hand to Ryan, who took it, too surprised to do anything else. They shook. “Nice establishment you’ve got here. Now if you’ll excuse us, my niece and I have to see a bogeyman about a room.”

Carol gave another bone to her hair, which hissed happily and set about stripping off the last shreds of meat. “Your family’s coming to town?” she asked. “Are things that serious?”

I realized that all the other waitresses were staring at me—and that none of them were human. I owed them the truth. “Not yet,” I said. “Uncle Mike’s my only backup so far, because we don’t know that I’m going to need any more than that. We just want to talk to Kitty about some tactical issues. I promise, nobody’s going to start killing anybody else without me giving you a heads-up about things. Okay?”

Carol and the other waitresses looked dubious, but finally she nodded, and the others followed suit. The only ones who didn’t look unhappy about the situation were the snakes that made up Carol’s hair. They kept stripping the meat off of chicken bones, entirely oblivious to the danger that we were all in.

“Come on, Uncle Mike,” I said, and waved to Ryan before grabbing Mike’s wrist and pulling him with me toward the door to the staff area. He’d stay if I let him, trying to put everyone at ease and get them all comfortable with the idea of his presence. That was just the kind of guy he was. It was part of what made him so good at his job, and why he and Lea could hold Chicago essentially on their own. The trouble was we didn’t have time.

He knew it, too, because he let himself be pulled out of the main club and into the staff area. I was getting pretty tired of making this particular trek. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to do it too many more times. Somehow, I wasn’t going to bank on that.

It felt like everyone who worked in the Freakshow was in the building, even the ones who weren’t supposed to be on duty for hours. Some of them were carrying backpacks, coolers, and even camping gear. They were settling in for the long haul. I didn’t see any dragons, but everyone else seemed to be present, from the near-human to the barely-there. It was like walking through one of George Lucas’ fever dreams, only a little more coherent, and a lot less prone to head-tentacles.

“Was that a Pliny’s gorgon?” muttered Mike, as we walked toward Kitty’s office.

“Yup,” I said mildly. “His name’s Joe. Don’t let him make you coffee.” I kept walking. (There are three major subspecies of gorgon. Representatives of two of them worked at the Freakshow. If Kitty ever hired a greater gorgon, she’d be able to declare some form of weird cryptid bingo and win absolutely nothing but the knowledge that she had a lot of venomous people on her staff.)

Kitty was sitting at her desk with the door open when we reached her office. She didn’t have her darks on, maybe because with this many people around, she would have just been turning them off every five seconds anyway. I knocked on the doorframe. She looked up, and blinked twice—first at the sight of me, and then at the sight of Uncle Mike. Unfamiliar humans weren’t exactly what you’d call “common” in the back halls of the Freakshow. “Can I help you with something?” she asked. There was a wary note in her voice, and she didn’t stand up. One of her out-of-sight hands was probably on the panic button, ready to summon security if I looked even a little bit distressed.

Funny as that would have been, I liked all our bouncers too much to pit them against my uncle. “Kitty, this is my Uncle Mike. He’s in town to help with the Covenant situation. We need to ask you for a favor.”

Kitty blinked again. Then she stood, revealing the bright yellow robe she’d put on over her Super Grover pajamas, and walked to the office door to offer Mike her hand. He took it and shook, not flinching at the strange way her fingers bent. (Bogeymen have extra knuckles, the better to creep you right the hell out when they grab your ankles in the dark. It makes shaking hands with them a little bit disturbing, since it feels like you’re breaking fingers no matter how many times you adjust your grip.)

“Katherine Smith,” she said. “You can call me ‘Kitty,’ everyone else does.”

“Michael Gucciard,” he responded. “You can call me Mike. Thank you for having me here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I had a choice?”

Mike laughed, reclaiming his hand. “Well, ma’am, technically I suppose you could tell me that my services were not required at this time and follow it up by asking me to get the hell out of your city. But that might be a bad idea, given the rest of the situation. I don’t think the Covenant of St. George is going to be that easy to get rid of.”

“If only,” said Kitty. She turned to me. “What’s the favor?”

“The Covenant knows where I live,” I said, not bothering with prevarication. “I need to move someplace secure, where I won’t be endangering anyone else—which means I can’t stay here. Can you help me convince Candy to let me rent the old Nest for the duration?”

“What?” Kitty stared at me. “This is your favor? You want me to help you negotiate with a dragon? Are you planning to sell a few kidneys to help finance this little plan?”

“I found them the first male they’ve seen in centuries. I’m hoping that will keep the interest rates down. As for the rest, that’s where you come in. They’ll give me a fairer deal if you’re sitting in on the negotiations.”

Kitty snorted. “Says you. I know bogeymen have a reputation for striking a hard bargain, but there’s loan-sharking, and then there’s whatever it is the dragons do.”

“You employ most of the dragons in the city. If they piss you off enough, they don’t get paid anymore. Besides which, if the Covenant catches me and starts putting me through information extraction, they might find out where the new Nest is. More importantly, they might find out about William.” I bared my teeth in something that bore very little resemblance to a smile. “I think the dragons would really prefer that I not be that easy to catch, don’t you?”

“Remind me never to play poker with you,” said Kitty. She turned and walked back to her desk, where she hit a button on her phone. “Daisy? It’s Kitty. Can you please find Candy and send her to my office? Verity’s here, and we need to talk about something.”

“Sure thing, Kitty,” said Daisy.

Kitty removed her finger from the phone. “All done,” she said. “Now we just have to wait.”

We didn’t have to wait for long. Invoking my name and the phrase “we need to talk” in the same sentence had obviously been enough to light a fire under Candy, because she came speed walking down the hall toward Kitty’s office less than five minutes later. She was wearing street clothes, rather than her waitressing gear: yoga pants, an Old Navy tank top, and a pair of scuffed sneakers that were probably bought off the back of a truck somewhere in the Garment District. Dragons don’t believe in spending money on things like brand name clothing. Not when they could be spending money on more important things, like gold.

Not that they need nice clothes to be devastatingly gorgeous. Whatever quirk of evolution decided that dragon females should look like human women really went all-out on their physical design: I’ve never seen a dragon who didn’t look like a super model, although they tend to be a modern size ten to fourteen, which makes them a little less high fashion than they were fifty or five hundred years ago. Since dragons only want to attract human men long enough to empty their wallets, I’m not sure the dragons have noticed—or that they really care. Candy was characteristic for her species, with a curvy figure, long, naturally golden hair, enormous blue eyes, and the sort of roses-and-cream complexion that has launched a thousand cosmetic campaigns.

She was also, judging by the way her belly curved under her tank top, at least two months pregnant. “That’s why you’ve been keeping your corset on all the time lately, isn’t it?” I asked, indicating her middle. “You don’t want it to interfere with your tips.”

Candy glared at me. From her, that was practically a warm welcome. “Who is this?” she demanded, jabbing a finger at Mike. Then she turned her glare on Kitty. “I’m not on duty yet. You have no right to claim my time.”

“I started paying you for today as soon as I called for you,” Kitty smoothly replied. “And any time you spend talking to Verity is not coming out of your breaks or lunchtime. Talk long enough, you could get paid for hours of doing basically nothing. Don’t you think that’s worth coming on the clock a little early?”

“Normally, I would love to improve relations with the dragons by helping you get money for nothing and your kicks for free, but I don’t have hours to do basically nothing,” I said, flashing Kitty a grateful look. “Candy, this is Michael Gucciard, my uncle. He’s here from Chicago to help me deal with the Covenant while they’re in town. We’d like to get them out of town before anybody gets hurt. I need your help.”

Candy eyed me suspiciously. “What kind of help did you have in mind?”

“I want to rent the old Nest.”

Whatever answer Candy had been expecting, it wasn’t that: her eyes widened, genuine shock showing through before her expression hardened again and she snapped, “Absolutely not. It’s out of the question.”

“Why?”

“What if the Covenant follows you there? Then what?”

“It’s not connected to your new Nest in any way. There’s not even a tunnel between the two of them. You’re not going to move back there, not with William stuck under the city, and you’re not going to find a way to move William while the Covenant is in town. Dominic knows where I live, Candy, and that means that the Covenant knows—I hope he won’t tell them, but I can’t be sure.” I looked at her earnestly. “If you want me to be here to fight the Covenant for you, I need to be sure that they can’t just stroll in and take me out. That means I need to be somewhere safe. Secure. Solid. I need the Nest.”

“It’s ours,” she snapped.

“I don’t want to buy it. I just want to rent it.”

“And you’re going to rent it to her, Candy, for a reasonable amount,” said Kitty suddenly. We both turned to look at her. “It’s a large building, entirely uninhabited—say five thousand a month? Would that be acceptable to the both of you?”

“Well—” I began, doing a quick mental review of my finances. I was supposed to be self-sufficient while I was in New York, but this was the sort of thing where I could get money from my family if I needed it. The only question was how much, and how fast.

“It’s fine,” said Mike.

I felt a flash of resentment. I should be grateful that he was helping with my plan, but this was my city, and I didn’t need him taking over. I forced the resentment down just as quickly as it came. Pride is for people who can afford it.

“Good,” said Kitty. “Candy? You’re the Nest-mother. Is five thousand a month acceptable?”

Candy glowered. “She can’t stay forever,” she said.

“Six-month lease with an option to renew if the Covenant is still in town at the end of that period,” said Kitty.

If the Covenant was still in town in six months, there wouldn’t be a Nest for me to rent. That kind of stay would mean that the purge was well and truly in progress. The dragons might survive, if they went underground fast enough, sealed all the doors and got lucky in every possible way—because they couldn’t run, could they? Out of all the dragons in the world, the dragons of Manhattan were the ones with something they had to defend.

“No,” said Candy coldly. “No, she can’t have our Nest. Six months is too long. Six hours is too long.”

Something inside of me snapped. Without a safe place to go, I was as good as done—and while I’m not quite arrogant enough to think that Manhattan was doomed without me, the cryptid population was going to be in a lot more trouble if they had to wait for the next wave of defense to arrive. Assuming the family even sent another team. Assuming they didn’t just call one ally and one daughter a big enough price to pay, pull Sarah out, and wash their hands of the matter.

We’re not heroes. We’re not gods, no matter what the mice may think. We’re just people trying to do a job, and that sometimes means admitting that the job is too big to finish. I’d be added to the family history as one more soul we couldn’t save, and the rest of them would go on trying to survive. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve been doing since Alexander and Enid Healy walked away from the Covenant of St. George.

Sometimes I get awfully tired of just surviving.

“How far along are you, Candy?” I asked quietly. She flinched. “I’m guessing you’re about eight weeks. Nearing the end of your first trimester. Do dragons have trimesters?”

“We carry the eggs for six months, and then we incubate them for six more,” she said, voice just above a whisper.

“Do you want the Covenant to find your eggs? I bet they’d be fascinated. They haven’t had dragon eggs to play with in so long. Oh, and there’s your sisters to think about. I mean, back in the day, there was no way to really tie you guys biologically to the males of your species. That level of sexual dimorphism is really unusual outside of deep sea fish. But science doesn’t play favorites. The Covenant has science, too. They’ll crack a couple of those eggs open, find some scaly little boys and pink-skinned little girls, and then they’ll figure it out. You’ve survived because they haven’t been hunting you. They haven’t considered you worth hunting. How do you think the league of dragon hunters will take it when they find out that they’ve been ignoring their mission statement all these years? I think it’ll be like Christmas for their twisted little hearts.”

Candy glanced frantically at Kitty, who shook her head.

“You want me to tell her to stop being mean, I can tell,” she said. “I’m not going to do that, because she’s not being mean. Mean would be threatening to call the Covenant on you if you didn’t do what she wants. She’s just pointing out that being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn doesn’t get you anything but killed.”

“Why are you on her side?” demanded Candy.

“Because, Candice, I’d like to live,” said Kitty. She planted her hands on her hips and glared. Her Sesame Street pajamas undermined her intimidation factor a bit, but her gray skin and subtly inhuman bone structure balanced it. “I know you don’t like the Prices, although I sort of thought we were getting past that, with the whole ‘here, have your scaly Prince Charming’ stunt they pulled last year. I don’t care. You’re going to let Verity use your Nest as long as she needs it, as long as the Covenant is here in town. I’m going to pay you five thousand dollars for every month that she’s there. And you’re not going to say one more bad word about it. You’re just going to go back to your sisters and your husband and let them know that the Prices are moving in.”

Candy stared at her. Then she stiffened, and said coldly, “I never thought you’d side with humans over your own kind, Kitty.”

Much to everyone’s surprise, Kitty burst out laughing. “Seriously, Candy? Seriously? You’re going to pull the cryptid solidarity card on me? Honey, you’re not even a mammal. Verity is a closer relative of mine than you are, and frankly, I will side with whoever keeps me, and the rest of the city’s bogey community, breathing. Understand me?”

“Yes,” said Candy coldly. She turned to me. “I’ll go get you the keys. It may take a while. I hope you don’t shoot me for making you wait.” Then she turned and stomped off down the hall, not looking back.

I sighed. “That could have gone better.”

“I’ve done a lot of negotiating with dragons,” said Kitty. “Trust me, no, it couldn’t have. Besides, now you’ve got a place to go. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Can you send Ryan over with the keys when Candy finally comes back? I need to go pack.”

“Sure,” said Kitty. “And Verity—trust me. It’s going to be okay.”

I laughed a little. “At least one of us thinks so.”