“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?”
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 allthe 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.