The devil’s in the details, and so is the hook. Good deceit begins at the molecular level, and works its way up from there.
“Got any receipts I can have?”
Verity nodded. “There’s a bunch in the envelope. All cash, so no one can use them to track us down, all either things that make sense for a carnival girl attending college to buy before going back to her family, or things she would have bought after learning they were dead.”
And the dates and locations would be good, too: I knew that much. Verity might be self-centered and a little shortsighted at times, but she was smart, and she knew her shit. She wouldn’t give me something that could blow my cover, and I wouldn’t insult her by checking each individual receipt in front of her. I’d check them later, at the airport; maybe even discard a few, creating a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone who wanted to use psychometry to verify that I’d really flown out of New York. “ATM code the usual?”
“Yeah. There’s about eight hundred dollars in the account. Try to avoid using it unless you have to, since we’re not in a position to refill it right now. Save it for emergencies.”
“Do my best.” I began swapping my new self into the wallet, sliding IDs into place, shoving receipts in willy-nilly. “Social?”
“In the envelope.”
I looked. It was there, along with a stack of bills. Mixed dollars and pounds; good. I put them in the wallet with everything else. “How am I getting to the airport? You can’t drive me.”
“We’re going to drive you across town and drop you off. You can hail a cab from there.”
That way my starting point wouldn’t be the slaughterhouse or the decrepit bodega. It was good thinking. I nodded. “Artie was supposed to be arranging my tech?”
“New phone and laptop are preloaded with your files and ready to go,” she said. “The phone has a lot of local numbers, and a bunch of entries for people who died at the Black Family Carnival. We even put in some ‘local friends,’ in case they try to do a background check by calling random people from your phonebook. They’re all cryptids we know, and they’ll answer any calls from your new number by addressing you by name and asking if you’re enjoying your London vacation.”
They seemed to be thinking of everything. I nodded again. I was starting to feel like a bobble head toy. “Did he remember to send me a new iPod?”
“He did. Preloaded, through the new laptop, so it won’t have any relict data that could give you away.”
“Cool. I think we’re good.”
“I hope we’re good.” Verity looked at me gravely. “You’re the only sister I’ve got, Annie. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Be safe over there, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” On an impulse, I offered her my free hand. Looking confused and pleased, she took it. “Keep things going over here, all right? I don’t want to come home to a smoking wasteland.”
Verity laughed unsteadily. I realized, with dull surprise, that she was probably trying not to cry. “I’ll do my best, too.”
There didn’t seem to be anything to say after that. We sat in silence, waiting for Istas to come and wash the henna out of my hair; waiting for the next step of my voyage to begin.
Five
“No matter how fast you run, you can’t change who you are.”
—Jane Harrington-Price
London, England, walking down Charing Cross Road, approaching Cecil Court, one transatlantic flight later
I WAS DONE.
No. That wasn’t quite right. I was a hundred miles past done, cresting into the Fjords of Nope, heading for Fuck-That-Ville. The sidewalk was uneven, traffic was moving in the wrong direction, pedestrians kept looking at me like I was an accident about to happen—which, let’s be honest, I probably was—and I was ready to lie down in the street and sleep for a month. Which was exactly why I had to keep going.
Antimony Price, cryptozoologist, derby girl, and sensible person, would have gone straight to a hotel upon arriving in the United Kingdom, where she would have slept and showered and done all those other wonderful things that make the world a less unrelentingly awful place. Antimony Price would never have done this to herself. But I wasn’t Antimony Price anymore. No, I was Timpani Brown, last survivor of the Black Family Carnival, and I wasn’t here to have fun or take care of my physical needs. I was here for revenge. And revenge did not need a nap.
(That was another advantage to doing this while sleep-deprived: as long as my story didn’t slip, the screwed-up chemicals rampaging through my brain would make it harder for a lie detector, magical or mundane, to tell that I wasn’t telling the complete truth. Staggering through their door exhausted and miserable made me more credible, not less.)
Dominic’s intel said there I’d find a Covenant recruiting office hidden in an antiquarian bookstore on Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road. Which was all well and good, except for the part where the entire damn neighborhood was made of antiquarian bookstores. I’d never seen so many old, dusty, potentially creepy books shoved into window displays like it was no big deal. If I’d been more awake, they would have been incredibly tempting. As it was, I wished there were a few less of them, just to make this easier. Making things even more fun, England does not believe in American-style street signs. I wound up standing and scowling at a dead end, trying to figure out what to do next. Going back to the airport was sadly not an option.
A hand tapped my shoulder. I suppressed my first impulse, which involved breaking fingers. I suppressed my second impulse, which involved stabbing. Jet lag does terrible things to my nerves. In the end, lacking any other nonviolent options, I turned around.
The man behind me was tall, thin, and dressed like a clerk, which hopefully meant he worked in the area. His wire-framed glasses somehow looked more “scholar” and less “hipster,” maybe because his bow tie was accessorized with a camel-hair jacket and a cross-body book bag.
“You look lost,” he said. Oh, definitely a local: his accent would have gotten him a dozen dates and a marriage proposal at a Harry Potter convention. “Tourist, yeah?”
“First time in London,” I admitted. I flapped my free hand helplessly at the buildings around us. “I’m looking for Cecil Court, but I can’t figure out what any of these streets are called. I only know I’m on Charing Cross because the man at the ticket booth told me so.”
“There’s no housing on Cecil Court,” said the man, visibly perplexed. “You know that, right? If you’re looking for a hotel, or a hostel, you’re going to have to look elsewhere.”
“I know. This is an . . . errand, before I go and get some sleep. I’m Annie, by the way.”
“Leonard, although most people call me Leo,” he said, still looking bewildered. “Well, far be it from me to leave a beautiful young woman in distress. I was heading for Cecil Court anyway. Follow me, and we’ll get you to your destination.”
“You work there?” I asked, falling into step next to him as he started up the street—back in the direction I’d come from, naturally. Sometimes my sense of direction is unforgivable.
“Family business,” he said. “I put in a few days a month, to keep my hand in. What brings you to London?”
“Family business,” I said. I tried to grimace and yawn at the same time. The resulting expression probably looked like an animation error.
Leo chuckled. “Let’s get you where you’re going before you pass out on your feet.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully, and kept following him. He could have been leading me into a trap and I would have gone willingly, just to know where I was. In a way, I suppose that’s exactly what he was doing. He was leading me to the Covenant.
We crossed the street and entered what I had assumed was an alley when I’d passed it before. Silly me. Leo stopped at a storefront. Ornate gold letters on a window display packed with antique hardcovers proclaimed CUNNINGHAM & SONS, EST. 1751.
“This is where I get off,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I just did,” I said.
He frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Cunningham and Sons,” I said, indicating the door behind him. “This is where I’m supposed to go.”
His eyes widened, surprise radiating through his features. Then his face smoothed out, turning neutral. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’ll just—”
“Yeah.”
He held the door for me. That was a nice touch. He closed and locked it once I was inside. That was less nice, more “this is how the horror movie begins.” I would have been concerned, but honestly, I was too tired for concern, and this was only the beginning. If I couldn’t survive my initial encounter with the Covenant, I might as well not have come. Mindy could find her way home. She knew where the airport was, and mice make amazingly good stowaways when you couple their small size with human intelligence. She’d be okay.
If I’d been aware that exhaustion would make me this calm in the face of death, I would have stopped sleeping years ago.
“Are you not open?” I asked, turning to watch as he pulled the shade over the door. “Because I can come back later, if you need me to. I saw a coffee shop up the street.”
“You saw a few dozen, I’m sure,” said Leo. He pushed past me, heading for a door behind the counter. “Please stay where you are, and touch nothing. I’m going to get my grandfather.”
“Sure,” I said, and yawned again, smothering it with my hand.
Leo vanished, leaving me alone with the door—which, while locked, I could easily have opened. This was a test. I wasn’t sure whether it was the sort of test where they hunted me down and killed me for letting myself out, or the sort of test where they were giving me one last chance to change my mind. It honestly didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going anywhere. I stayed where I was, yawning occasionally, and waited.
Seconds ticked by, becoming minutes. I began considering going somewhere after all: to sleep on their floor. They could wake me when they wanted me to talk.
The door behind the counter opened. Leo reappeared, followed by a man who looked a lot like an older version of him. Much older: unlike my grandparents, his had the good grace to show their actual age. He was still in good shape, with a trim figure and surprisingly regal bearing. He was just wrinkled and gray-haired at the same time. Leo’s grandfather was well-groomed, what my mother would have called a “natty dresser” in his suit and tie, and leaning on a polished wooden cane that probably contained a sword, or at least had a poisoned tip. I stood a little straighter, smothering another yawn. You only get one chance to make a first impression. I wanted to survive this one.
They walked toward me, taking their time. I didn’t say anything, giving them the space to look me over. Leo’s grandfather seemed to be looking harder than Leo himself; Leo, in fact, looked slightly sick, like he hadn’t been planning on spending his day hiding a body. The urge to say something pithy and reassuring was almost overwhelming. I swallowed it and kept waiting.
Finally, the older man spoke. “My name is Reginald Cunningham,” he said. “This is my establishment. Please state your business in a succinct and coherent fashion.”
“My name is Timpani Brown,” I said. Technically, that was the truth: “Timpani” is my middle name, and “Brown” was my great-grandmother’s maiden name, which means it’s mine to claim if I want it. The Covenant only ever knew her as Frances Healy, and she’d been a foundling: the name had been a gift to her by the people who did the finding, and she’d given it to the rest of the family, a get-out-of-jail free card in its own way. If the Covenant had a routewitch to sic on my name, they’d find nothing about it that wasn’t true. “I’m looking for . . . I mean, I was told that if I came here, I could find . . .” I stopped, letting my fear and uncertainty shine through.
The best lies are built on a sturdy foundation of truth. The more honesty you can put into a con, the more chance you’ll have to run it all the way to the end.
“Looking for what?” asked the older Mr. Cunningham. There was still no gentleness in his voice, but he sounded a little less cold: my routine was working. “A first edition? A folio? This is a rare bookstore.”
“But that’s not . . . all it is, is it?” I looked between them, trying to project anxiety. “I didn’t fly to London for a bookstore.”
“What did you fly here for?”
Here it was: the big moment. If I couldn’t convince them to buy what I was selling, I might as well pack it up and go home—and there was a good chance I wouldn’t be able to do that, because I would be dead. I took a deep breath, and said, “I’m looking for the Covenant of St. George. I was told this was a recruitment center, and I want to sign up. Um. Please.”
They exchanged a look. Leo gave the strong impression that he was pleading silently with his grandfather. Reginald shook his head before focusing his attention back on me. He took a step forward, suddenly menacing. The cane in his hand looked very much like a weapon.
“Who told you those words, little girl?” he demanded, voice low. “Who spoke those things to you?”
They were definitely choosing “menace” from their menu of options. That was fine. I know how to deal with menace. I swallowed, and said, “I met a man in a bar in New York City. I was . . . my family, my whole family died. Monsters killed them. I guess I got sort of drunk. I was trying to tell people monsters were real, that the government was lying to us and hiding them, and this man, he bought me a coffee, and he sat with me until I sobered up, and he told me about the Covenant. He said St. George was a dragon slayer who founded an order dedicated to keeping humanity safe. He said they were heroes.”
I was laying it on a little thick, but my audience seemed to be lapping it up. At least Reginald Cunningham hadn’t shown me what was inside his cane, and under the circumstances that was good enough for me. I sniffled, letting myself break eye contact and look down at my feet. There are people who think too much eye contact is just as sure a sign of a liar as not enough.
“He said no one would believe what happened to my family, and he was right, because I’ve tried to tell a lot of people, and no one’s been willing to listen. And he said if I came to London, if I found this bookstore, I’d find the Covenant. I could offer my services. Maybe I could get some peace, or at least a whole lot of revenge.” I looked up. “I just want to make sure no one else has to go through what I’ve gone through.”
“Monsters, you say,” said Reginald. “What kind of monsters?”
“Wasps. Wasps the size of kittens. They killed everyone, and when I came home to bury my parents, they talked to me from the trees.” I shuddered. “They had my mother’s voice. They called me by name. They wanted me to go with them. God help me, I wanted to go. I wanted to let them take me into the trees and make the hurting stop. I guess I would have, if one of them hadn’t flown too close to the light.”
“Apraxis wasps,” said Leo.
“Quiet,” said Reginald.
“But, Grandfather—”
“I said quiet, Leonard,” snapped Reginald. His eyes never left me. “Where did this happen?”
“Vancouver. My family owned a small traveling carnival. Um. The Black Family Carnival? I was away taking my SATs when they stopped for repairs and the wasps came. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t there with them. I lived because I wasn’t with them. I don’t know whether to be happy I survived or guilty, because maybe if I’d been there, we would have been able to keep the wasps at bay.”
Reginald raised his hand. I forced myself not to flinch as he reached out and set it gently on my shoulder. His skin was cool and papery where it touched mine.
“There was nothing you could have done, child,” he said. “Apraxis wasps come out of the dark like a wave, and they flow over everyt
hing in their path. Your family wouldn’t have had any time to flee before the oncoming devastation.”
“I should have been there,” I said.
“You’re here now,” he said. His expression hardened. “I don’t trust you yet. You’ll be questioned, and you’ll be tested. But you have come this far, and never let it be said that an order founded in St. George’s name turned any earnest supplicant away.”
Well, score.
He turned to Leo. “If you would do the honors?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Leo apologetically. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white rag.
“Whoa, hold on,” I said, putting up a hand. “Is this where you ask me whether that smells like chloroform? Is there any other way? I’m here because I want to be, but I’m really not in the mood for a three-day headache and depressed breathing, if that’s okay.”
They both stared at me. Belatedly, I remembered that while Antimony Price was intimately acquainted with the effects of chloroform, Timpani Brown probably wasn’t. Exhaustion also had its downsides.
“We had lions for a while,” I fibbed. Hopefully the carnival records would support that, or at least not contradict it. “Their trainer preferred to control them with chloroform. All of us had to learn what the risks were, for safety reasons. I really don’t like chloroform.”
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