“I’m sorry about before,” I said awkwardly, sitting down across from him. “I know you were trying to help. My reaction was out of line.”
Dominic sipped his cocoa. “Yes,” he agreed. “It was. To be fair, however, it was unexpected information. You had good reason to react as you did. I may have hoped that you would respond better, but I knew not to place all my faith in hoping.”
“Dad said . . . I mean, he thinks, and maybe I think, too . . . I mean . . .” I stopped, sighing, and took a deep breath before I continued. “Dominic, there’s no way we can evacuate this entire city before the Covenant gets here. And there’s no way for you to prevent them from coming. I’m going to need help making sure they do as little damage as possible. Please. I need your help.”
Dominic’s answer was delayed by Rochak’s arrival. He was carrying a plate of the café’s rightfully famous gingerbread. He also had a cup of hot cocoa for me. “Hello, Verity,” he said, with an honest smile.
“Hey, Rochak.” For a man who accused me of killing his sister the first time we met, Rochak has mellowed a lot where I’m concerned. I stood as he put the dishes down, giving him a quick hug. “How is everything?”
“It’s been better.” His eyes darted toward Dominic as he pulled away from me. “Is there really a purge coming?”
“Yes.” There was no percentage in sugarcoating things. So to speak. “That’s what we’re talking about now.”
“Sunil and I won’t leave.”
I bit back a sigh as I settled into my seat. “I didn’t think you would. So I guess we’ll just have to keep you under the radar.”
“I guess so,” said Rochak, and smiled again before he turned to slip out of the nook.
I looked back to Dominic, who was watching me with unguarded affection. “You are insane, infuriating, and in dire need of aid if you’re going to survive this,” he said. “My help was always yours. All you had to do was ask for it.”
“I’m asking,” I said.
“Then I’m yours.” He nudged the plate of gingerbread toward me. “Gingerbread?”
“Gingerbread and tactics,” I agreed, picking up a piece of piping-hot baked goodness. “Now that’s a date that I can really get behind.”
Dominic laughed. After a moment, I joined in.
Five
“The Covenant of St. George isn’t evil, simply misguided. This doesn’t mean you can’t shoot them, but it does mean you should apologize to their next of kin, should the opportunity ever arise.”
Downtown Manhattan, approaching the Port Hope Hotel
WE ATE HALF A PLATE of gingerbread and drank all the cocoa before coming to the conclusion that our next stop, tactically speaking, was Sarah’s place. She was family, which meant she had to be warned about what was coming. Beyond that, she was the fastest way for us to tell the dragons about the situation.
No one—and I mean no one, my family included—hates the Covenant of St. George like the dragons do. William is the last known male of their species, largely because of the Covenant’s fondness for dragon slaying. When they heard that a purge was coming, they were going to freak out. My family used to belong to the Covenant a long time ago, and the dragons have never quite forgiven us for that. If they got the news from me, things could turn ugly.
Sarah, on the other hand, is a cryptid, which makes her automatically more trustworthy than a human. It doesn’t hurt that everybody wants to trust a cuckoo, right up until the cuckoo stabs them in the back, steals their wallet, and runs away to Acapulco with their life savings. She’d have a better chance of explaining what was going on than I would . . . and sending her to explain things to the dragons would put her safely underground, in William’s nest, where I wouldn’t have to worry about her for a little while.
In deference to Dominic’s dislike of falling—and my own desire to finish eating my gingerbread, which was just as good as the sign on the door had promised it would be—I allowed him to flag down a taxi on the corner in front of Gingerbread Pudding. After checking my phone to be sure that I hadn’t forgotten where Sarah was staying, I gave the driver the address for the Port Hope Hotel and settled in my seat, ignoring my dislike of New York taxis in favor of enjoying my Madhura-concocted treats.
We were about halfway there when Dominic raised his head, gave me a bewildered look, and asked, “Where are we going again?”
“To see my cousin Sarah.” He still had some gingerbread left. I leaned over, snatching the last bite from his fingers before he could object. “She just changed hotels last week; that’s why you can’t remember where we’re going. Don’t worry about it.”
Dominic’s bewilderment lasted a few more seconds before it cleared away, replaced first by understanding, and then by an irritated scowl. “I hate the way she does that.”
“I know. But she doesn’t mean to, so you should really just shrug it off and wait until she stops hitting you so hard.” Given sufficient exposure to Sarah, he’d develop more resistance to her passive defenses, even as she got better at reading his mind. It’s a trade-off, and one that most of the family has been more than happy to make, since it means we don’t literally forget that she’s in the house when we can’t see her.
Dominic didn’t say anything. He just kept scowling.
To be honest, I understood his irritation. Camouflage is the cuckoo’s primary weapon; they become a part of their surroundings, disappearing from casual view by fitting in so perfectly that it’s impossible to think of them as unusual. Sarah’s periodic disappearing acts were the result of instinct telling her not to stay in one place long enough to get caught—that, and hotel security systems refusing to be telepathically influenced into ignoring the fact that she was essentially a squatter. Unfortunately, the amount of telepathic static kicked up by a cuckoo in the process of changing nests has a tendency to make even allies forget what’s going on, which is why I made sure to keep her latest hotel address in my phone memos.
(I encrypted the addresses, naturally, using a code key that requires intimate knowledge of the Argentine tango to break. Paranoia is a way of life when they’re genuinely out to get you.)
My Grandma Angela—also a cuckoo, in addition to being both Sarah and Mom’s adopted mother—says Sarah’s relocations make us forget where she is because normal cuckoos don’t haveany allies. They just have enemies who happen to not be trying to kill them at that particular moment. So periodically disappearing from absolutely everybody’s radar is the only way most ordinary cuckoos survive long enough to ruin the lives of everyone around them. Sarah may eventually be able to stop that from happening, but it’s going to take years of practice. Luckily, she doesn’t have any natural predators or catch human diseases, so unless she walks in front of a bus, she’s going to live a long, long time. Cuckoos are lucky that way.
They’re a charming species, the cuckoos. Except for the two that I’m technically related to, they’re the only cryptid race I can think of that should really be shot on sight—assuming you’d know one when you saw one, which is questionable. As it stands, they’re the only race that has absolutely no good ecological reason to exist. They’re not true apex predators and they’re not true parasites. They practice brood parasitism, but they usually do it in empty nests, so it’s not even like they’re reducing the human population (something that does occasionally need to be considered, no matter how distasteful I may find the idea).
Near as anyone can tell, the cuckoos don’t serve an otherwise unfilled purpose in any ecosystem. They just kill, and destroy, and break things for the pleasure of seeing the shards come raining down. Oh, and they do algebra. For fun. Their universal fascination with higher mathematics may be the least human thing about them.