“Someone’s hunting virgins?” asked Antimony. “Gross much?”
“Pretty standard for the snake cults,” said Mom. “I’ve never known a snake god who cared about virginity, but somehow, the idea that they do has managed to really take root with those people.”
“So maybe somebody’s applying snake cult standards to the dragon. Whatever the reason, Sarah says someone’s trying to wake it up, and I believe her. When Dominic and I went down into the sewers—”
“Wait,” Mom interrupted. “Are you saying you took this Covenant boy to meet your cousin?”
I bit back a groan. “Mom, she’s a
“If he’d attacked at the time—”
“First, he didn’t, and second, if he had, I would have been right there. Sarah and I together are more than a match for anything the Covenant can throw at us, and I know for a fact that I’m more heavily armed than he is. Can I get back to the sewers?”
“Please,” said Dad.
I outlined the Sleestak encounter in the sewers as quickly as I could, paring the information down to the bare minimum. We went down; we found signs of cryptid habitation; we got jumped by rejects from another remake of
When I was done, I paused, waiting for someone to say something. No one did. Finally, I asked, “Well?”
“I have no idea what those are,” said Mom.
“I’ll check my books,” said Dad.
“You got to have a subterranean grudge match with lizard-people, and I had to spend the day cleaning the library,” said Antimony. “Some people get all the luck.”
“Yeah, well,” I said. “So that’s the status. Are we agreed that I don’t currently need backup?”
“No,” said Dad. “You absolutely need backup. But…” He hesitated before saying, reluctantly, “We’re agreed that we can’t send any. Not right now. I want you to check in every day. The same goes for Sarah. If either of you fails to do so—”
“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,” I finished grimly. “I get the picture. I just know that if that dragon wakes up, we’re going to have a serious problem on our hands, and it’s best if we keep the number of us available for damage control as high as possible.”
“I wish I didn’t agree with you,” said Mom.
“Oh, trust me, Mom,” I said, sitting up and looking out the bedroom window to the city beyond. The city that I was responsible for protecting, and that was dangerously close to becoming the setting for the first real-world
Fifteen
“There’s nothing wrong with making a last stand. Just make sure you bring enough grenades to share with the entire class.”
GETTING MY FAMILY OFF THE PHONE was simplified when Dad got an email from Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted was following reports of a basilisk sighting off I-5, and really wanted some backup. (Basilisks are no laughing matter. Not unless your idea of “funny story” involves the phrase “and then the lizard turned my wife to stone.”) After delivering a few more hurried admonishments about checking in and not letting myself end up alone in a room with Dominic, Dad hung up. Mom and Antimony were right behind him—the last thing I heard was Antimony shouting, “Just let me get my crossbow!” before blessed silence descended.
Well, blessed silence aside from the horns honking in the street outside, the pigeons on my windowsill, and the distant, ecstatic cheering of the mice. I wasn’t feeling picky. My family was staying in Oregon, and I had the possible dragon all to myself.
I paused in the act of plugging my phone into the charger. I had the possible dragon all to myself. Perversely appealing as that thought was, it also wasn’t fair. If there was even the slightest chance that the dragons weren’t extinct, there were some people who needed to know about it.
The dragon princesses.
I wasn’t actually scheduled to work until the next day. My job at Dave’s Fish and Strips may be about as intellectually taxing as watching paint dry, but it’s still exhausting, and I always try to take the days on either side of a major dance competition off. It’s safer that way, and reduces the odds of my becoming so tired that I lose my ability to deal with idiots. Knocking someone’s teeth out because they didn’t tip well is not a swift route to job security.
After a quick shower and an unhealthy meal of leftover pizza, spray cheese, and corn chips, I changed into clean clothes, put on a new pair of running shoes, packed a few replacement throwing knives, and jumped out the kitchen window. The pigeons were getting used to me. There were a few ruffled feathers, and I got my share of irritated looks, but none of them actually took flight as I plummeted past them, grabbed the fire escape rail, and slung myself across the courtyard. It’s amazing how quickly and completely the natural world can adjust. People forget that pigeons aren’t hatched from cracks on the sidewalk; they’re wild birds that have simply learned to exist in symbiosis with the human race. Their adaptation is proof that it can be done. We should applaud the pigeon as a survivalist totem, not call them “rats with wings” and shoo them off our windowsills.
The muscles in my thighs and shoulders loosened up as I ran, finding a rhythm that allowed me to compensate for the lingering stiffness in my left knee. My injuries hadn’t been as bad as they could have been. The bruises didn’t even slow me down much, although I felt them every time my heels made impact. I really hit my stride about halfway to Dave’s, and finished the journey at full-speed, almost laughing from the sheer joy of feeling the wind against my face and the city beneath my feet. I felt like one of those spandex-wearing superheroes in the comic books that Sarah and Antimony swap back and forth when they think the rest of us aren’t looking. I felt like I could fly.
Even Superman has to land eventually, even if it’s just to talk to somebody who doesn’t have super powers. I started slowing down as I got closer to Dave’s, dumping speed by throwing needless tricks into my progress, so it would be less jarring when I finally touched down. I finished with a half-cartwheel that left me in a crouch, the remains of my inertia bleeding out through the sole of my right foot. I glanced at my watch. Decent speed, especially considering my injuries.
“Guess I’m going to live after all,” I said, and straightened. Dust from the rooftops clung to my jeans and the palms of my hands. I took a moment to dust myself off before walking over to the rooftop door, testing the knob, and—upon finding it unlocked—letting myself inside.
The dressing room was deserted except for Carol, who was engaged in her usual mortal combat against her own hair. The tiny snakes covering her head writhed and snapped at her fingers, dodging frantically in their efforts to avoid the wig she was trying to clamp down over them. I couldn’t entirely blame them. My hair was always sticky with sweat and matted in weird patterns when I had to wear my Valerie wig for any length of time, and my hair isn’t independently alive. I knocked on the doorframe. She looked up, turning her head fast enough to give her bangs the opportunity to sink their fangs into her thumb. They did so, with gusto.
“Ow!” yelped Carol, dropping her wig and shoving her injured thumb into her mouth, going cross-eyed with the effort of glaring at her own hair. The snakes, sensing danger, promptly withdrew into hissing clusters. “’toopid ’air,” Carol mumbled around her thumb.
I winced. “Sorry about that. Are you going to be okay?” A lesser gorgon like Carol can’t actually turn people to stone—their gaze doesn’t work on anything much larger than a guinea pig—but that doesn’t make them harmless. The bite of their serpentine hair (and yes, I realize exactly how that sounds) can kill.
Carol shook her head, pulling her thumb out of her mouth. She squinted at the rows of tiny puncture wounds.
