of ballroom dancing? With my urge to salsa and rumba and cha-cha my nights away? I was allowed to put on a red wig, get a false ID from our crazy cousin Artie, and audition for
The format is familiar to everyone in the country who owns a TV not permanently turned to either PBS or porn: ten girls, ten guys, one massive cash prize. Every week two dancers get sent home, until the top four try to dance their way to victory without dancing themselves into heart failure. (My season was better than some; we only lost one contestant to health issues, and he was an idiot who stopped sleeping and gave himself pneumonia.) I didn’t win. I didn’t expect to. But I came in second.
Two of the show’s regular judges were cryptids, and so were three of the other competitors. My experiences with them, and the connections I managed to make within the Los Angeles cryptid community, were the final push I needed to get the consent for my studies in New York City. Of course Dave wanted me to dance for him. He could make some serious dough by putting my stage name on his roster of naked talent.
Competitive ballroom dance may have a reputation for skimpy dresses and sky-high heels, but at least sequins aren’t see-through. I’d been saying thanks but no thanks to Dave for months. I was there to work tables and make contacts, not sacrifice what little dignity I had left.
Of course, give me a few more months trying to pay for groceries on a cocktail waitress’ salary and tips, and that could change. All he really had to do was wait me out.
Carol was still in the dressing room with her wig in her hands when I returned. Her snakes hissed merrily, glad to be released from their confinement, as she stared morosely into the mirror.
“Hey, Carol,” I said, heading for my locker. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t go back out there until I get my wig on, and I really need the tips,” she said, glancing back toward me. “I had to feed them last week.”
“Ouch.” I winced. Gorgon hair requires live feeding, and Carol had at least thirty individual snakes topping her head. They would have each demanded a pinky mouse of their own, possibly two or three in the case of the larger serpents. “Still no luck breeding your own?”
“I can’t wear my contacts all the time. I keep looking at them by mistake.”
“I can see where that would be a problem.” Untying my apron, I added, “I can call my mom if you want. She might have something you can use to sedate them without hurting them.”
“Could you?” Carol whirled to face me, clutching her wig to her breast and looking at me like I was the answer to all her prayers. “I didn’t want to ask, but…”
“It’s no big. Really.”
Here’s a fun fact: there are over nine hundred races of cryptids on the planet, and maybe eighty of those look roughly human, ranging from the Sasquatches and gorgons to dragon princesses and cuckoos. Here’s another fun fact: most of those races have only started coming into intentional contact with humans during the last hundred and fifty years, as our expansionistic tendencies brought us to them. Many have little to no idea of their own biology, and still practice a form of folk medicine that the human race abandoned centuries ago.
Which is where my mother comes in. Evelyn Price, formerly Evelyn Baker, is the closest thing to a cryptid physician most of them will ever meet. She’ll even make house calls if you can find her a teleport, and her rates are more than reasonable.
Carol burbled a series of thanks before she went back to trying to cram her snakes into the wig. I took her distraction as the opportunity it was and dug my weapons out of the locker. I always feel better with a knife, and better yet with a firearm or two. I was only carrying a simple underarm holster, but that was fine; those are the easiest to hide. Pulling on a windbreaker, I shoved my street clothes into my emergency backpack and shrugged it on before scooting for the hall. I didn’t see the point in changing. After a mice-related kitchen incident, a boob-grab by an asshole, and a private talk with Dave, I was more than ready to get out on the rooftops. Running in a skirt may be a little bit indecent, but I don’t mind doing it as long as I’m not going to need to talk to any humans.
The night had matured while I was inside, ambient noise going from the mindless cheer of early evening to something deeper and more classical. A siren wailed in the distance; horns honked on the street below; a baby’s crying drifted out of an apartment window. It only needed a saxophone or maybe some feel-good easy listening music to make the stereotype complete.
I took several deep breaths of the night air, letting the tension slip out of my shoulders before backing up, putting my back against the rooftop door, and breaking into a run. If I couldn’t take my aggressions out on Dave’s customers, I’d do a quick circuit, head home, call Sarah, and go clubbing.
It’s always the best plans that fall through. I think the universe has some sort of law.
Ever wonder why pigeons need to breed so fast when they’re living in an environment that’s entirely man- made, offering all the comforts and amenities a brainless ball of feathers and pestilence could desire? If you just look at the immediately visible evidence, they should outbreed the cities and cast us all into the depths of a Hitchcock remake.
What most people don’t realize—what most people don’t
My first stop was the top floor of a high-rise six blocks from Dave’s, where the family of resident harpies offered to share their pigeon stew. They were trying to bribe me into agreeing to keep picking up their mail. The youngest daughter’s wings were coming in, making her unsuitable for interaction with the bulk of the city for at least six years and keeping the rest of the family housebound until she finished the dangerous stages of her molt. I agreed to the mail and begged off dinner. Without a bezoar to purify the stuff, I’d probably have managed to catch some new and interesting variety of plague.
Normally, my rounds would have kept me making social calls for the next several hours, but there had been reports of an ahool living somewhere on the rooftops in Midtown. Ahool are like giant bats with monkey heads and nasty claws. They’re also cooperative hunters who bring down prey by means of the bacteria swarming in their foul little mouths. An ahool takes a chunk out of a person and then waits for them to die. If the ahool isn’t hungry, it takes a chunk out anyway, just in case another ahool in the area wants a snack. If the reports were accurate, and the thing wasn’t found, we’d have a flock living in Manhattan before very long. That sort of thing would
Most of my nondance hours were devoted to serving, studying, and supporting the cryptid community. Sometimes the only way to serve them was to keep them from drawing too much attention to themselves, and, in the case of the nonintelligent predatory species, that could activate the second part of my job description. Not “cryptozoologist”: monster hunter. I’d try relocation first, and if that didn’t work…
I’d avoid more final solutions for as long as I could. That was the best that I could offer.
Free running takes a lot of attention, especially at night on unfamiliar ground. Free running while scanning the skies and likely hiding spots for giant carnivorous bats really leaves no room to watch for anything else. I’ve had years of training at spotting traps and deadfalls. I’ve even managed to beat Antimony a few times at games of hide-and-seek, and that’s damn near impossible. So nothing but distraction and simple carelessness can excuse my failing to see the snare before I jammed my foot straight into it.
The rope snapped taut, the loop closed around my ankle, and all I had time to think before the deadweight hit the side of my head and knocked me into unconsciousness was how much Alex was going to laugh at me for this one.
Then the weight came down, the snare whipped me into the air, and I wasn’t thinking of anything for a while.
Five
