knew something that made me worth keeping around. Niko inherently knew extraordinary things that most others didn’t know and wouldn’t ever know. He was like that. Then again, very rarely, Niko screwed the hell up, wasn’t the infallible older brother—because no one was infallible. No one. I hadn’t kept count before, the times he was wrong, but if I’d known what was headed our way, I might’ve starting adding them up now.
Number one was a little over sixty minutes away and headed for us like a freight train.
Tick-tock.
Robin Goodfellow, Pan, puck, trickster, car salesman, and more identities than I could memorize in a lifetime, lived off Central Park. That might have had something to do with his being rich and his kind having a history of spending a lot of time in the woods running around nude, which I didn’t once picture in my brain—not once, okay? It was a goddamn shame my booty-call werewolf, Delilah, or Puppy Le Screw, as Robin liked to call her, had tried to kill my family and friends, and was considering the same for me if she had the chance, because I really,
Regardless of my pathetic condition, squatting on the outskirts of Central Park was Goodfellow’s best option in NYC—if he wanted to revert to the old days of forest flashing and if you could call a three-million-plus condo squatting. His condo board hated him…something to do with his wanting to install condom machines on every floor, and the thinly veiled orgies. Although in the last year, the orgies were a thing of the past. After nearly a hundred thousand years of debauchery and extreme horniness, he’d embraced monogamy. I suspected it was a puck brain tumor. Or it would pass in another few months. A monogamous Goodfellow was as if aliens came to Earth and didn’t want to hunt you, eat you, or screw your women.
Extremely unlikely.
We’d dropped off the kishi kit and now I stood pounding on Goodfellow’s door. “Porn and pizza. Asses and anchovies delivered in thirty minutes or it’s free.” The condo board didn’t care for that either, which is why I did it. Unless it was advertising our business, Niko had threatened to kill me in my sleep if I wore any more T-shirts with obscene, violence-encouraging, or just plain fun-with-chain-saw slogans on them. I had to get my entertainment somewhere else now. No big deal. I was versatile.
I’d bandaged my leg, tying a thick gauze strip on the outside of my jeans and popping some Tylenol in the car as we drove the kishi to demonic day care. I’d do a real version when we eventually made it home. If I could help it, I kept my pants up around Goodfellow. A year of monogamy versus a hundred thousand years of frenzied pansexuality kept me cautious. I’d seen him talk a convention of ninety-year-old Catholic priests into a nudie bar. All right, thinking about it, maybe not that difficult to accomplish, but I didn’t want to be the next test subject. He did like a challenge.
After dumping the baby, we left Niko’s junker on the curb in front of Robin’s building. The doormen were used to us by now and drove it to the nearest parking garage for seventy bucks, which was the first charge on Robin’s bill. On the way over we’d seen Wolves, vamps, revenants, vodyanoi, and more. They were in cabs heading toward LaGuardia or JFK, in their own cars, slamming their horns headed for the Holland and Lincoln tunnels. Many were so desperate they were going toward the George Washington Bridge. Jersey to escape the city? That told you right there something was going on and it was worse than the ten plagues of Egypt and Chernobyl combined. Some Wolves were just running, no vehicle necessary. People on the sidewalks were glaring around for the dog walker who’d screwed up. Robin hadn’t been exaggerating. Everything with claws and paws and fangs was getting the hell out of Dodge.
I banged against the door again. “Pony play and pad thai. Get it while it’s hot.” I didn’t have to see Niko’s hand to know it was aiming for the back of my head. I ducked with the instinct of a thousand received swats and stumbled into Robin’s condo as he opened the door beneath my pounding fist.
“You,” Robin said, catching me by the back of my shirt to keep me upright, “are going to spend months, nay, years of sleepless nights wishing you had never said that, not in this particular situation.” I expected him to sound amused, as that was the kind of joke he would make, but he looked nothing but deadly serious.
Once steady on my feet again, I walked in. Same expensive rock-crystal coffee table, same buttery leather wraparound sofa—an identical replacement, rather, as I’d been indirectly responsible for destroying the last one— same enormous flat-screen television set hidden in a recess in the wall behind an original Waterhouse—Nik told me—painting. Same rich and expensive everything, although one addition was fairly new and a gift from me to Goodfellow, or rather from me to Goodfellow’s roommate, Salome. She was a Grim Reaper on four paws and I liked to stay on her good side. So a few months ago I brought her a boyfriend.
“Spartacus,” I called, “how’s it hanging?” Probably not too well. Once you’re dead, had your organs removed, and are resurrected as an undead mummified cat, your testicles probably looked like old raisins that had rolled under the couch. Raisins didn’t tend to…hang. But it was the thought that counted. I caught him as he slithered out from under the couch and leaped through the air, a zombie feline missile. He looped around my neck and purred in my ear. And if his purr sounded like skulls being crushed under an iron boot, again, it was the thought that counted. His bandages were long gone, and I stroked the hairless black-and-white-spotted wrinkly skin. “You’re living under the couch? Is Salome giving you a hard time?”
Another purr erupted from atop the massive refrigerator. Salome, unlike Spartacus, was gray with a small hoop earring in one pointed ear. They both had eye sockets that housed flickering lantern lights that reminded me of Halloween. Salome had followed Goodfellow home from the Museum of National History—against his will—and had lived here since, when she wasn’t out stalking senile, ancient pet Great Danes in the hallway. Salome had killed man and beast and probably hadn’t considered either one taxing. That was why I’d brought Spartacus to keep her company. I did not want to get on her bad side.
A mummy, Wahanket, who’d lived in the sublevels of the museum, had made Salome and Spartacus. Although a sometime informant, he had tried to kill me twice and he did kill cats. I didn’t approve of either hobby. I made sure Wahanket didn’t get to play his King Tut games on anyone else, which Spartacus seemed to appreciate. Salome didn’t much appreciate anything, from what I’d seen. I gave the cat’s bony ass one last pat and plopped him on the floor. “Be a man,” I told him. “Show her who’s boss.” He gave me a dubious glance and disappeared under the couch again. Apparently being a man was overrated.
Niko removed his duster, hot for late summer, but necessary for covering up katanas and various other swords. “You’re hiring us for a job, Goodfellow? That seems odd. You assist us so often you know we’d be more than willing to do you a favor for free.”
Robin shrugged, his normally cat-that-ate-five-canaries green eyes glum, and waved a hand at the kitchen table on which rested a meatball sub with double cheese and a tea that stung my nose enough for me to know it must cost a hundred bucks a gram at least—the type of tea Niko loved above all others. “There are favors and then there is ripping your own heart out to tape to an extrarealistic Valentine’s card. This is the latter.”
I moved closer to the table to catch the precise smell of the sub. “Gino’s? Gino’s extra-sauce, extra-cheese, extra-garlic meatball sub?” Gino’s, where the grease was so thick in the air that it contaminated the entire block and Robin refused to even drive down the street. That combined with the stink of a tea that was available only from one ninety-eight-year-old mean-as-a-snake woman in Chinatown. You had to walk across a path of nails to prove you were worthy of this damn tea, and I was not joking. He’d gone to serious trouble to tempt us, and Goodfellow didn’t go to serious trouble to do anything. He manipulated, deceived, lied, but not this. Honesty, money, and snacks?
This was bad.
“Shit. I don’t even want to know what the job is.” But I didn’t mean it.
It was Goodfellow. Our first friend when we’d been on the run from the other half of me, a race called the Auphe. The first murderers born of this earth. All the other supernatural feared them, bowed before them, died under their teeth and claws. The Auphe were gone now, as was the handful of half-breeds like me, but I didn’t forget that Robin had been the first to help Niko and me.
Even now…he was one of very few. The Auphe had been at the head of the supernatural food chain and they had large appetites, torture always being the cherry on top—which explained why I wasn’t too popular. Everyone had feared them and no one had missed them when we wiped them out. Although many didn’t know that they
