Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 67
“I’m fine, Artie,” I said, and stepped into the barren little office that was, for the time being, my bedroom. I sank down onto the air mattress, sighing in time with the little hiss it made as I settled. “I’m stressed, and I’m scared, and I’m afraid somebody’s going to get hurt before this is over, but I’m fine. Honest. I’d really rather hear about how you are, if that’s cool. I need to not think about things here for a little while.”
“Have you been to the comic book store yet this week?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “No, I have not,” I said. “Things have been a little too hectic around here for me to get down to Midtown Comics. Have I missed anything important?”
“Not important, necessarily, but definitely cool. See—” Artie began telling me about the latest developments in the Marvel and DC superhero universes, speaking with the enthusiastic shorthand of the true aficionado. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’ve been reading comics for as long as I can remember; seeing faces drawn on paper helps me recognize them in real life, or at least helps me recognize the emotions they’re trying to convey. The encyclopedic knowledge of mutants and superhumans is really just an unexpected bonus.
I curled up on the air mattress with one arm tucked beneath my head as a makeshift pillow while I listened to Artie talk. When he paused, I made the appropriate encouraging noises, getting him started again. In the comic books, the good guys might lose for an issue, but they always won by the end of the story arc, and death was never forever. I liked the comics. I couldn’t live there, but for a little while, I could pretend.
Not for long enough. Someone knocked gently on my doorframe. I sat up, the phone still pressed against my ear. Uncle Mike was standing there, and I didn’t need to be good at reading faces to understand how grim his was.
“It’s time,” he said.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Sarah?” asked Artie. “What’s up?”
“Nothing—Uncle Mike just needs me. It’s time to go. Stay safe, okay? I’ll call you soon.” If I was alive. If any of us were still alive.
“Okay, Sars. Miss you.”
“Miss you, too,” I said, and hung up the phone.
Fun facts about cuckoo biology: we can’t bleed, not the way mammals do. But we can cry. I got up and followed Uncle Mike out of the room, and I cried the whole way.
Nineteen
“You know what, honey? You’re right. It’s time to change my approach. Can you give me one of those nice concussion grenades?”
—Alice Healy
The Freakshow, a highly specialized nightclub somewhere in Manhattan
WE LEFT SUNIL and Rochak behind when the rest of us left the Nest. There was no way of knowing whether Verity had given up our location, and so Kitty was calling some of her relatives to come and take the Madhura away to someplace Verity didn’t know. The brothers Madhura weren’t happy about spending quality time with the city’s bogeyman population, but they understood that it was the only way we could keep them safe, since taking them into battle with us would have been an even worse idea.
It was a good thing the Madhura weren’t coming, since Uncle Mike’s car was barely big enough as it was. I got the front seat—no one really wanted to snuggle up to the touch-activated telepath—while Istas, Ryan, and Dominic were crammed into the back. It would have been funny, if the situation hadn’t been so dire. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Verity would have laughed if she’d seen her boyfriend wedged between two therianthropes like that. She probably would have taken a dozen pictures with her phone and threatened to use them for her Christmas cards.
Thinking about Verity’s laughter helped me keep my shields up, which kept me from picking up on the thoughts of the people around me. That was good. The vague dread filling the car was stomach-churning enough without adding any stronger signals. Being a telepath in a largely non-telepathic society means the onus of not reading people’s minds is entirely on me. Almost no one maintains a decent mental shield on purpose, and the ones who do it accidentally are rare enough to be a miracle.
At least Istas wasn’t worried. Her emotional state was pure excitement, and a particularly bloody sort of anticipation. It said something about the day I’d been having that this was reassuring.
“We’re here,” said Uncle Mike.
The backseat emptied like a clown car at the circus, everyone hurrying to be the first one out. Uncle Mike moved at a more leisurely pace, still efficient, but aware that no amount of hurry was going to make up for an assload of support and ammunition. I was somewhere in the middle, clearing the car while Uncle Mike was still setting the alarm. The other three were almost to the Freakshow doors. I hurried to catch up.
The ticket booth was empty when I got there, and the doors themselves were closed and locked. According to the posters advertising the Freakshow’s virtues, the club should have been open, even if this wasn’t anything like peak business hours. I guess when your friendly neighborhood cryptozoologist gets herself taken by her less friendly relations, staying closed starts looking like the better option.
“Now what?” demanded Dominic.
“Chill,” said Ryan. He knocked four times, paused, and knocked twice more. There was an answering knock from inside. Ryan knocked again.
“This code is stupid,” said Istas. “We should simply allow whomever is manning the door to eat anyone unwelcome. People we do not want coming around would quickly cease.”
“Or they’d come back with tanks,” said Ryan. “Strategic thinking means not eating your enemies all the time.”
“I hate strategic thinking,” grumbled Istas.
Kitty opened the door. I blinked.
She was wearing the modern equivalent of bogeyman cultural dress: dark gray leggings and a knee-length dress a few shades lighter, cut to accommodate the length and flexibility of her limbs. Her hair was loose around her face, accentuating the strangeness of seeing her like this. Kitty could never pass perfectly for human—very few types of cryptid can. A lot of the ones who come close, like Kitty, resent me for how easily I can move through the human world, even if they forget why they resent me the second I’m out of their sight. Still, she normally wore human clothing, and kept her hair neatly styled. The monster-under-the-bed look wasn’t normal for her.
“Have you been to the comic book store yet this week?”
A smile tugged at my lips. “No, I have not,” I said. “Things have been a little too hectic around here for me to get down to Midtown Comics. Have I missed anything important?”
“Not important, necessarily, but definitely cool. See—” Artie began telling me about the latest developments in the Marvel and DC superhero universes, speaking with the enthusiastic shorthand of the true aficionado. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’ve been reading comics for as long as I can remember; seeing faces drawn on paper helps me recognize them in real life, or at least helps me recognize the emotions they’re trying to convey. The encyclopedic knowledge of mutants and superhumans is really just an unexpected bonus.
I curled up on the air mattress with one arm tucked beneath my head as a makeshift pillow while I listened to Artie talk. When he paused, I made the appropriate encouraging noises, getting him started again. In the comic books, the good guys might lose for an issue, but they always won by the end of the story arc, and death was never forever. I liked the comics. I couldn’t live there, but for a little while, I could pretend.
Not for long enough. Someone knocked gently on my doorframe. I sat up, the phone still pressed against my ear. Uncle Mike was standing there, and I didn’t need to be good at reading faces to understand how grim his was.
“It’s time,” he said.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Sarah?” asked Artie. “What’s up?”
“Nothing—Uncle Mike just needs me. It’s time to go. Stay safe, okay? I’ll call you soon.” If I was alive. If any of us were still alive.
“Okay, Sars. Miss you.”
“Miss you, too,” I said, and hung up the phone.
Fun facts about cuckoo biology: we can’t bleed, not the way mammals do. But we can cry. I got up and followed Uncle Mike out of the room, and I cried the whole way.
Nineteen
“You know what, honey? You’re right. It’s time to change my approach. Can you give me one of those nice concussion grenades?”
—Alice Healy
The Freakshow, a highly specialized nightclub somewhere in Manhattan
WE LEFT SUNIL and Rochak behind when the rest of us left the Nest. There was no way of knowing whether Verity had given up our location, and so Kitty was calling some of her relatives to come and take the Madhura away to someplace Verity didn’t know. The brothers Madhura weren’t happy about spending quality time with the city’s bogeyman population, but they understood that it was the only way we could keep them safe, since taking them into battle with us would have been an even worse idea.
It was a good thing the Madhura weren’t coming, since Uncle Mike’s car was barely big enough as it was. I got the front seat—no one really wanted to snuggle up to the touch-activated telepath—while Istas, Ryan, and Dominic were crammed into the back. It would have been funny, if the situation hadn’t been so dire. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much Verity would have laughed if she’d seen her boyfriend wedged between two therianthropes like that. She probably would have taken a dozen pictures with her phone and threatened to use them for her Christmas cards.
Thinking about Verity’s laughter helped me keep my shields up, which kept me from picking up on the thoughts of the people around me. That was good. The vague dread filling the car was stomach-churning enough without adding any stronger signals. Being a telepath in a largely non-telepathic society means the onus of not reading people’s minds is entirely on me. Almost no one maintains a decent mental shield on purpose, and the ones who do it accidentally are rare enough to be a miracle.
At least Istas wasn’t worried. Her emotional state was pure excitement, and a particularly bloody sort of anticipation. It said something about the day I’d been having that this was reassuring.
“We’re here,” said Uncle Mike.
The backseat emptied like a clown car at the circus, everyone hurrying to be the first one out. Uncle Mike moved at a more leisurely pace, still efficient, but aware that no amount of hurry was going to make up for an assload of support and ammunition. I was somewhere in the middle, clearing the car while Uncle Mike was still setting the alarm. The other three were almost to the Freakshow doors. I hurried to catch up.
The ticket booth was empty when I got there, and the doors themselves were closed and locked. According to the posters advertising the Freakshow’s virtues, the club should have been open, even if this wasn’t anything like peak business hours. I guess when your friendly neighborhood cryptozoologist gets herself taken by her less friendly relations, staying closed starts looking like the better option.
“Now what?” demanded Dominic.
“Chill,” said Ryan. He knocked four times, paused, and knocked twice more. There was an answering knock from inside. Ryan knocked again.
“This code is stupid,” said Istas. “We should simply allow whomever is manning the door to eat anyone unwelcome. People we do not want coming around would quickly cease.”
“Or they’d come back with tanks,” said Ryan. “Strategic thinking means not eating your enemies all the time.”
“I hate strategic thinking,” grumbled Istas.
Kitty opened the door. I blinked.
She was wearing the modern equivalent of bogeyman cultural dress: dark gray leggings and a knee-length dress a few shades lighter, cut to accommodate the length and flexibility of her limbs. Her hair was loose around her face, accentuating the strangeness of seeing her like this. Kitty could never pass perfectly for human—very few types of cryptid can. A lot of the ones who come close, like Kitty, resent me for how easily I can move through the human world, even if they forget why they resent me the second I’m out of their sight. Still, she normally wore human clothing, and kept her hair neatly styled. The monster-under-the-bed look wasn’t normal for her.
