Discount Armageddon

inconvenient, and while body disposal is surprisingly easy when you know what you’re doing, it’s not a pleasant way to spend an evening. Apparently, most of the De Luca family had already ridden the party line to extinction, since Dad had death records for a whole stack of De Lucas, including “Christabelle and Antonio De Luca” who were survived by their only son, Dominic. Poor guy must have been raised by the Covenant. That was just going to make him more annoying.

Aunt Jane’s letter was a sort of supplement to Dad’s information. He may be the family historian, but she’s the family nosy gossip columnist—a more useful function than you might guess. It helps that my Uncle Ted’s an incubus, which gives her a direct connection to the cryptid community. She’s an honorary succubus, and she gets on all the mailing lists.

According to Aunt Jane, asking her lists “Does anyone know what’s up in New York?” resulted in a positive deluge of information, all of it pointing back to one worrisome conclusion: nobody knew what was going on, and everybody thought it was going to be big, whatever it was. Which explained why the locals weren’t evacuating. Until they knew whether or not there was a problem, they wouldn’t want to risk losing their nesting spots, or deal with cell phone cancellation fees and forwarding their mail.

I printed the messages and stuffed them into my backpack before starting for the bathroom. It was time to get ready for my second shift in twenty-four hours. At least once I got there I could have a little word with my boss about why he hadn’t been clueing me in on gossip that might pertain to my chances of survival.

Wow, all this excitement and minimum wage, plus tips. Who says you can’t make a living in New York City?

Seven

“A proper lady should be able to smile pretty, wear sequins like she means it, and kick a man’s ass nine ways from Sunday while wearing stiletto heels. If she can’t do that much, she’s not trying hard enough.”

—Francis Brown

Just arriving at Dave’s Fish and Strips, a club for discerning gentlemen

BY THE TIME I GOT TO DAVE’S I was drenched in sweat, feeling put out and abused by the universe. I don’t know how walking at street level could do more damage to my admittedly low-maintenance haircut than running across the rooftops would have, but it managed. The gel I’d used to make myself look less like a startled cockatoo melted in the hot Manhattan air. At this point, my hairstyle was best described as “half spikes, half surprised mop.”

I stomped into the dressing room, stopped, and promptly upgraded my opinion on the unfairness of the universe. Candy was sitting in front of the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She looked as dewy-eyed and fresh as a Miss America contestant getting ready for the swimsuit competition. Even the tawdry uniform Dave forced us to wear was elevated by contact with her skin, somehow becoming raiment fit for a princess. And that’s exactly what it was, because she was a princess, cryptid royalty and, like any real princess, she didn’t need fur or jewels to let her intrinsic nobility shine through. Her flaxen hair was long, smooth, and perfect, just like her hourglass figure and fashion-model face. Nothing human should look that good. Which was a good thing, because Candy was a long way from human.

“Candice,” I greeted, heading for my locker.

Her gaze didn’t waver from her reflection as she offered a cool, “Verity,” in return. Out of all the girls working at Dave’s, Candy liked me the least.

Sadly, that made sense. My family is part of the reason she’s been reduced to cocktail waitressing—us, and the rest of the Covenant.

Dragon princesses look like curvaceous, drop-dead gorgeous human girls; as the name implies, there are no males, and their exact method of reproduction is unknown. Not, I’m ashamed to admit, due to a lack of field research. Cryptozoologists have been trying to figure out where dragon princesses come from for centuries. It’s one of our holy grails, like finding a living unicorn or, well, the Holy Grail. (People used to think dragon princesses hatched from the bodies of dead dragons. People also used to think rotting meat spontaneously generated flies, and that’s only occasionally true. It depends on the type of meat.)

Near as anyone can tell, dragon princesses evolved solely to care for dragons. They’re born craving gold and spend their lives pursuing wealth—and if they get it, they promptly use it to buy more gold. They gather in Nests, sleeping in tangled harems on beds of 24-carat loot. It’s a pretty sweet gig. There’s really just one problem with the dragon princess gig: dragons have been extinct for centuries, leaving their symbiotic pets to gather gold for nobody, and worse, leaving them stranded in the cryptid world with no natural weapons to speak of.

Dragon princesses don’t have fangs, claws, or poison. They don’t survive under impossible conditions or live in places where they won’t be bothered. They don’t burn—you could take a blowtorch to a dragon princess and all you’d do is piss her off—but there isn’t much call for the asbestos blonde.

The thing is, dragons didn’t go extinct. They were made extinct by the Covenant, since no one was really keen on sharing their living space with a giant fire-breathing lizard. That was long before either the Healys or the Prices left the Covenant, and it turns out dragon princesses carry a grudge as well as the dragons supposedly did. Maybe even better. Ninety percent of the world’s cryptid population have forgiven us for what our family used to be, focusing instead on what we’ve become: advocates, allies, and sometimes the only humans willing to put themselves in danger to save a cryptid life. The dragon princesses focus on what we used to be.

Killers.

I tossed my backpack into my locker and grabbed my spare uniform off the top shelf. I heard Candy shift in her seat, no doubt so she could keep watching me in the mirror. She didn’t like being alone in a room with me, largely because she seemed convinced I’d flip out and try to kill her at any moment. There were times when I was tempted, usually when she cleared one of my tables and they “mysteriously” failed to leave a tip, but my parents raised me to be tolerant of the racial quirks of our cryptid neighbors. In Candy’s case, that meant she’d need to be a lot bitchier before I wasted a bullet on her.

After fluffing the pleats on my skirt into their appropriate jailbait-esque configuration, I turned and asked, “Is Dave in his office?”

“Please. Like he’d leave it during the day?” Candice twisted to eye me suspiciously. “Why?”

There were a lot of possible answers to that question, starting with “like I’d tell you?” and going downhill from there. Sadly, protecting the cryptid population of Manhattan was at the core of my mission statement, and that meant I had to at least pretend to give a damn about Candy’s welfare. Even if I didn’t want to.

“I ran into a man from the Covenant last night while I was making my rounds. He seemed like he was planning to stick around for a while. Thought I’d check with Dave, see whether he knew anything about our new neighbor.”

Candy’s normally milk-and-roses complexion went waxen as her eyes widened until they looked like they were going to fall out of her head. Composing herself with a visible effort, she licked her lips and said, “You—you’re lying.”

“Sorry. Wish I was.” I shrugged. “His name’s Dominic De Luca. I already called my folks, and Dad sent me the intel on his family. They’re old school Covenant. Guy looks like he’s legit.”

“I … no. No, you have to be wrong.” She stood, scattering cosmetics as she fumbled for balance against the dressing room counter. “The Covenant doesn’t come here anymore.”

“The Covenant comes when it’s time for a purge, same as they come everywhere else.”

Her eyes widened again, but only for a few seconds; then they narrowed, fury suddenly radiating from her expression. “This is your fault,” she spat. “You and your goddamn family couldn’t just stay on the West Coast until they hunted you down, could you? And now they’ve followed you here. Well, I hope you’re happy, Verity. I just hope you’re happy.”

“Candy—”