“It’s a mouse thing, just roll with it, you’ll be happier that way,” I advised. “Hail,” I added, to the mouse.
He sat up a little straighter, wrapping his pink thread of a tail around his feet, and adjusted his grip on the carved pencil he was using as a staff. “The Colony has discussed the disappearance of the Arboreal Priestess,” he said. “We have further discussed the words of the Priestess before she was Taken from us, and have decided that we will Abide by her Wisdom.”
“What?” I asked.
Uncle Mike blinked. “Are you sure?” he asked the mouse.
The mouse priest nodded, the squirrel skull perched atop his head making it look like he was going to topple over. “We have served in this capacity before. We will serve in this capacity again. We are at your disposal.”
“Before Verity left, she talked about using the mice as spies,” said Ryan. “She even said that they were pretty good at it. Being mice means they can get into a lot of small spaces.”
“We do not wish to leave our Priestess in the grip of the false Priestess who has taken her,” said the mouse priest. “We understand that it will be dangerous. We do not mind the risk.”
“None of us do,” added Ryan. “Verity’s not my family, but she’s my friend. Whatever has to be done, I’m going to do it.”
Dominic nodded. “Then perhaps there is a chance after all. But we need to move, and we need to move quickly.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Uncle Mike. “Let’s get started.”
We all stopped interrupting Dominic after that—even the mice were quiet—as we allowed him to get down to the business of properly explaining what he knew. According to Dominic, Margaret had been working on her own when she set the trap that eventually snared Verity: the anti-telepathy charm we took off her unconscious body was laced with a compulsion spell that forced Verity right back into her nasty little clutches. It was a neat trick. I might even have been impressed by it, if it hadn’t been so likely to get Verity killed.
Dominic only knew that Verity had been taken because he’d been with one of the other Covenant agents—Peter Brandt—when Margaret called and asked for backup. Peter had gone without him, and Dominic had followed at what he guessed would be a safe distance. “Thanks to Verity and her maddening insistence on taking the rooftops whenever possible, I had a whole set of routes open to me that they barely realized existed. I was not seen.”
Privately, I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t interrupt. We were out of time for interruptions.
There are times when I wonder how humans get anything done. Talking is so slow compared to the speed of thought. I could have told everyone everything Dominic knew in a few seconds, if I’d been attuned to them all and willing to risk bruising their brains a little bit. And then I realize that thinking like that just proves that I’ll always be a cuckoo, no matter how hard I try not to be, and I have to force myself back into the slow, comforting safety of speech.
“Where’s Verity being held?” asked Uncle Mike.
“An old warehouse that the Covenant purchased during the last purge. Much like this locale,” Dominic indicated the Nest, “it has been in private hands for so long that most have ceased viewing it as a building. It has become a part of the landscape.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re landscapers,” said Uncle Mike. “We’re going to need some muscle for this.”
Slowly, Ryan smiled. “I think I can help you with that.”
Istas looked up at him, her thoughts turning quizzical. Then she smiled as well. “Oh, lovely,” she said. “I do so enjoy spending time with my coworkers in a social setting.”
* * *
Ryan was on the phone with Kitty, explaining why he needed to borrow half her staff for a potentially deadly mission, when my own phone started ringing. Phones are tricky. They have no minds for me to read, which makes them a good exercise in telling what people mean from nothing but tone. That also makes them frustrating as hell, and a bad idea when I’m already stressed. I pulled it out of my pocket, checking the display to see who was calling. I was about to press “ignore” when Uncle Mike’s hand landed on my shoulder.
“Take it,” he advised. “You need to talk to him, and it’s not like you’re going anywhere dangerous.”
“Right,” I said, not sure whether I should be annoyed with him for meddling or grateful for the excuse. I pressed “answer” instead, bringing the phone to my ear as I started walking away from the others. If I was going to have this conversation, I was going to have it in “my” room. “Hi, Artie. What’s up?”
“I hadn’t heard from you in a few hours, and you’re not online. You’ve got the Covenant in town, Verity’s not answering her phone, I got worried, hey-presto, I’m calling you.” Artie’s voice was a warm, familiar presence in my ear, conjuring images of afternoons spent lying on his bedroom floor arguing about whether Wolverine’s claws could pierce Captain America’s shield. (They so could, assuming Wolverine cared enough to try. And the fact that I know that is why Artie and I get along so well, and why Verity despairs of me ever going on a real date, with a non-virtual boy.)
Those comfortable thoughts were followed by a chill sliding down my spine, chasing all the warmth away. Artie didn’t know that Verity was missing. Uncle Mike knew, but apart from that, no one in the family had been notified. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I said, with utter sincerity, and closed my eyes as I walked up the stairs. Maybe if I looked at nothing, I wouldn’t feel so bad about lying by omission. Maybe. Probably not, though.
I always tell people not to lie to the telepath. It sucks to realize that my rules don’t swing both ways.
“Yours, too, Sars,” said Artie. He paused. “Everything okay with you? You sound tense.”
“Covenant’s in town, remember? We’re bunking in an undisclosed location with what feels like half the cast of The Muppet Show, since Verity doesn’t want any of us to wind up dead. And Uncle Mike is here, which means everything’s been booby-trapped.”
“I bet Antimony would love it there.”
I laughed at that, opening my eyes. I was at the top of the stairs by then; I needed to be able to see if I wanted to find my room. “She’d be sawing holes in the floor so she could make actual pit traps, and we’d never get our security deposit back.”
“I said she’d love it, not that she’d be useful.” Artie sounded like he was buying my story, which helped me relax even more. “Any chance you’ll be back online tonight?”
“Well . . .” I glanced guiltily down at the slaughterhouse floor. Everyone seemed very busy getting ready for battle. Uncle Mike was deep in conversation with the mice on the table; Ryan was on the phone; Istas was relacing her boots. None of them appeared to have particularly noticed that I was gone. That didn’t mean I was off the hook. “No, I don’t think so. We’re doing a field thing, and Uncle Mike wants me to be there.”
“You’re doing ‘a field thing’? You hate field things.”
“That doesn’t stop Very from making me do them every other weekend.”
“No, but you always complain about them, and you’re not complaining now.” It’s impossible to pick up thoughts through the phone, and for once, I was glad; the anxiety in Artie’s voice was loud enough without any help from my telepathy. “Why aren’t you complaining, Sarah? Are you really okay?”
“I’m fine, Artie,” I said, and stepped into the barren little office that was, for the time being, my bedroom. I sank down onto the air mattress, sighing in time with the little hiss it made as I settled. “I’m stressed, and I’m scared, and I’m afraid somebody’s going to get hurt before this is over, but I’m fine. Honest. I’d really rather hear about how you are, if that’s cool. I need to not think about things here for a little while.”
“Have you been to the comic book store yet this week?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “No, I have not,” I said. “Things have been a little too hectic around here for me to get down to Midtown Comics.
Have I missed anything important?”
“Not important, necessarily, but definitely cool. See—” Artie began telling me about the latest developments in the Marvel and DC superhero universes, speaking with the enthusiastic shorthand of the true aficionado. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’ve been reading comics for as long as I can remember; seeing faces drawn on paper helps me recognize them in real life, or at least helps me recognize the emotions they’re trying to convey. The encyclopedic knowledge of mutants and superhumans is really just an unexpected bonus.
I curled up on the air mattress with one arm tucked beneath my head as a makeshift pillow while I listened to Artie talk. When he paused, I made the appropriate encouraging noises, getting him started again. In the comic books, the good guys might lose for an issue, but they always won by the end of the story arc, and death was never forever. I liked the comics. I couldn’t live there, but for a little while, I could pretend.
Not for long enough. Someone knocked gently on my doorframe. I sat up, the phone still pressed against my ear. Uncle Mike was standing there, and I didn’t need to be good at reading faces to understand how grim his was.
“It’s time,” he said.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Sarah?” asked Artie. “What’s up?”
“Nothing—Uncle Mike just needs me. It’s time to go. Stay safe, okay? I’ll call you soon.” If I was alive. If any of us were still alive.
“Okay, Sars. Miss you.”
“Miss you, too,” I said, and hung up the phone.
Fun facts about cuckoo biology: we can’t bleed, not the way mammals do. But we can cry. I got up and followed Uncle Mike out of the room, and I cried the whole way.
Nineteen
“You know what, honey? You’re right. It’s time to change my approach. Can you give me one of those nice concussion grenades?”
—Alice Healy
The Freakshow, a highly specialized nightclub somewhere in Manhattan
WE LEFT SUNIL and Rochak behind when the rest of us left the Nest. There was no way of knowing whether Verity had given up our location, and so Kitty was calling some of her relatives to come and take the Madhura away to someplace Verity didn’t know. The brothers Madhura weren’t happy about spending quality time with the city’s bogeyman population, but they understood that it was the only way we could keep them safe, since taking them into battle with us would have been an even worse idea.
It was a good thing the Madhura weren’t coming, since Uncle Mike’s car was barely big enough as it was. I got the front seat—no one really wanted to snuggle up to the touch-activated telepath—while Istas, Ryan, and Dominic were crammed into the back. It would have been funny, if the situation hadn’t been so dire. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Verity would have laughed if she’d seen her boyfriend wedged between two therianthropes like that. She probably would have taken a dozen pictures with her phone and threatened to use them for her Christmas cards.
Thinking about Verity’s laughter helped me keep my shields up, which kept me from picking up on the thoughts of the people around me. That was good. The vague dread filling the car was stomach-churning enough without adding any stronger signals. Being a telepath in a largely non-telepathic society means the onus of not reading people’s minds is entirely on me. Almost no one maintains a decent mental shield on purpose, and the ones who do it accidentally are rare enough to be a miracle.
At least Istas wasn’t worried. Her emotional state was pure excitement, and a particularly bloody sort of anticipation. It said something about the day I’d been having that this was reassuring.
“We’re here,” said Uncle Mike.
The backseat emptied like a clown car at the circus, everyone hurrying to be the first one out. Uncle Mike moved at a more leisurely pace, still efficient, but aware that no amount of hurry was going to make up for an assload of support and ammunition. I was somewhere in the middle, clearing the car while Uncle Mike was still setting the alarm. The other three were almost to the Freakshow doors. I hurried to catch up.
The ticket booth was empty when I got there, and the doors themselves were closed and locked. According to the posters advertising the Freakshow’s virtues, the club should have been open, even if this wasn’t anything like peak business hours. I guess when your friendly neighborhood cryptozoologist gets herself taken by her less friendly relations, staying closed starts looking like the better option.
“Now what?” demanded Dominic.
“Chill,” said Ryan. He knocked four times, paused, and knocked twice more. There was an answering knock from inside. Ryan knocked again.
“This code is stupid,” said Istas. “We should simply allow whomever is manning the door to eat anyone unwelcome. People we do not want coming around would quickly cease.”
“Or they’d come back with tanks,” said Ryan. “Strategic thinking means not eating your enemies all the time.”
“I hate strategic thinking,” grumbled Istas.
Kitty opened the door. I blinked.
She was wearing the modern equivalent of bogeyman cultural dress: dark gray leggings and a knee-length dress a few shades lighter, cut to accommodate the length and flexibility of her limbs. Her hair was loose around her face, accentuating the strangeness of seeing her like this. Kitty could never pass perfectly for human—very few types of cryptid can. A lot of the ones who come close, like Kitty, resent me for how easily I can move through the human world, even if they forget why they resent me the second I’m out of their sight. Still, she normally wore human clothing, and kept her hair neatly styled. The monster-under-the-bed look wasn’t normal for her.
If she was wearing a bogeyman’s array, she meant business.
“Come on in,” she said. “Everybody’s waiting.”
“Thank you again, Kitty,” said Uncle Mike, and stepped into the Freakshow. Ryan and Istas followed.
Dominic moved to do the same. Kitty stepped between him and the opening, setting her hand flat against his chest. She wasn’t exerting nearly enough pressure to hold him in place, but he still stopped, looking at her gravely.
“This is your fault,” she said. “I’m going to bet that you’ve already been threatened to within an inch of your worthless life, so I’m not going to bother. I’m just going to make you a promise. If the Price girl dies, that’s sad, but she knew this job was dangerous when she took it. If a single cryptid who didn’t choose to walk into this fight dies? Just one? I will be the monster in your closet for the rest of your life. If not me, then my cousins, and their cousins, until you’ve paid for your sins. Do I make myself clear?”
A bogeyman threatening a trained operative from the Covenant of St. George should have been funny. It wasn’t, because I didn’t have to be a telepath to know Kitty meant it. If Dominic failed, she was going to throw the weight of her entire species at destroying him.
I almost felt sorry for the man, but Dominic didn’t waste time with anything as useless as self-pity. He just nodded, and said, “I understand, and I accept your punishment as just.”
Kitty blinked, surprise rolling off her like fog. She dropped her hand. “Well, then,” she said, sounding bewildered. “As long as we’ve got that straight.” Then she stepped aside, letting Dominic into the Freakshow.
I moved to follow. Her hand flashed up again.
“Hold it,” she said. “Who are you again?”
Oh, fudgesicles.
* * *
This is life as a cuckoo: sometimes your allies will cease to be your allies in the middle of a bad situation, because your distress signals are overwhelming the low-grade “we should be friends, let’s be besties” beacon that cuckoos put out at all times. Bogeymen are more resistant than humans, maybe because they made easier targets in the days before they learned to lock their doors against us. Easier, not preferred—cuckoos are happiest when they blend in, and we blend in best with humans.
“Sarah Zellaby,” I said, and quoted her own words back at her: “‘
Verity’s little adopted cousin with the big blue eyes and the clear antifreeze for blood.’ Does that ring any bells?”
Kitty’s eyes widened, a response I didn’t have to be good with faces to understand. “You’re a cuckoo.”
“Yes, but I’m a good cuckoo, I swear, and we’ve met before like a dozen times. You usually remember me. I’m sorry, I’m so freaked out that I’m broadcasting.” I tried to focus on building a mental wall between us. It was harder than normal. Stress was making everything slippery.
Kitty’s suspicion slowly gave way to recognition. “Sarah?”
“Yes,” I said, and smiled a little, hopefully. “Sorry for the whammy, I didn’t know it was going to be that bad.”
“Just try to keep it under wraps while we’re inside,” she said, lowering her hand. “I don’t want you starting a riot.”
It was a lot more likely that I’d start a new branch of the “everybody protect Sarah” club, but I didn’t say anything. I just stepped past Kitty. She closed and locked the door behind me. I waited for her to finish, and we walked together down the canvas-draped corridor to the main room where, by the sounds of things, there was quite a party going on. The mental noise hit a second after the audible noise did: at least two or three dozen people, almost as many different species, and all of them doing their best not to panic.
I gasped. I couldn’t help myself. The wall I’d built to keep from broadcasting to Kitty was good, but it was nowhere near good enough to withstand the assault waiting at the end of the hall.
“Are you okay?” asked Kitty.
“What?” I hadn’t even realized that I wasn’t walking anymore. My legs had stopped moving without conscious command, taking themselves out of the equation while I did the complicated mental math of self-protection. I needed better walls, bigger walls, walls that could keep me from becoming so overwhelmed that I whammied everyone in the room just to keep them from hurting me.
“Are you okay?” repeated Kitty. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
Midnight Blue-Light Special i-2 Page 24
