Discount Armageddon

going to win me any points in technical style if he kept flinging me around like that. At least he looked the part, in skintight black jeans that were probably reinforced with Kevlar linings, a button-up red silk shirt, and a black half- duster that had to be murder in the heat, but allowed him to cut a dramatic silhouette, as well as hiding a hell of a lot more weapons than my own frothy confection of a costume. It was a step up from his generic monster-hunter trench coat. “This seemed like the best way to catch up.”

“You could have called,” I snapped. A little too loudly—one of the neighboring couples glanced in our direction, forcing me to move in even closer as I stage-whispered, “You had my number. Now where the hell is my partner?”

“The ‘gentleman’ with whom you were prepared to perform this parody of dance is currently indisposed.” The way he stressed the word “gentleman” made it clear he knew James wasn’t human.

I jerked back and stared at him, barely stopping the motion from turning graceless. “Did you kill my partner?” My voice came out steady and calm. That was due to the fact that my mind was otherwise occupied with trying to figure out how quickly I could get to my concealed weapons.

“Kill? No. I assumed it would upset you, and endanger our working relationship.” Dominic looked down his nose at me. No small task while we were spinning around the dance floor. “He’ll wake up in an hour or so.”

There was no possible way to salvage the competition. Even bribing the judges and claiming James had suffered some sort of unexpected medical emergency (one which happened to mysteriously clear up in time for us to join the final group) wouldn’t do it after I’d shown up on the floor with another man. It was going to look like we’d tried to pull a bait and switch. Worst of all, it hadn’t even resulted in my appearing with a better partner. Dominic was a decent tango dancer—that was clear from his posture and footwork—but he’d just as clearly never danced the Argentine tango in his life. He stepped mechanically through his paces while I flung myself around him, trying to pretend we were doing the same dance. It might have passed muster in a social situation, but here? It was suicide.

“You could have called,” I hissed again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“That I should refuse the discussion of serious business matters over an unsecured phone line? I’m sure I don’t know, but I hope it’s never corrected.”

“That’s it,” I snarled. I pulled back and mimicked the beginning of a partner- assisted spin before shouting in mock-pain and dropping down to clutch at my left ankle. Looks were cast in our direction by the other dancers, some sympathetic, some openly and maliciously pleased. One less couple in the competition meant one step closer to victory. Cold math, but as Sarah was so fond of telling me, numbers don’t lie. Everything else does, but numbers? Never.

Dominic stared at me, actually looking concerned as he stooped to kneel on the floor. “Have you twisted it? Those shoes you’re wearing—”

“Are appropriate for the occasion,” I hissed. “Now help me out of here.”

Taking help, even fake help, from a member of the Covenant rankled, but it was necessary if I wanted my “injury” to seem realistic. Leaning heavily on the arm he offered for support, I limped out of the tango competition with my head held high and entirely real tears shining in my eyes.

So much for making it to Regionals.

* * *

The nature of my disguise meant I couldn’t go from Valerie to Verity in the dance hall bathroom. I limped my way back to the coat check, where I reclaimed my duffel bag and coat. Dominic trailed behind me, looking puzzled. His look of puzzlement grew deeper when I stomped out of the dance hall, limp fading with every step I took away from the doors.

“You were faking?” he demanded.

“You couldn’t pick up a damn phone?”

“How could you be faking?”

“You thought coldcocking my partner and stuffing him—where did you stuff him?”

Dominic glanced away. “A storage closet.”

“Right. You thought coldcocking my partner and stuffing him into a storage closet before crashing my dance competition was less risky than picking up a damn phone and saying, ‘hey, want to talk to you about all the dead stuff in the city’? You’re crazy!” I started walking faster. “Certifiably crazy. And you owe me a refund on my entry fee, in addition to the five hundred for keeping my shirt on last night.”

“My apologies if I thought the threat we may be facing was more important than your little diversions.”

Something inside of me snapped. I’d put up with sidelong looks and subtly disapproving comments from my family for years. Getting outright disdain from a member of the Covenant of St. George was the last straw. I wheeled on him, jabbing a finger straight at the center of his chest. “Look, asshole, dancing is not a ‘little diversion.’ It’s my life, you got that? You had no right to track me down like this, and you really had no right to intrude. You don’t approve of my life? Well, screw you. At least I have one.”

He blinked at me, nonplussed. “I—”

“Save it and come with me.”

“What?” His expression turned wary. Not a bad call on his part. I was just about angry enough to shove his body into the nearest dumpster and take my chances on some concerned citizen finding him before the local ghouls did.

“You’ve fucked up my day, you’ve fucked up my chance to qualify for the next big competition, and you may have fucked up my cover. You’re not getting out of here without telling me what you came here to tell me. Now come on.”

I was starting to realize that the last of the items on that list was the one that represented the real danger. He’d blown my cover. A member of the Covenant knew that Valerie Pryor was actually Verity Price in insufficiently concealing clothing. Depending on what happened next, he might not have disqualified me from a single competition; he might well have disqualified me from my entire career.

It was a horrific thing to even think about, but if Dominic De Luca wanted to, he could make certain I’d never dance professionally again. I didn’t want to kill him. It was looking increasingly likely that I wasn’t going to have a choice.

* * *

I’ll give Dominic this, even if I didn’t want to give him anything else: he followed me without complaint, despite the havoc the heat outside had to be wreaking on his overly heavy attire. I marched him down the street, around a corner, and through the back door of a greasy spoon that stank like a hundred years of deep-fried dinners. He hesitated when he saw the kitchen, and I grabbed his jacket sleeve, dragging him deeper in. The fry cook on duty was a hulking shape in dirty whites, his back to us as he chopped some unidentifiable cut of meat into smaller and smaller chunks.

“Hey, Nigel,” I said.

He grunted, waving us on.

Dominic picked up the pace slightly, drawing close enough to hiss, “Is he—” in my ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I shoved open a door at the back of the kitchen, revealing a rickety flight of stairs leading to the storage rooms overhead. I took the steps two at a time, focusing my anger on the difficult task of not punching my five-inch heels through the half-rotten wood. It helped, a little. If I was thinking about not puncturing things with my shoes, I wasn’t thinking about how easy it would be to impale Dominic with them.

He managed to stay quiet until we reached the second floor. The hallway was choked off with boxes of old newspapers and stacks of dishes retired after they became too chipped for even the establishment downstairs. I wove between them, careful to keep from triggering an avalanche.

Dominic wasn’t so lucky. There was a shattering crash, followed by the sound of him swearing in loud, enthusiastic Italian. “Keep walking,” I said, in a singsong tone.

“What are we doing here?” he demanded.

“I need to change.” I looked back over my shoulder, smiling sweetly. “If you’d called, you wouldn’t be following me into the place where dishes go to die. Think about that the next time you decide to mess with my competition schedule.”

“Because God forbid something gets in the way of your dancing,” he sneered.