“Great-Grandpa wasa librarian,” I said.
“That was his daytime job. He never made it out of Buckley, because his real job was in those woods, with your great-grandma. They figured it out. So will you.”
I frowned. “Has anyone ever figured out that what they really want to do is walk away and have that daylight job all by itself, forever?”
“No,” said Mike. “Come on. Let’s go meet your boss.”
The dragon from before was no longer in the ticket booth. She had been replaced by a more familiar, less friendly face: Istas, who was sitting calmly behind the glass, stitching another layer of lace onto the edge of her parasol as she waited for a paying customer to demand her attention. I rapped on the edge of the booth. She lifted her head and frowned, eyes narrowing.
“Why are you on the ground?” she demanded. Her gaze flicked to Uncle Mike, who was standing behind me and trying politely not to loom. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I’m five-two, and almost any adult male will wind up looming over me if he stands too close. “Who is this man?” Her expression brightened slightly, although the frown remained, which was a neat trick. “Are you being held against your will?”
“No,” I said quickly, skipping pleasantries in favor of stopping Istas before she could decide to disembowel my uncle. “Istas, this is Mike Gucciard, a friend, associate, and honorary member of my family. Uncle Mike, this is Istas, one of my coworkers.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said Mike, giving Istas a thoughtful look. Istas looked unflinchingly back.
This is Istas: picture a drop-dead gorgeous Inuit girl, about five-six, and roughly an American size sixteen. Now give her a wardrobe entirely based on the concept that one can never have too much lace, too many ribbons, or too many puffy skirts. She’s possibly the only waheela in the world devoted to the Gothic Lolita school of fashion, which means she’s almost certainly the only waheela in the world who regularly wears her hair in spiral-curled pigtails.
“Waheela?” he asked finally.
“Yes,” replied Istas, without batting an eye. “Human?”
Waheela come from the upper reaches of Canada, where they normally spend their days running around in the shape of huge man-eating wolf-bear things, and view dried blood, unspecified muck, and the occasional half-tanned hide as perfectly acceptable wardrobe choices. They aren’t very friendly, and no one really gets too upset about that. As members of her species go, Istas is practically a social butterfly. There are days when she not only talks to six whole people, she manages not to threaten any of them.
Uncle Mike nodded. “At least that’s what my parents tell me.”
“We’re going to go inside,” I said, before the two of them could start comparing family trees. “Is Kitty in her office?”
“I believe so.” Istas resumed stitching lace to her parasol. From a predator, that was a serious compliment. She didn’t feel the need to watch me while we talked. Insisting on eye contact would have been a lot more worrisome. Sometimes, dealing with cryptids is all about understanding the social cues they don’tshare with the human race. “She has said that she will be remaining here as much as possible while she prepares for a siege. Angel is at the Costco, buying things.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “See you.”
“Probably,” Istas agreed, and kept sewing.
“Come on,” I said, and led Mike past the bouncer on the door, into the canvas-draped hallway beyond. He came quietly, looking around as we walked. I felt the sudden urge to start justifying my place of work, explaining how it wasn’t as bad as it looked and how really, Kitty’s design choices were completely reasonable and understandable. I swallowed it and kept walking. The Freakshow was what it was. If Mike had a problem with that, nothing I said would change it.
We stepped through the last doorway into the main club. Mike stopped, blinking. I followed his gaze to the floor. The lunch rush was over; the people who were left were the truly devoted, the deeply bored, and the ones with no place better to go. A few waitresses circulated, but most of them were clustered near the bar, where Ryan and Daisy were busily setting out the remains of the appetizers they’d over-prepared for the lunch crowd. Marcy was eating a bowl of gravel with whipped cream and what looked like kitty litter on top. Carol was taking mincing bites from a buffalo wing. She’d given several bones to her hair, and the tiny serpents were fighting over them.
“Wow,” said Mike, finally. “You know, Very, from what your mother told me, this isn’t what I was expecting.”
I winced. “It’s not?”
“No. This is amazing.” He shook his head, turning toward me. “Lea would love this place.”
“Well, once New York is no longer being threatened by the Covenant, you’ll have to bring her for a visit. I can even let you guys use my staff discount. Come on.” I started down the stairs, waving to the crowd at the bar. Most of them waved back, but kept eating. Breaks are rare, precious things in food service; breaks that come with free snacks are only to be surrendered if you have no other choice.
Ryan cast a wary look toward Uncle Mike and raised his voice to call across the music, “Hey, Very. You need anything?”
“That’s concerned friend-ese for ‘do I need to break this guy’s legs for you,’” I said, just loud enough for Uncle Mike to hear me. Louder, I called, “No, I’m good. I’ll come back for introductions in a sec. Is Kitty in her office?” A few of the patrons looked our way, and then turned disinterestedly back to their drinks or their perusal of the bored-looking dancers on the main stage. I made a mental note to talk to Kitty about punching up the quality of our midday entertainment.
“I think so,” said Ryan, still watching Mike with suspicion.
I decided to cut this off before there could be some kind of “emergency” that caused him to come charging in to Kitty’s office while we were trying to explain what I needed from the dragons. I gestured for Mike to follow as I approached the bar. Once I was close enough that I no longer needed to raise my voice, I gestured to Mike, and said, “Ryan, this is my Uncle Mike, who is notwith the Covenant, but ishere to help me keep us all from getting killed. Also, he made me a pot roast, and stood over me while I ate a sandwich.”
“An entire sandwich?” asked Ryan, who knew far too much about my occasionally spotty eating habits.
“Yup.” I looked toward Mike. “Uncle Mike, this is Ryan, our bartender and bouncer. He’s also Istas’ boyfriend, which means he’s either insane or preternaturally patient, and he makes a mean cocktail.”
“We’ll have to trade tips some time.” Mike extended his hand to Ryan, who took it, too surprised to do anything else. They shook. “Nice establishment you’ve got here. Now if you’ll excuse us, my niece and I have to see a bogeyman about a room.”
Carol gave another bone to her hair, which hissed happily and set about stripping off the last shreds of meat. “Your family’s coming to town?” she asked. “Are things that serious?”
I realized that all the other waitresses were staring at me—and that none of them were human. I owed them the truth. “Not yet,” I said. “Uncle Mike’s my only backup so far, because we don’t know that I’m going to need any more than that. We just want to talk to Kitty about some tactical issues. I promise, nobody’s going to start killing anybody else without me giving you a heads-up about things. Okay?”
Carol and the other waitresses looked dubious, but finally she nodded, and the others followed suit. The only ones who didn’t look unhappy about the situation were the snakes that made up Carol’s hair. They kept stripping the meat off of chicken bones, entirely oblivious to the danger that we were all in.
“Come on, Uncle Mike,” I said, and waved to Ryan before grabbing Mike’s wrist and pulling him with me toward the door to the staff area. He’d stay if I let him, trying to put everyone at ease and get them all comfortable with the idea of his presence. That was just the kind of guy he was. It was part of what made him so good at his job, and why he and Lea could hold Chicago essentially on their own. The trouble was we didn’t have time.