“As I’ll ever be. Come on. Let’s go see a dragon about an apartment.”
Mike’s car was parked a block down the street from my apartment, where I would have seen it if I hadn’t come in via the rooftops. It was a black Lincoln sedan, and it would be practically invisible in the traffic of any major city. I paused, eyeing it.
“Did you trade in the other car?” I asked.
“Always stay two years behind the times,” he replied, clicking the button to unlock the doors. “Any newer, looks like you’ve got money, you become a viable target. Any older, you risk sticking out. Two years is the sweet spot.”
“I’m assuming that means ‘yes,’” I guessed. “See, I avoid that problem by never driving anywhere.”
“Not all of us want to be Batgirl when we grow up,” said Mike, and got into the driver’s seat. There was nothing to do at that point but get in on my side, and trust him not to kill us horribly.
(To be fair, Uncle Mike is an excellent driver. He has to be, if he wants to stay alive in Chicago, which seems to have been outfitted with more than its fair share of hitchhiking ghosts, phantom roadsters, demonically possessed convertibles, and idiots who don’t know how to use their turn signals. There are cities that just reinforce my decision not to get a driver’s license. Chicago may not be at the top of the list, but it’s right on up there. The first two cities on the list are Los Angeles, for obvious reasons, and Warsaw, Indiana, for less obvious ones.)
“So how’s things with the dancing?” asked Mike, as he steered us around a double-decker bus full of tourists who were gawking, for no apparent reason, at a street mime. Tourists are weird. If you can accept that, everything about New York starts making infinitely more sense. “Lea and I both voted for you every night while you were on TV, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I said, touched. “That’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”
“Hey, it was our pleasure. You’re pretty good, you know that?”
“I’m aware.” I wasn’t bragging. I just wasn’t arguing with him. There was no point in false modesty: pretending you don’t understand your own skills is a good way to get yourself killed when you’re out in the field, and once you’ve given up on underestimating yourself in one area, you might as well give it up entirely. “The dancing is going . . . I mean, it’s going, I guess. I spend as much time on it as I can, but other things keep getting in the way, and a lot of the time, they seem way more important. So I guess it’s not going as well as I hoped it would be by now, you know?”
“Yeah, I do.” He made a right turn, following the silent instructions of his car’s GPS. “I used to want to be a bartender, you know.”
I blinked. “You did?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s the perfect job. You mix a few drinks, you listen to people’s problems, you get smiled at by pretty girls, and at the end of the night, unless you have a drinking problem, you get to leave it all behind and go back to a nice little apartment where nothing’s lurking in your closet to rip your guts out. It seemed pretty much ideal if you asked me.”
Like most of us, Uncle Mike is a hereditary cryptozoologist. His family didn’t start with the Covenant—in fact, they didn’t even know that cryptids existed until after they’d settled in Chicago, when there was some sort of an incident involving his great-grandfather, a hungry river hag, and my great-grandparents, Frances and Jonathan Healy. At the end of it, they had a dead river hag and a new associate, Arturo Gucciard. He raised his kids knowing about the cryptozoological world, and his kids did the same with theirs, leading us, three generations later, to me and Mike, driving through downtown Manhattan.
“I didn’t know this wasn’t always what you wanted,” I admitted. “What changed?”
“I met Lea. Realized I couldn’t trust that other people would always keep her safe—no offense to you or your family, but since you split out of Michigan, it’s not like you’re exactly the folks next door, you know?”
“No offense taken.”
“I wanted to make sure things stayed safe for her, and that meant staying a part of the community. Besides, it turns out that I’m pretty good at monster hunting and cryptid social work. It’s hard to fit on a résumé. It still keeps the bills paid, and it keeps my wife nice and breathing, which is a priority for me.”
“Yeah.” I leaned back in my seat, sighing. This seemed like an odd time for a heart-to-heart—Covenant, eminent danger, possible purge—but Manhattan traffic doesn’t respect dramatic tension. We’d get there when we got there, and not a minute before. “I want to dance. I mean, it’s what I’ve wanted my whole life. But it’s a daylight career, and so much of what we do happens at night. I’ve missed three competitions, I’ve had to stop working as a dance instructor . . . I don’t know. I’m just not seeing how I can make both things work at the same time, and if I have to choose one over the other . . .” I stopped.
Mike chose cryptozoology for Lea. I could do the same for Sarah and Ryan and Istas and the mice—all the people that I cared about who didn’t fall on the “human” side of the fence. Even my cousin Artie and Uncle Ted, although they had Aunt Jane to make sure nothing came after them. But dance was what I loved. How long would I be able to go without resenting everyone I cared about if I felt like they had forced me to give up the thing that I loved most in the world?
Uncle Mike patted my knee as he pulled into a parking space that had just opened up on the block across from the Freakshow. He neatly cut off a taxi in the process, and the driver leaned hard on his horn, shouting obscenities that were drowned out by the noise. I smiled a little. Uncle Mike smiled back.
“You’ll figure it out, Very,” he said, turning off the engine. “You think you’re the first one who didn’t want to grow up and take over the family business? Hell, your daddy didn’t always want it. He was going to teach history. And my grandpa used to say that your great-grandpa Johnny wanted to be a librarian.”
“Great-Grandpa was a librarian,” I said.
“That was his daytime job. He never made it out of Buckley, because his real job was in those woods, with your great-grandma. They figured it out. So will you.”
I frowned. “Has anyone ever figured out that what they really want to do is walk away and have that daylight job all by itself, forever?”
“No,” said Mike. “Come on. Let’s go meet your boss.”
The dragon from before was no longer in the ticket booth. She had been replaced by a more familiar, less friendly face: Istas, who was sitting calmly behind the glass, stitching another layer of lace onto the edge of her parasol as she waited for a paying customer to demand her attention. I rapped on the edge of the booth. She lifted her head and frowned, eyes narrowing.
“Why are you on the ground?” she demanded. Her gaze flicked to Uncle Mike, who was standing behind me and trying politely not to loom. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I’m five-two, and almost any adult male will wind up looming over me if he stands too close. “Who is this man?” Her expression brightened slightly, although the frown remained, which was a neat trick. “Are you being held against your will?”
“No,” I said quickly, skipping pleasantries in favor of stopping Istas before she could decide to disembowel my uncle. “Istas, this is Mike Gucciard, a friend, associate, and honorary member of my family. Uncle Mike, this is Istas, one of my coworkers.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Mike, giving Istas a thoughtful look. Istas looked unflinchingly back.
This is Istas: picture a drop-dead gorgeous Inuit girl, about five-six, and roughly an American size sixteen. Now give her a wardrobe entirely based on the concept that one can never have too much lace, too many ribbons, or too many puffy skirts. She’s possibly the only waheela in the world devoted to the Gothic Lolita school of fashion, which means she’s almost certainly the only waheela in the world who regularly wears her hair in spiral-curled pigtails.