Midnight Blue-Light Special

Three

The halls of the Freakshow, a burlesque club for the adventurous soul

THE HALL OUTSIDE the dressing room and employee break room was briefly deserted, thanks to the shift change. One shift’s-worth of dancers and floor staff were out in the main club, working, while the other employees were taking their scheduled opportunity to grab a drink, a smoke, or whatever else their biology demanded. The dragon girls were probably doing Goldschläger shots at the bar. It sounded more extravagant than it was, since they never paid for anything. What’s the point of being a preternaturally hot chick in a club full of men if you can’t get someone to buy you the occasional drink? Carol was almost certainly in Kitty’s office, drinking a cobra-venom cocktail while she waited for her hair to wake up. That’s how it goes when you work in a cryptid-owned establishment. I’ve had time to get used to it. Honestly, it’s even sort of fun. I mean, how many people have jobs where they can say “I didn’t sleep last night because the mice wouldn’t stop talking” and get sympathy rather than a referral to a psychiatrist?

I walked briskly through the empty dressing room to my locker. If I was going to have a chat with Dominic, I wanted to do it while I was wearing pants, and more heavily armed than it was possible to be in lace and petticoats. In addition to being a waitress and Ryan’s girlfriend, Istas served as Kitty’s costume designer, and she believed firmly in snaps and zippers and quick releases. Being a waheela—a type of Inuit therianthrope—meant she understood that sometimes people need to get out of their clothes in a hurry. That made them practical for work-wear, but not so much for the sort of things I was likely to get up to with Dominic De Luca.

Well. Some of the sort of things I was likely to get up to with Dominic De Luca, maybe. My work clothes would definitely be practical for the sweaty, naked things I sometimes wound up doing with Dominic, since I’d be able to strip in something approaching record time. That would be a nice change. During our last opportunity for naked fun times, I’d been wearing a Kevlar vest and a pair of cargo pants that practically had to be removed with the Jaws of Life. Getting naked before he had a chance to change his mind would be awesome.

I had just pulled my shirt on and was checking my hair in the tiny mirror inside my locker when the locker door slammed shut, nearly catching my fingers in the process. “Hey!” I yelped, turning to face whoever had interrupted my styling regime. “I was using that!”

Kitty looked at me coolly, one eyebrow arched in an almost perfect impression of my younger sister (who always said she was impersonating Mr. Spock, so that’s probably what my boss was actually trying to do). She was still wearing her ringmaster’s gear, which didn’t look quite as spectacular in the empty dressing room as it did on the carefully-lit stage. People with a naturally gray skin tone shouldn’t wear black leather unless they want to look like they’ve been standing in a smokestack for an hour or so. I’m just saying.

“Your Covenant boy is here again,” she informed me.

“I know. That’s why I’m leaving.” I reopened my locker, grabbing a brush from the top shelf and starting to rake it through my hairspray-stiffened hair. “What’s up, Kitty?”

“I thought I told you that I didn’t want him here.”

“You did. And I told him. Unfortunately, because I am not actually the boss of the Covenant of St. George, he chose to ignore me. I don’t know why he decided to ignore me this time, hence the putting on pants and going to talk with him.” I squinted at my reflection. I either looked pleasantly punky, if you were willing to squint and be generous with your definition of “pleasantly,” or like a bleached hedgehog. Given that I was about to go have a clandestine chat with my not-a-boyfriend no-really-honest, I decided to vote for “pleasantly punky.”

“You need to tell him again. He upsets the dancers.”

“Uh, no, he doesn’t, not really. I mean, Ryan isn’t too keen on him, but that’s just because he thinks Dominic is going to turn me in to the Covenant and kill everyone who works here. The dragons love him, Istas tolerates him, and even Carol says he’s basically okay, for a homicidal maniac.”

Kitty glowered at me. “He upsets me.”

“That’s different.” I replaced my brush on the shelf, removed my backpack from its hook, and shut the locker door. “Look, I’ll talk to him, but you know Dominic. He never makes a phone call when an ominous, Batman-like appearance will do. Unless you want to start posting men with guns on all the doors and windows, he’s going to keep showing up.”

“Like a cockroach,” she muttered darkly.

“Not the most complimentary comparison ever, but I can’t refute it.” I turned to face her, offering a sympathetic smile. “I understand that the Covenant stresses you out, Kitty. I mean, honestly, the Covenant stresses me out, what with their whole ‘line of traitors’ approach to my family. But as long as Dominic and I are on good terms, I don’t think you need to worry about this place getting purged.”

Kitty didn’t look particularly reassured. “And when you’re not on good terms anymore?”

“Then one of us is probably dead.” I shrugged. “That’s the best I can do. I’m taking my break now.”

“Will you be back tonight?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I should fire you.”

“I know. But you won’t.”

Kitty’s glower became a full-on scowl. “Why’s that?”

“Because if you didn’t have me here, you wouldn’t know what the local Covenant was doing. Later, boss.” I flashed her a quick smile—it wasn’t returned—and scooted for the door before she could say anything about cutting my pay for the night. My mama may have raised a generation of thrill-seeking cryptid-chasers, but she didn’t raise no fools.

Now for a little bit more background, since no one should ever go into a potentially sticky situation blind, and anything involving the Covenant of St. George is a potentially sticky situation. The Covenant is your classic secret organization of scholars, warriors, and assholes, dedicated to eradicating the world’s “monster” population. Who decides whether something is a monster? Why, they do, which is why totally innocent cryptids have been finding themselves on the wrong end of Covenant swords for centuries. My family doesn’t like them very much. Which is only fair, because they don’t like us very much either.

Then again, that may have something to do with the fact that we were members of the Covenant until about three generations ago, when my great-great-grandfather—Alexander Healy, Sr., my brother’s namesake—told them to stuff their protocols where the sun didn’t shine. He took his family and decamped to North America, where they’d be reasonably out of the way. The Covenant gave them a few decades to sulk before they started sending field agents to lure the prodigals back to the fold. The family sent the first one packing. The second, Thomas Price, submitted his letter of resignation and married one of the prodigals in question—my grandmother, Alice Healy. The Covenant has had a “kill on sight” order out for my family ever since.

Or they would, if they weren’t reasonably sure that we, like many breeds of cryptid, had gone extinct. We managed to disappear from their radar two generations ago, when my grandfather opened a portal to hell and messed everything up. It was a bad time. The Covenant’s belief that we all died when things went wrong is about the only good thing to come out of it.

Anonymity has proven to be convenient and irritating at the same time. On the one hand, it keeps us from getting shot at—much—while we’re trying to do our jobs. On the other hand, it means that we’ve had to find alternate means of training to protect the cryptids of the world—like my combat applications of ballroom dance, or my sister Antimony’s tumbling and trapeze classes. And no matter how hard we try, we can’t completely avoid encounters with the Covenant. I give you Exhibit A: Dominic De Luca, who may or may not be my boyfriend, depending on the day of the week and which one of us you decide to ask. (Hint: Normally, I’m the one disavowing all knowledge of our assignation, on account of the part where my maybe-boyfriend can be a truly massive asshole when he wants to.) We met when I stepped into a snare-trap he’d set to catch arboreal cryptids. In his defense, he didn’t really expect to snag a cocktail waitress who was taking the scenic route across Manhattan. And to counter that defense, he shouldn’t have been setting snares on my rooftops.

I’ve managed to break him of that habit. Mostly. Dominic was raised Covenant, and some habits die hard. Including, as we’d both discovered, the habit of mistrusting people you’ve been raised to regard as “the enemy.” To him, I was the latest daughter in a long line of traitors. To me, he was the latest in an even longer line of cold-blooded killers. I mean, if it weren’t for the mind-blowing sex, and the part where he saved my life six months ago—that snake cult thing again—we’d have absolutely nothing in common. Then again, my cousin Sarah says that’s probably part of the appeal. He’s forbidden fruit in hot brooding Italian man form, and just like Eve before me, I can’t resist taking a bite or two.

Dominic was waiting for me on the roof of the club, standing silhouetted against the night sky. I stopped for a moment to admire his profile—being a cold-blooded killer may not be good for your karma, but man, does it do amazing things for your physique—before letting the stairway door swing shut behind me with a clang. “S’up?”

“The English language is beautiful, versatile, and capable of poetry that steals men’s breath away from them,” said Dominic, turning to face me. “Is that really the best you can manage?”

“Yup,” I replied, with a sunny smile. “I went to public school.”

“There are times when I listen to you and feel that the reputation of your family is completely overblown,” said Dominic.

“What about the rest of the time?”

Dominic shook his head as he walked away from the edge of the roof. He stopped in front of me, turning to face me. “The rest of the time, I think my elders made a tactical error when they didn’t respond to your forefathers’ defection by destroying the continent.”

“You say the sweetest things.” I cocked my head, trying to make out his expression through the gloom. “What’s up? You know Kitty doesn’t like it when you visit me at work.”

“I don’t much care for it, either. This is not an appropriate venue for a young woman’s employment.”

“Why, because of all the cryptids, or because of the uniforms?”

“Is that what you call them now?”

“Hey, I wear less when I’m competing.”

Dominic sighed. “Yes. I know. But at least that’s to a purpose beyond coaxing cash from the unwary.”

I gave him an affronted look, not particularly concerned with whether or not he’d be able to see it. “Hey, now. It’s not like I’m stripping. I’m a respectable dancer.”

“Yes, of course,” he said dryly. “Whatever was I thinking?”

“I do not know.” I’ve wanted to be a professional dancer since I was six years old—a calling that has managed to interfere with my involvement in the family business several times over the years. It’s hard to find the time to spend a summer on a Greenpeace vessel concealing the plesiosaur migration from oceanographers when I need to be practicing for half a dozen upcoming competitions. Ballroom dance is a cutthroat world, and if you take so much as a long trip to Disney World, it can trash your standing for years.

Dancing for Kitty was a long way from the rarified heights of the World Tango Championships, but hell, it was dancing, and I was getting paid for it. That was close enough for me, especially where paying my rent was concerned.

Dominic frowned a little as he studied me, his expression barely visible through the dark. Finally, he asked, “Is there someplace we could go, for a brief while, where we wouldn’t be observed? I have matters I need to discuss with you.”

“Well, we can’t go to your place, because you’ve never let me see where you live. And we can’t go to the coffee shop, because you always get all weird when I want to ‘discuss’ things in public,” I said slowly. “You realize what that means.”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Dominic sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance that they’re currently involved in some religious observance involving total silence and secluded meditation?”

I laughed. Maybe it was cruel, but I couldn’t help myself. “You really don’t know Aeslin mice very well, do you?”

“It was an idle hope,” said Dominic. “Well. If the mice are not engaged in ritual silence, can I throw myself upon your mercy and request that we take a cab to your apartment, rather than indulging in your customary suicidal approach?”

“Nope.” I leaned up onto my toes, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Dominic looked suitably flustered in response. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be as attracted to him if he weren’t so much fun to torment. That’s probably one of those things I shouldn’t think about too hard. “You can take a cab, if you want, but I’m going to be taking the overland route.”

Dominic sighed again, more deeply this time. “You’re going to plummet to your demise one day, and I’m going to have to beg your cousin to notify your family, as I’m reasonably sure they’d shoot me for having been in the city when you lost your unending battle against gravity.”

“And again, you say the sweetest things,” I said. “Bye, now. See you at the apartment.” I offered him a little wave before turning and sprinting for the edge of the roof. One step carried me onto the low retaining wall, and another step carried me over it, dropping down into the dark on the other side.

Manhattan is a city built almost entirely on the principle that you can never have too much straight up. This makes the city a free-runner’s paradise and a death trap at the same time, since one moment of carelessness can result in fifteen stories of free fall, concluding with a painful introduction to the street. I’ve managed to avoid doing anything quite that dramatic, but I’ve had more than a few close calls.

The thing to remember about free-running is that energy has to go somewhere. Your momentum can either be translated into going where you want to go, or it can be taken away from you and used to send you where gravity wants you to go . . . and you probably don’t want to go where gravity wants you to go. Continual motion reduces the chances of a fall, assuming you have the training and physical skill necessary to keep that motion under control.

I dropped like a stone for the first two stories, plummeting almost all the way back to the club before I grabbed hold of a ledge and used the energy from my fall to fling myself, hard, onto the nearby fire escape. From there, I slid down the ladder and dropped to the street below, landing with my weight balanced on my toes. The world seemed to stop for a moment, everything falling into the sweet, familiar pattern of the run. And then I was off, racing for the next building, where the dumpster would lead to the fire escape would lead to the roof would lead to the next step in my journey home . . .

Free-running in a city as vertical as Manhattan means a lot of going up just so I can go down again. It may look inefficient, but familiarity and speed make it the fastest way for me to get almost anywhere. There’s rarely traffic on the rooftops, and what there is consists almost entirely of cryptids and cryptid sympathizers, almost all of whom are happy to step aside and let me pass. I’m a Price girl, after all; I’m their defender, even if I am sleeping with the enemy. But when I’m running, that doesn’t matter. When I’m running, everything is simple, even the risk of a permanent fall.

I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Dominic was waiting outside the door to my semilegal sublet apartment when I came trotting up the stairs. He looked calm, cool, and collected, as always. I, on the other hand, was a sweaty mess, although the endorphins generated by my run had me flying high enough that I really didn’t care.

“How is it you can always get in here without me?” I asked, slowing to a walk. “I thought this building was supposed to have security.”

“I have my ways.”

“You stole somebody’s keys, didn’t you?” I used my own key to unlock the door.

Dominic looked affronted. “I did nothing of the sort,” he said. “I bribed the building manager with a tale of woe concerning our lovers’ spat.”

“Uh-huh. Was this before or after we actually had one?”

“Oh, considerably before.”

“Why am I not in any way surprised? Come on. Time to face the inquisition.” I pocketed my keys as I pushed the door open, took a deep breath, and stepped into the apartment. Dominic followed quickly. He’d been over often enough to know what was coming, and that we needed to have the door closed before it got fully underway.

The latch had barely clicked into place when the mice filling the apartment’s short entrance hall began to cheer wildly, waving their tiny banners and ritual implements in the air. “HAIL! HAIL! HAIL THE HOMECOMING OF THE ARBOREAL PRIESTESS!”

“Yeah, guys,” I said, dropping my bag on the little table that was meant to hold the mail. “I’m home. Dominic’s here, too, so could you maybe chill out for a while?”

“HAIL!” shouted the mice, overcome with ecstasy at the idea of having two humans they could cheer at. “HAIL THE VISITATION OF THE GOD OF QUESTIONABLE MOTIVATIONS!”

Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Is that my divinity this week?”

“Apparently so.” My family has been living with Aeslin mice for generations. They’re tiny, furry religious fanatics, and they worship us as their gods. No, I’m not quite sure how it started, but it’s pretty standard for the Aeslin; every colony anyone has ever encountered has been deeply, religiously devoted to something . . . and there’s no law requiring that the “something” make any sense whatsoever. We put up with them because they’re cute, and because they’re useful. Aeslin mice turn everything they witness into religious ritual, and their oral history is impeccable.

According to the Aeslin, all the women in my family are priestesses, connecting them directly to the divine, and all the men are gods. Maybe that’s a little sexist of them, but hey, they’re talking mice. If they want to enforce their own weird ideas of human gender roles, we’re willing to let them, if only to avoid the necessity of answering their questions about human sexuality. Believe me, there are worse things in this world than being considered a priestess. Since Dominic’s been sleeping with me, the mice have been trying various labels on him, looking for the one that fits. My personal favorite was the week they spent calling him “the God of Absolutely Never Smiling, No, Not Ever.” They did it because they felt it was accurate. I enjoyed it because it annoyed the crap out of him.

The mice were still cheering, although it was less uniform than it had been when we first arrived. I hunkered down, scanning the throng until I spotted the pigeon-skull hat worn by the current leader of the colony. “Dominic and I need to talk, and we need to do it without interruptions,” I said. “What’s the price for an hour of privacy?”

“An Offering must be Made!” replied the mouse priest, without hesitation. I could actually hear the capital letters in the middle of the sentence.

I thought about what was in the fridge for a moment before saying, “Tomorrow’s grocery day. Will you accept a box of Hostess cupcakes and some sharp cheddar for now?”

This required a quick conference with the mice around him before he looked up and nodded, banging his kitten-bone staff against the floor to signal his acceptance. “It will suffice,” he intoned.

“Great. Dominic, I’ll meet you in the living room.”

“Naturally.” He was only shuddering a little as he turned and beat a hasty retreat away from the colony. That was a big improvement. Dominic might be tolerant of my cryptid-loving lifestyle, but the Aeslin mice still creeped him right the hell out, maybe because they insisted on staring at him constantly, waiting for him to prove his godhood. And this is why neither I nor my siblings ever brought home any dates during high school.

It took me about five minutes to get the mice sufficiently placated, and hence out of our hair for at least the next half hour. They were still doing their rapturous dance in celebration of the Coming of Cheese and Cake when I left the kitchen and walked down the short hall to the living room. Dominic was sitting on the side of the couch that wasn’t completely covered by my dance costumes.

“All done,” I said, moving to lean up against an open patch of wall. “So what did we need all this privacy for?”

“Verity . . .” Dominic hesitated. Then he stood, looking at me solemnly. “I must ask—no, I must beg—that you not become upset until you have heard everything I need to say. It is very important that you understand everything I have come here to tell you, and why this discussion needed to happen both immediately and in secret. May I have your assurance that you will remain calm?”

“Dominic, what’s going on?” I straightened, unconsciously trying to match the seriousness in his stance. “Is everything okay?”

“Please. Your assurance.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m a pretty calm person, you know that.”

It was a sign of how concerned he was that he didn’t even roll his eyes at such a blatant lie. Instead, he continued, “I have become fond of you, frustrating and impossible as you are, and I have learned a great deal about the unnatural races with which we share this planet through our association. It’s difficult to view them all as monsters when so many of them seem to be genuinely decent individuals, damned solely by the accident of their birth.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Sarah you said so,” I said dryly.

Dominic ignored me. “I do not wish any harm to you, or to the people—and yes, I admit now that they are people—to whom you have introduced me. Please understand that.”

“Dominic?” I bit my lip, looking at him warily. “You’re starting to freak me out a little bit here.”

“Good,” he said, with surprising fervency. “You should be ‘freaked out.’ You need to leave, Verity. You need to take your mice, and your cousin, and anything and anyone else you care about in this city, and leave.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“Get out of here. Please, while you still can.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I took a step forward, shock fading into anger as I scowled at him. “Stop talking like Covenant and start speaking English, or I swear to God, I will start introducing you to my knives.”

“I’ve already met most of them,” said Dominic, and sighed, shoulders slumping. He reached out one hand, pressing his fingers against my cheek. “Verity, the Covenant is coming. They’re coming here. They want to check my work. They want to verify my reports.”

“What . . . ?” I breathed.

Dominic nodded very slightly, like the gesture pained him. “They’re coming to see how close I am to beginning the purge. Run, Verity. Run now, while you still can. If you’re here when they arrive, they’ll kill you.”