I lose my temper and start shooting?”
That seemed to put him back on familiar ground. Straightening, he puffed out his chest and said, “I am armored with righteousness.”
“Does righteousness protect you from small-caliber bullets?”
He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re human?”
“Both my parents swear it.”
“I’ll get you down.”
I smiled, not shifting my aim. “Good plan.”
The snare was anchored to an iron bolt hammered into a nearby chunk of masonry. My captor disappeared in that direction, leaving me dangling. I had just long enough to wonder whether he’d decided to cut and run when I felt a sharp tug on the rope, and I was lowered slowly, if not smoothly, to the ground. I tucked the gun back into my waistband, stretching my hands overhead and using them to turn the end of my descent from a straight drop into a lazy somersault.
Pulling my windbreaker down over my hands made me clumsy, but didn’t prevent me from untying the knot, and kept me from getting any more of that stinging slime on my hands. I had just finished pulling off the snare when the man came back into view. He pointed his flashlight at my ankle, and I let my breath hiss out between my teeth. My sock had been able to protect me from the bulk of the damage, but there was still blood soaking into the white cotton in several places. The human leg wasn’t meant to be used as a long-term hanging mechanism.
“You bleed red,” he said, sounding relieved.
“I bleed red, and replacement socks come out of my paycheck.” I slipped the rope off over my foot. “You ever try to get blood out of white cotton?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t bleed at all, ma’am,” he said. Suddenly formal, he walked over and bent to offer his hand. “I’m sure you understand my caution. I certainly wasn’t expecting to make so undeserving a capture.” I looked at him blankly. When I didn’t take his hand, he hastened to add, “Dominic De Luca, at your service. I promise you my intention is purely to assist.”
“Next time, assist me by not setting snares on the rooftop, okay?” I ignored his hand and levered myself upright, gingerly testing to see how much weight I could put on my left ankle. The answer: not enough. I’d had worse injuries both in the field and on the dance floor, but a banged-up ankle is never an asset. “Ow.”
“I assure you, ma’am, your capture was not my intention.”
“What was your intention? That thing’s too big for pigeons, and you’re not likely to catch many rats up here.”
An expression of distaste flashed across his face. He was decent-looking when he wasn’t scowling like that; he had a good, strong bone structure, dark eyes, and hair that was either black or a deep enough brown that the low light stole its color entirely. Even standing six inches taller than me made him short by American standards, but perfectly reasonable by mine, and he was built like the men I usually danced with: lean and solid-looking. I knew he had to be reasonably strong. He’d managed not to drop me when he untied the snare.
“There are things, ma’am, that it is perhaps better of which you do not know.”
“Hold on.” I studied him, narrowing my eyes. The formal language. The snare. The holy water. The duster, stereotypical uniform of the “monster hunters” of the world. “Things it is perhaps better of which I do not know?”
“There are more things in Heaven and in Earth—”
I raised a hand, cutting him off. “First, do not quote Shakespeare at me. I get that quite enough from my grandma. Second, what are you doing here?”
He narrowed his eyes in turn, the expression barely visible with the flashlight pointed in my direction. “I don’t think I have to answer the questions of a strange woman who stumbles into my snares and refuses to give me her name,” he said.
I looked back toward the thing he’d been dragging when he first appeared. Before he had a chance to stop me, I half-limped over to where it had been dropped. It looked like an old brown sack at first, until I turned it over with my foot and saw the ahool’s characteristically apelike face snarling up at me. Its eyes were glazed with death.
“Miss—”
“You killed it,” I said numbly. “You killed the ahool.”
“You … know this fell beast?” His steps slowed, taking on a newly cautious edge. “You asked what I was doing here. Perhaps I should be asking you the same.”
“You killed it. It was just—just being an ahool, minding its own business, and you
“Miss.” Dominic’s footsteps stopped entirely. His voice was hard. “Who
“You killed it.” The urge to shoot him was overwhelming. Only a lifetime of etiquette lessons and the irritating fact that he was probably wearing some sort of body armor stopped me. I turned to face him. “You’re with the Covenant, aren’t you?”
I might as well have shot him from the way he recoiled. He took a step backward, one hand going to his hip and pulling a nasty looking hunting knife from a previously hidden scabbard. “How do you know that?”
“Simple.” I offered a sweet, sunny, entirely insincere smile, trying to pretend that I wasn’t standing in front of a dead cryptid that had been needlessly slaughtered in
No one knows exactly when the organization that became the Covenant was founded. Their ranks included a lot of scholars and scribes, but records get lost, libraries have a tendency to burn down—especially when the libraries belong to a secret society that goes around harassing dragons for fun—and if you give history enough time, it has a nasty tendency to turn into myth. We know it’s been around for centuries. We know it’s all over the world, sometimes under different names, but always with the same mission statement: if a thing doesn’t fit whatever’s currently defined as “natural,” it needs to die. No argument, no discussion, no mercy. From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night, the Covenant is out to deliver us. Whether or not we particularly want to be delivered.
Nice folks, the Covenant, especially given the part where, last time any of us bothered to check, they were really invested in the idea of arresting my entire family and dragging us to their central headquarters to stand trial for crimes against humanity. Just being born a Price is enough to qualify as a traitor to the human race, which is a neat trick. All the treason, none of the effort. And how did we earn the enmity of a global brotherhood of fanatic monster hunters? The simple way: we quit.
My paternal great-great-grandparents, Alexander and Enid Healy, were born into the Covenant. They were active members for years before they started wondering what the hell they were doing. Then Great-Great-Grandpa Healy found the connection between wiping out the unicorns in England and the great cholera epidemic, and it was all over but the shouting, recriminations, and emigration to America. Maybe the Covenant could have forgiven them for their desertion, but two generations later, my grandmother married Thomas Price, a representative of the Covenant who’d been sent to make sure the Healys were harmless. Leaving was bad enough, but convincing others to defect was enough to start a blood feud.
That doesn’t even
The Covenant: because sometimes you want your genocidal assholes to be organized. Now one of those same genocidal assholes was in my city, holding a knife on me, looking like I’d just run over his dog. And he was killing cryptids. This was sure shaping up to be a swell night.
“Price,” he said, with almost exaggerated care. “As in…?”
“Thomas Price was my grandfather.” I didn’t feel the need to mention my parents. For one thing, they weren’t on the roof. For another, invoking the Bakers would probably be enough to tip him over the edge. He’d
