Dominic hesitated. I could almost read the conflict on his face. I was, after all, the granddaughter of Alice Healy and Thomas Price, two of the Covenant’s greatest traitors. If he pulled the trigger, he could probably kill me before I had time to draw again. He could go home a hero, secure in the knowledge that any door in the Covenant would be open to him. All he had to do was twitch his index finger, and the world was his. All he had to do was kill a woman who had already surrendered.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably no more than a few seconds, he lowered his crossbow.
“Thank you,” he said.
“What took you so long?” I replied. “I’ve been looking for you for days. It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting.”
Now it was his turn to raise his eyebrows, confusion replacing conflict. “Waiting? Looking for me? I thought this was just another unfortunate encounter. I knew you hadn’t left the city, but I’d rather hoped your rabble-rousing would keep you too busy to come back up here.”
“What do you mean, rabble-rousing? I was looking for you to find out what the hell you think you’re doing. I told you to go home.”
The confusion deepened. “What I’m doing? I’m not the one protecting inhuman monsters by telling them to evacuate.”
I blinked. “Evacuate? Are you kidding? Sure, people are leaving, but it’s nothing like an evacuation.”
“The population here is nothing like what I was told to expect.”
A slow, disturbing certainty was creeping through my veins, bringing a whole host of new questions with it. “Hold on.”
He gave me a politely enquiring look. “Yes?”
“How many cryptids have you killed since the last time I saw you?”
“Not enough of them, and nothing that could speak.” He shook his head, frustration clear in the set of his jaw. “A few more of those giant bats. A vast reptile living beneath a dumpster. Beyond that, there’s been nothing.”
The rest of the ahool’s flock and a lindworm. That definitely didn’t match up with my list of the missing, and both species were nonsapient predators that fed on humans. “Right.” I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the near-irresistible urge to scream. “We need to talk. How do you feel about coffee?”
* * *
Dominic turned out to feel good about coffee and not so good about coffee shops, even ones that didn’t belong to massive national chains. He’d started glancing anxiously around before we’d even placed our order, and his surprise when I collected the mugs and muffins and turned toward a table was almost comic. Only almost. If he wasn’t responsible for my missing cryptids, and I hadn’t been running the underground evacuation he accused me of, well…
There were several alternatives, and none of them were good.
Breaking off a chunk of muffin, I leaned back in my chair, studying Dominic. He had potential now that I was seeing him in decent light. The good bones I’d noticed on the rooftop were complemented by an even, olive-skinned complexion, and while his hands were covered in small scars, you don’t grow up in a family of cryptozoologists without learning to respect the beauty of a good scar. Scarring means you survived. It was too bad he was a murdering bastard, really. Apart from that, he was pretty darn cute.
Dominic was too distracted to notice my appraisal. His attention was split in twenty directions as he tried to watch all the coffee shop’s patrons and keep a wary eye on me at the same time. It was an impossible task, and he was failing. I could have told him it couldn’t be done and given him some suggestions on filtering the harmless from the potentially dangerous, but it was more interesting to watch him do his own assessment.
Every time his gaze shifted, I learned a little more about the Covenant’s training methods. I can’t say I was impressed. Maybe it was just the difference between American and European crowds throwing him off, but if he was that unsettled by your standard after-midnight coffee freaks, I couldn’t imagine him following a ghoul through a crowded train station. Plus—and this was a big one—he was trying to watch me, too, and I could have poisoned his coffee six times while his attention was directed elsewhere. Shoddy work.
“So,” I said. He jumped in his seat, twisting to face me. I swallowed the urge to smile, and continued, “If you’re not responsible for most of the cryptids who’ve been disappearing, and I’m not responsible for the cryptids who’ve been disappearing, who is? I’m assuming you’re the only one working this city. You would have tried too hard not to say something if you weren’t.”
He blanched, going as pale as was possible for someone with his particular skin tone. “Quiet,” he hissed, in that low whisper that people think is subtle but is actually more likely to attract attention than speaking in a conversational tone. “Do you want people to hear you?”
“Um … not particularly, but I wouldn’t be upset if they did. Why do you ask?”
“The ears of the general populace must be shielded from such blasphemous words.”
“What, ‘are you working alone’ is blasphemy now? No offense, but you need to get out more.”
“Not that.” His voice dropped even lower, a stunt I wouldn’t have believed possible. “They mustn’t know about the … monsters.”
“Wow.”
He blinked. “Wow?”
“Yeah, wow. I didn’t know people actually paused portentously in common conversation. Look, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“I don’t know what brand of training you may have had, but I assure you, my caution is more well-deserved than your offhanded dismissal.” He leaned back in his seat and eyed me disdainfully. “It’s clear that you have little experience in these matters.”
I don’t know which annoyed me more; the assumption that my training had somehow been less thorough than his, or the easy dismissal of my field experience. I stiffened, the muscles in my jaw tightening until it felt like I was forcing my next words out through concrete. “Is that so,” I said, making it less a question than a statement.
“I understand that things may be different here. Please believe me when I say that the need for caution is universal.”
“Right.” I raised a hand. “Hold that thought.”
I was standing before he had a chance to react, kicking my chair out from behind me. I grabbed it with my right hand, keeping it from going toppling over, and flipped it around to form a makeshift platform before stepping onto the seat and striking a dramatic pose. Several other patrons turned to look toward the commotion. One wolf-whistled appreciatively. When looking to attract attention in a hurry, there are worse strategies than being female and wearing skintight gray spandex in a coffee shop packed with college-age males.
“Citizens of Manhattan,” I said, waving my arms for emphasis. More patrons turned in our direction. Dominic had gone even paler, which was an accomplishment. “May I have your attention?”
“You’ve got it, sweet-cheeks,” called the whistler. “Now can I have your number?” His buddies laughed, elbowing each other in the easy amusement natural to semidrunk frat boys trying to get enough coffee in themselves to remember where they left the car.
“Maybe later,” I said. Turning my attention to the coffee shop as a whole, I said, “My friend and I belong to two rival sects of monster hunters, pursuing the supernatural and mysterious through the underworld for centuries. He believes in extermination. I believe in preservation. Now we put it to you: which of us is right?”
“The one who takes off her top!” called another of the frat boys. Another round of laughter followed.
The rest of the patrons shook their heads and turned back to their tables, dismissing my outburst as being either drunken ravings, promotion for a television show they hadn’t heard about yet, or both. I hopped down from the chair, straddling it as I smiled benevolently at Dominic.
“Well?” I asked. “See any sign these nice folks feel like they’ve heard blasphemous talk?”
“I—you—they—”
“Pronouns
are only useful when you combine them with other words. I have a few I can give you, if you’re at a loss.”
“I don’t believe you did that!” He was turning red now as the blood rushed back into his cheeks, horrified embarrassment chasing his pallor away.
“Why?” I shrugged, dropping my chin to rest on my crossed wrists. “Look, these are people who’ve grown up with slasher flicks and horror novels and everything else you can imagine. About the only way I’d get them to listen to me if I wanted to claim that cryptids were real would be to hop up on this table and strip.”
That seemed to get through his rising anger. The color died in his cheeks, slipping back toward white. “I will give you five hundred dollars not to do that,” he said.
“Deal. Also, you should maybe have your blood pressure checked. All that hyper-color action can’t be good for you.”
Dominic shook his head. “I never believed the stories about your family. I thought they were exaggerated. Now I’m starting to think that they may have been understating things.”
“Oh?” I asked, interested despite myself. “What did they say?”
“That you were all insane.”
“Ah.” I sat up again, grinning at him. “That’s pretty much true. We’re all crazy. But crazy has its benefits.”
“What benefits are those?” he asked warily.
“Crazy gets all the knives.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Dominic was finally done sputtering in righteous indignation, the frat boys had staggered home, and the barista had wandered into the office to call her boyfriend. Her laughter drifted through the coffee shop’s ventilation system, providing a handy, if accidental, mechanism for tracking her location. I was on my second cup of heavily-doctored coffee, and giving serious thought to a third. I’m not normally a big fan of overcaffeination, but registration for the tango competition was scheduled to open at seven in the morning and I needed all the help I could get.
“So you’re here alone to demonstrate that you can be trusted to be here alone. Isn’t that a little circular?”
“My orders were clear. I am to scout, take notes of what I encounter, and report back. That way, we can determine the size of the needed purge. At the same time, I demonstrate that I am morally prepared for fieldwork.”
“Uh-huh. And if you’re not prepared?”
“I will be reprimanded.”
“Harsh.”
Dominic shook his head. “You cannot imagine.”
I’ve read Grandpa Thomas’ journals. I had some idea. Somehow, it didn’t seem like a good idea to tell him that. “Here’s the thing I don’t get,” I said, propping my chin up on the knuckles of one hand. “You’re here to kill the people I’m here to look after. Why are you worried about them going missing, if you know it’s not because I’m getting them out of town? Either they’re in somebody else’s territory, which is a problem for your superiors, or they’re dead, which is a problem for me, but either way, they’re not a problem for you anymore.”
“A plague may stop a war, but does it not bring down even more destruction on the land?” asked Dominic, in a lofty, philosophical tone.
I eyed him. “If you don’t stop quoting dogma at me, I’m leaving.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You trying to tell me you just came up with that? Just now? Off the top of your head?”
He hesitated. “Well, no.”
“So that was more of the party line.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want your party line. I want answers. Why are you worried about my missing cryptids? They’re not your problem. If you didn’t kill them, you’re not my problem. So what’s your angle here?”
“I—” He hesitated again, clearly unsure how he was supposed to continue the conversation. Finally, he fixed me with an aggravated stare and said, “You are without a doubt the most annoying woman I have ever met.”
“We breed for it. Were you planning to answer my question?”
Dominic sighed. “If I thought the monsters were fleeing, it wouldn’t be my problem. I’d notify my superiors and keep hunting the ones that remain. There haven’t been any signs of them appearing in neighboring territories, and at least some of them would have to be traveling on foot. Since you’re here, there was a chance your family was running some sort of ill-considered underground railroad.”
“Well, we’re definitely not. I’d know.”
“I’m assuming you have local contacts who would have told you if they were running something like that, and that you wouldn’t have been lurking around on rooftops hoping to find me if they were.” I nodded, and he continued, “That’s my ‘angle,’ as you so charmingly put things. You can solve a mouse problem by developing a snake problem. But is it any better?”
I groaned. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t say that. You think we have a snake?”
Dominic nodded. “I do.”
There was really only one thing to say to that, and so I said it, with all the fervency I could muster:
“Fuck.”
Dominic nodded again, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he wearily said, “I agree.”
Nine
“Thomas? I think I’m going to need a bigger gun.”
—Alice Healy
The Davidson-Morrissey Memorial Dance Hall, three days later, way too early in the morning
AFTER TWO DAYS OF SCOURING THE CITY for the metaphorical “snake problem,” I was no closer to knowing where the city’s cryptids were going, and I still had no idea where the hell I was supposed to look for Dominic De Luca, aka, “the asshole who thinks he’s Batman and doesn’t believe in giving out his contact information before disappearing while I’m in the bathroom.” (Look. I may spend more time running around on rooftops than the average girl on the street, but I don’t make a habit out of looming in the shadows being impossible to find. If anything, I’m easier to find than I ought to be. If he wanted to find me, he could ask any cryptid in Manhattan, and they’d point him at Dave’s in a heartbeat—assuming he let them live that long.)
One thing I did know: the population was continuing to drop, and it was dropping faster with each passing day. The harpies who’d been nesting near Dave’s were gone. They’d been there Monday night when I dropped by with the mail, and there hadn’t been any signs that they were planning to go anywhere. Tuesday night, they were gone. The nest was a shambles, and I couldn’t tell, as I picked through the wreckage, whether they’d left intentionally or not.
There was no blood outside the kitchen area. Even there, it was confined to the cutting board and makeshift plastic bucket “sink,” and the spray patterns were consistent with what you’d get if you, say, beheaded a pigeon. I clung to that as proof that they weren’t dead, and Dominic hadn’t been lying to me. I didn’t like the man very much— I definitely didn’t like the people he worked for—but disliking someone and wanting to kill them are two different things. One of them involves a lot of glaring and hair flipping. The other requires quicklime, which is surprisingly hard to find in Manhattan.
I finished the second night at Sarah’s new hotel, crashing on the couch in her suite. It was the only way I could get up early enough to make it to my morning appointment. It was about the only thing important enough to take me off the streets for a day, and I wanted to be fresh. I needed to be ready.
The next morning was going to be hell on earth. Because two days previous, I had registered and auditioned for the New York State Argentine Tango Open, and if there’s one thing scarier than the Covenant, it’s ballroom dancing.
* * *
The front lobby of the hall rented for the New York State Argentine Tango Open was packed to the point of comedy with men in skintight matador pants and women whose dresses seemed to consist entirely of fringe, sequins, strategically-placed strips of lace, and even more strategically-placed pieces of double-sided tape. Anyone who doesn’t believe that dance can be a form of combat should s
pend some time watching the more well-endowed dancers trying to contain their cleavage with nothing more than adhesive and attitude. There are days when I’m truly grateful to Grandma Alice for taking potshots at the Boob Fairy and keeping her from heaping too much attention on the family.
(People always think I’m kidding when I say things like that. They used to think I was kidding when I said the same things about the Tooth Fairy, but I can provide proof of that one, thanks to Great-Great-Grandpa’s fondness for taxidermy and the family policy against throwing away anything that might prove useful. It’s amazing how quickly a stuffed and mounted specimen can shut a person up.)
According to the clock on the wall, it was approaching nine-thirty in the morning, which meant we’d been in the hall for somewhere around two and a half hours. According to the goose bumps on my arms, it was about two and a half hours past time to turn up the damn heat. It was possible that they had the stage lights turned so high that it made sense to turn the rest of the hall into an icebox, but if that was the case, they needed to get me on the stage before I froze solid.
It didn’t help that my dress was the sort of thing Grandma Baker called “more rumor than reality.” It consisted mostly of beaded fringe attached to a layer of cotton broadcloth to give the whole thing structure. The laces up the back were entirely for show, and to create the illusion of the dress being more complicated than it actually was. The real fasteners ran up the front, hidden under layers of fringe. I’d had it specially made. Most dancers do—having a costume that fits right can mean the difference between first and second place when the scores are close enough—but most dancers aren’t trying to fit weaponry under an outfit that would make a hooker blush. I had a pistol strapped on at the small of my back, and a knife so high on my left thigh that drawing it would require an act of indecent exposure. My genuine human-hair wig was pulled into a chignon and pinned with “decorative” hair sticks carved from blessed cherrywood, soaked in holy water for three months, and tipped in silver. There’s no such thing as being too careful.
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