“You got paid for Frankensteining the hybrids?”
“I am, sadly, forced to work. I must earn money to fund my less glamourous projects.”
Nothing came to mind less glamourous than breeding roaches, so I kept my mouth shut.
“I hate to tell you this, but the people who stole your hybrids mutated them with magic and set them loose on the citizens of Atlanta.”
Eustice whined and leaned against his master’s leg. “What sort of monster would do that?”
“A witchborn fae coven out to seize control of the city by wiping out anyone who opposes them,” Bishop told him. “And it gets better.”
Poor thing, he actually brightened with hope. “Better?”
“He was being sarcastic,” I apologized. “They’ve also synthesized its saliva as the base for a street drug they’re calling Faete.” Might as well get it all out there. “We’ve also been made aware they’re selling their parts for various medicinal purposes.”
The man slumped against the back of his chair, and his eyes filled with unshed tears. “The poor dears.”
“You said the beta hybrids were flawless.” I leaned forward to get his attention. “Do you think you can do your Pied Piper thing on them?”
“I’m not sure.” He stared at the ceiling. “What a corruption of all things good in this world.”
Again, I bit my lip. I had smushed too many roaches in my day to fully appreciate his grief.
“We’ve got a live one,” Bishop tempted him. “Would you like to see it? Test your control, maybe?”
“Yes.” He shot upright, and Eustice yelped. “Oh, yes.” He stroked his pet. “Please.”
Trusting Bishop to know what he was doing, I let him bait his trap.
This guy was valuable. He could be the cure to both the roach and the drug problem. Finally, we were getting somewhere.
It wasn’t enough to make up for losing Midas, yet, but it put me one step closer to making peace with the trade.
Twenty-Two
As luck would have it, Reece had finished his sample-taking and observation period earlier in the week. I just hadn’t crawled out of my misery long enough to notice. He had surrendered the Martian Roach to the cleaners, so my worries about revealing HQ to a total stranger proved unfounded. We crashed the cleaners’ lab instead, using Reece’s friend as our in.
Siobhan was tall, a redhead, and in possession of a faint accent. She was also dead serious about her job.
“I can give you twenty minutes.” She led us through the compound. “More than that, and I’ll get fired.”
“Hear that, Smythe?” I eyed his arsenal. “Twenty minutes.”
Bishop, proving he was the smart one, set a timer on his phone.
“I’ll have to pinpoint the proper frequency and then test a variety of sequences,” Smythe pleaded his case. “It’s a delicate process that requires finesse.”
“Finesse it all you like,” Bishop said, “as long as you don’t take more than twenty minutes.”
Smythe grumbled under his breath about the integrity of science, but he nodded.
The room Siobhan led us to was filled with cages for an assortment of creatures. The one occupied by our friend the Martian Roach was enormous. It hissed at our approach, and Smythe rushed to its side. Had I not rushed a bit faster and caught his hand, he would have lost it to the roach’s scissoring pinchers.
“It wouldn’t have hurt me,” he protested. “It was merely curious.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “If you taste like chicken.”
“Look at that face. What a beauty.” Unshed tears turned his eyes glassy. “I wonder if it remembers me.”
“I’m sure it does,” I lied flatly. “Look how its antennae quiver when you’re around.”
Spirits buoyed, Smythe unpacked his laptop, brought up his synthesizer program, and began testing harmonies.
Siobhan, Bishop, and I withdrew after extracting a promise from Smythe to keep his hands to himself.
“This creature will save a lot of lives,” Siobhan said. “Thank you for allowing us to run our tests.”
Unlike most cleaners, who preferred their own company to that of anyone else’s, Siobhan had a soft spot for Reece. Their working relationship, or whatever it was, had benefited us time and time again.
“The local packs have lost enough.” I tried not to dwell on what the news had dubbed The Mendelsohn Massacre and failed. “They’re the ones being targeted hardest by the coven.” I tried not to dwell on the Atlanta gwyllgi pack and failed even harder. “The OPA is happy to share our resources with anyone willing to help us secure an antidote.”
“I heard the gwyllgi have teenagers on life support.” She rubbed her arms. “Is that true?”
“It was the last I heard.” I killed that line of inquiry. “Have you made any progress?”
“Anything we have, we put in DORA.” She exhaled. “We’re not holding back. We’re just at a loss.”
Reece and Doughty were still in Savannah with the antidote, but I wasn’t sure if information flowed both ways between her and Reece. I figured it was safer if I kept my reassurances that the best people in the state were on the problem to myself. For now.
“Yes,” Smythe shouted, triumphant. “I’ve done it.”
We all turned to find the man doing what might be loosely interpreted as a dance in some circles. That wasn’t the interesting thing, well, except in the way of train wrecks you can’t look away from. No, what sparked his booty-shaking fit of euphoria was the roach balancing on its hind legs with its forelimbs over its head in a mockery of fifth position in ballet.
“I can do it.” Smythe whirled toward us. “I can do it.”
The guy’s enthusiasm was catching, I had to admit. “Can you help us lure them all out of the city?”
“I know just the place.” He snapped his fingers. “It can be a sanctuary.”
Bishop stepped on my foot before I made the colossal mistake of telling
