Then the weight came down, the snare whipped me into the air, and I wasn’t thinking of anything for a while.
Five
“When in doubt, play dead. Well, unless you might be dealing with a ghoul, or a basilisk, or something else that likes its meat a little ripe. Actually, when in doubt, just start shooting.”
—Alice Healy
Upside down in a really short skirt somewhere on the rooftops of Manhattan
THERE IS NO SHAME IN BLACKING OUT when whipped abruptly into the air, especially if you were running when it happened. Seriously, if there was shame in it, Alex and I would have died of embarrassment before Antimony turned nine. Having a little sister who sets traps for fun definitely made us a little blasé about getting caught in them. Any trap you can walk away from was probably set by someone who wasn’t trying to kill you. Not immediately, anyway.
Rubbing my aching head, I opened my eyes to find myself dangling about eight feet above the rooftop where I’d been running. That was awkward. A quick check showed that I was still in possession of all my limbs and all my weaponry; thank God for custom holsters. “Gotta tell Dad we have a new stress test for the snaps on these things,” I said, and tried to jackknife up to grab my knees. The rope promptly started to sway, turning what should have been a simple exercise into something better performed by a circus acrobat.
Fine; if it wanted to be that way, I would improvise. The rope was creaking, but it wasn’t showing any signs of giving way. That was good. Tips for getting out of a snare without breaking any major bones, number one: make sure you control when you get down, not the rope. I started rocking with more vigor, until I had built up sufficient momentum to let me fold myself in half despite the motion of the rope. I wrapped my arms around my legs, taking a moment to breathe before I leaned back and assessed the situation further.
The rope was looped around my left ankle, drawn tight in some sort of complicated slip knot. “Huh,” I said, sliding my hands up to grasp my calves and pull myself closer to the knot. It was a maneuver easier performed than described, and resulted in my feeling somewhat like a giant inchworm. “Who the hell tied you?”
The knot, unsurprisingly, didn’t answer. It was starting to chafe. If it hadn’t been for the amount of time I spent balancing on one leg while being dragged around the dance floor, I probably would have been in a lot of pain; as it was, I was going to be in a lot of pain if I didn’t figure out how to get myself safely untied, and soon.
My work uniform didn’t give me a lot of padding, and the roof below me wasn’t what I’d call a safe place to land. I could cut the rope—I’d be disowned if I went out without a knife, or at least looked at admonishingly—but the odds of me flipping around and landing on my feet weren’t good. Actually, they were bad. My only good option involved climbing the rope, somehow managing to get a grip on the flagpole it was tied to, and starting from there.
“I should never have quit gymnastics,” I grumbled, and began swinging back and forth again, trying to work up the momentum to let me grab hold of the rope. On the third swing, I managed to swing myself up far enough to get a good grip. I let go just as fast as the stinging slime that coated the rope started to burn my palms and fingers. I swore loudly as I fell backward, snapping to a stop when I ran out of rope. I felt the jolt all the way up to the ball of my thigh as shooting pains ran through my ankle.
At least I didn’t black out this time.
The rope kept swaying even after I’d stopped helping it along, rocking me in a motion that seemed designed to induce vertigo. I wiped my hands on my uniform skirt before digging them into my hair, allowing myself the luxury of swearing at great and enthusiastic length as I waited for my ankle to stop throbbing and my palms to stop tingling. The damage wasn’t going to go away, but it could at least die down to a dull roar before I resumed trying to get free. I wiggled my toes. Nothing seemed broken. Small blessings, but I take what I can get when I’m stuck in a snare.
The thought made me pause. Before, I’d been focused on trying to work my way out of the trap. The Doctrine of Grandma Alice, preached by mouse and mother alike: “When in doubt, get out. Worry about what might be trying to eat you later.” Now that I was being forced into temporary idleness, the true vulnerability of my situation was brought forcibly to hand.
None of the cryptids I knew of in the surrounding area were the type to set this sort of trap. That meant I was either dealing with somebody who was out of their home territory, somebody completely unfamiliar, or—worst case scenario—somebody who knew I was making this circuit and had decided to do something about it.
There are parts of the cryptid community that don’t like my family, what we do, or what we stand for. Parts who’d like it if the cryptids retreated from human society altogether, stopped trying to fit in, and went back to skulking in the shadows and occasionally eating people. Even parts that still think of us as members of the Covenant. Those elements of cryptid society are the reason no Price who wants to have a decent life expectancy goes anywhere unarmed.
There are some lessons a family only needs to learn once.
Letting my hands drop and dangle freely, I did my best possum impression as I started running a mental tally of available weaponry. One knife, strapped to my left thigh, and the handgun under my windbreaker. I could reach them both. If necessary, I could start shooting, cut the rope, and let myself fall. The damage the roof would do was nothing compared to the damage some cryptids can dish out when they decide they want to.
Footsteps crunched in the gravel on the far side of the roof, coming closer. Moving carefully, so as not to set myself swaying again, I pulled the gun from under my windbreaker and aimed toward the sound. Judging by the tread, whatever was approaching was solo, human-sized, and not in much of a hurry. That was fine by me. I’ve always been good at night shooting, but sometimes a girl doesn’t want to put her faith in firing blindly into the dark. Better to let whatever it was come to me, and make my bullets count.
(Someday I’m going to get myself a day job that lets me wear clothes capable of concealing a decent amount of weaponry. Ever try to hide a gun in a competition rumba costume? It’s neither easy nor fun. The inner thigh holster that doesn’t chafe has yet to be invented by man, beast, cryptid, or Price.)
The thing on the roof was close enough now to have a visual on the snare’s silhouette; whatever it was, it could tell that it had caught something. It started walking faster, becoming more visible with every step it took. It was humanoid, dragging something through the gravel behind it. My upside-down orientation made it difficult to estimate height, but if forced to guess, I would have said that whatever it was, it was maybe six inches taller than me. It extended an arm, reaching for something at its hip. I steadied my aim.
The thing on the roof—now clearly a human man—pulled a flashlight from his duster pocket and clicked it on.
The light was practically blinding. I squinted against the glare, keeping my gun aimed at where his head had last been located. In the meanwhile, there was a sharp intake of breath from the man holding the flashlight. Guess when he went night fishing on the rooftops of Manhattan, he wasn’t expecting to catch himself a strip club waitress.
“Hi,” I said, brightly. “Ever been shot in the head? Because I don’t think you’d enjoy it much. Most people don’t.”
My unnamed new buddy swore under his breath, still shining the flashlight in my face. He dropped whatever he was dragging, digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out a small object. Something wet splashed across my chest and neck a moment later, running down my chin to drip into my mouth and nose. I sputtered, widening my eyes in surprised indignation.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I demanded.
“You said you were going to shoot me!” he replied. One hand still held the flashlight. His other arm was thrust out toward me, pointing an antique-looking silver vial in my direction.
“Newsflash, buddy: threats of violence don’t turn this into
a wet T-shirt contest.” More liquid dripped into my mouth as I spoke. I spat it out, but not before I’d had time to taste it: mostly water, mixed with salt, and a bitter herb I recognized as aconite. It’s a pretty standard mixture for banishing incubi and succubi. The poor things are deathly allergic.
I gaped at him. “Did you just splash me with holy water?”
“You’re in my trap!” he said. He was starting to sound uncertain. Whatever his script for this encounter was, I was refusing to stick to it in any meaningful way, and he was obviously getting confused. Tough.
“Your trap was on my rooftop,” I said, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. “I’m as human as you are. Now do you want to tell me why you’re setting snares, and maybe lower me down from this thing before I lose my temper and start shooting?”
That seemed to put him back on familiar ground. Straightening, he puffed out his chest and said, “I am armored with righteousness.”
“Does righteousness protect you from small-caliber bullets?”
He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re human?”
“Both my parents swear it.”
“I’ll get you down.”
I smiled, not shifting my aim. “Good plan.”
* * *
The snare was anchored to an iron bolt hammered into a nearby chunk of masonry. My captor disappeared in that direction, leaving me dangling. I had just long enough to wonder whether he’d decided to cut and run when I felt a sharp tug on the rope, and I was lowered slowly, if not smoothly, to the ground. I tucked the gun back into my waistband, stretching my hands overhead and using them to turn the end of my descent from a straight drop into a lazy somersault.
Pulling my windbreaker down over my hands made me clumsy, but didn’t prevent me from untying the knot, and kept me from getting any more of that stinging slime on my hands. I had just finished pulling off the snare when the man came back into view. He pointed his flashlight at my ankle, and I let my breath hiss out between my teeth. My sock had been able to protect me from the bulk of the damage, but there was still blood soaking into the white cotton in several places. The human leg wasn’t meant to be used as a long-term hanging mechanism.
“You bleed red,” he said, sounding relieved.
“I bleed red, and replacement socks come out of my paycheck.” I slipped the rope off over my foot. “You ever try to get blood out of white cotton?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t bleed at all, ma’am,” he said. Suddenly formal, he walked over and bent to offer his hand. “I’m sure you understand my caution. I certainly wasn’t expecting to make so undeserving a capture.” I looked at him blankly. When I didn’t take his hand, he hastened to add, “Dominic De Luca, at your service. I promise you my intention is purely to assist.”
“Next time, assist me by not setting snares on the rooftop, okay?” I ignored his hand and levered myself upright, gingerly testing to see how much weight I could put on my left ankle. The answer: not enough. I’d had worse injuries both in the field and on the dance floor, but a banged-up ankle is never an asset. “Ow.”
“I assure you, ma’am, your capture was not my intention.”
“What was your intention? That thing’s too big for pigeons, and you’re not likely to catch many rats up here.”
An expression of distaste flashed across his face. He was decent-looking when he wasn’t scowling like that; he had a good, strong bone structure, dark eyes, and hair that was either black or a deep enough brown that the low light stole its color entirely. Even standing six inches taller than me made him short by American standards, but perfectly reasonable by mine, and he was built like the men I usually danced with: lean and solid-looking. I knew he had to be reasonably strong. He’d managed not to drop me when he untied the snare.
“There are things, ma’am, that it is perhaps better of which you do not know.”
“Hold on.” I studied him, narrowing my eyes. The formal language. The snare. The holy water. The duster, stereotypical uniform of the “monster hunters” of the world. “Things it is perhaps better of which I do not know?”
“There are more things in Heaven and in Earth—”
I raised a hand, cutting him off. “First, do not quote Shakespeare at me. I get that quite enough from my grandma. Second, what are you doing here?”
He narrowed his eyes in turn, the expression barely visible with the flashlight pointed in my direction. “I don’t think I have to answer the questions of a strange woman who stumbles into my snares and refuses to give me her name,” he said.
I looked back toward the thing he’d been dragging when he first appeared. Before he had a chance to stop me, I half-limped over to where it had been dropped. It looked like an old brown sack at first, until I turned it over with my foot and saw the ahool’s characteristically apelike face snarling up at me. Its eyes were glazed with death.
“Miss—”
“You killed it,” I said numbly. “You killed the ahool.”
“You … know this fell beast?” His steps slowed, taking on a newly cautious edge. “You asked what I was doing here. Perhaps I should be asking you the same.”
“You killed it. It was just—just being an ahool, minding its own business, and you killed it! I mean, sure, eventually, that business might have included biting people, and then it would need to be relocated or exterminated, but you didn’t need to just kill it! Not without observing it and making sure it didn’t have a whole flock of buddies that would swarm and eat us both!”
“Miss.” Dominic’s footsteps stopped entirely. His voice was hard. “Who are you?”
“You killed it.” The urge to shoot him was overwhelming. Only a lifetime of etiquette lessons and the irritating fact that he was probably wearing some sort of body armor stopped me. I turned to face him. “You’re with the Covenant, aren’t you?”
I might as well have shot him from the way he recoiled. He took a step backward, one hand going to his hip and pulling a nasty looking hunting knife from a previously hidden scabbard. “How do you know that?”
“Simple.” I offered a sweet, sunny, entirely insincere smile, trying to pretend that I wasn’t standing in front of a dead cryptid that had been needlessly slaughtered in my city. “My name’s Verity Price. Now what the hell are you doing in Manhattan?”
* * *
No one knows exactly when the organization that became the Covenant was founded. Their ranks included a lot of scholars and scribes, but records get lost, libraries have a tendency to burn down—especially when the libraries belong to a secret society that goes around harassing dragons for fun—and if you give history enough time, it has a nasty tendency to turn into myth. We know it’s been around for centuries. We know it’s all over the world, sometimes under different names, but always with the same mission statement: if a thing doesn’t fit whatever’s currently defined as “natural,” it needs to die. No argument, no discussion, no mercy. From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night, the Covenant is out to deliver us. Whether or not we particularly want to be delivered.
Nice folks, the Covenant, especially given the part where, last time any of us bothered to check, they were really invested in the idea of arresting my entire family and dragging us to their central headquarters to stand trial for crimes against humanity. Just being born a Price is enough to qualify as a traitor to the human race, which is a neat trick. All the treason, none of the effort. And how did we earn the enmity of a global brotherhood of fanatic monster hunters? The simple way: we quit.
My paternal great-great-grandparents, Alexander and Enid Healy, were born into the Covenant. They were active members for years before they started wondering what the hell they were doing. Then Great-Great-Grandpa Healy found the connection between wiping out the unicorns in England and the great cholera epidemic, and it was all over but the shouting, recriminations, and emigration to America. Maybe the Covenant could have forgiven them for their desertion, but two generatio
ns later, my grandmother married Thomas Price, a representative of the Covenant who’d been sent to make sure the Healys were harmless. Leaving was bad enough, but convincing others to defect was enough to start a blood feud.
That doesn’t even start going into Mom’s side of the family.
The Covenant: because sometimes you want your genocidal assholes to be organized. Now one of those same genocidal assholes was in my city, holding a knife on me, looking like I’d just run over his dog. And he was killing cryptids. This was sure shaping up to be a swell night.
* * *
“Price,” he said, with almost exaggerated care. “As in…?”
“Thomas Price was my grandfather.” I didn’t feel the need to mention my parents. For one thing, they weren’t on the roof. For another, invoking the Bakers would probably be enough to tip him over the edge. He’d already killed once. I didn’t want to encourage him to do it again. “What are you doing in my city?”
He pulled himself a little straighter, trying to look imposing. I’ve been dancing the tango with men a foot and a half taller than I am since I was fourteen. I wasn’t impressed.
“I wasn’t aware that you’d been granted the authority to claim cities. How quaint. Who backs you?”
“Me.” I shrugged. “The rest of the family. Oh, and most of the city’s cryptids, who happen to be big fans of me and my tendency not to kill them. They won’t be happy if you try arresting me. Or with the idea that there’s a hunter in the city.”
“This city has gone without a purge for far too long.”
“This city is doing just fine without a purge, thank you very much. It’s not in the market for a serial killer.” I glanced at the dead ahool one more time. “No one asked you to come here.”
Dominic actually looked affronted. “Are you implying that I—?” He left the question unfinished, but the intonation was clear.
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