Half-Off Ragnarok
Page 7

The kids who passed through the reptile house would probably have been a lot more interested in my private research projects—frogs with feathers and winged lizards that could turn a man to stone. Hopefully, with a little luck and a little more time, we’d be able to bring things like the frickens and the basilisks into the protected valley of mainstream science before they went totally extinct in the hinterlands of cryptozoology.
I was in a rotten mood by the time we closed. I didn’t like abandoning Shelby and her interesting notions of biology homework just to spend another night alone with my microscope. I know I’ve already said that I sometimes envy my sisters, but nights like these are the ones where it gets hard to deal with. Verity chose a field of specialization that regularly brings her into contact with sapient cryptid species who could explain what they were and where they came from. I chose something that looks a lot like traditional biology. Just a little more likely to turn you to stone or melt you or mutate you if you’re not careful about what you’re doing.
Basically, I chose the specialization that means spending an awful lot of time alone. I drove along the tree-lined streets of Columbus and cursed myself for poor career choices, poor wardrobe choices, poor choices of pet . . . basically, if I could curse myself for it, I did. It made me feel a little bit better, paradoxically; after all, if I was doing absolutely everything wrong, I was at least consistent. That was something, right?
My grandparents live in one of Columbus’ older housing developments, a place the locals call “Bexley,” which was designed back when they still allowed multiple types of homes in every neighborhood. You have to pay close attention to realize that the same six frames repeat over and over again as you drive through the area. If you don’t, you could easily mistake their neighborhood for something that occurred organically, rather than being planned by some canny developers out to make a buck. Even if you weren’t paying close attention, though, you’d probably realize that there’s something a little bit . . . off . . . about my grandparents’ place. It’s the only three-story house on the block, for one, and the only house with a widow’s walk. But most of all, it’s the only house surrounded by an eight-foot fence with spikes on top.
My grandparents have been practicing “blending in with the neighbors” for a long time. Maybe someday, they’ll actually be good at it.
The gate was already open, in anticipation of my arrival. Grandma’s car was in its customary place by the door, and Grandpa’s car was parked behind it. I pulled up behind him.
“Home sweet home,” I said, turning off the engine. The porch light was already on as I walked up the pathway to the door. I smiled at that small gesture of hospitality, pulling my house keys out of my pocket.
I didn’t start my stay in Columbus by moving in with my grandparents. I originally had an apartment downtown, right in the heart of the city, where I’d be able to experience the nightlife and see the sights. Only after six months, I figured out that all the nightlife did was make it hard for me to sleep, and the only sights I was seeing were either through a microscope or out in the swamp, which was nowhere near where I was living. And then my cousin Sarah got seriously hurt saving Verity’s life, and it suddenly seemed like a really good idea for me to take my grandparents up on their offer of a place to stay. We’re family. We stick together.
“Grandma, Grandpa, I’m home!” I called, dropping my briefcase next to the coatrack and peeling off my light jacket. Not that I needed one for Ohio in the spring, but I grew up in Oregon; I feel naked without a coat. Crow appeared at the head of the stairs, croaking once in greeting before disappearing again, off on some obscure griffin business that didn’t involve coming down for scritches.
“Alex!” My grandfather emerged from the kitchen. He was grinning widely, and had a frilly apron that read “Kiss the Cook” struggling to remain tied around his waist. “You made it in time for dinner!”
I smiled. “That was the goal. I have a lot of work to do tonight, so I figured I should spend some quality time with my family.”
“Good,” said Grandpa. “I look forward to hearing about your day. Now come give your grandmother a kiss.” He motioned for me to follow him. Being an obedient grandson, I did as I was bid, and stepped into the warm, homey-smelling air of the kitchen. Sometimes it’s good to go where everybody knows your name . . . and your species.
My grandparents have what could charitably be referred to as “a mixed marriage.” Not in the sense that they’re of different religions or races, but in the sense that they’re actually different species, and neither of them is a member of the species commonly known as Homo sapiens. (Their daughter, my mother, is human. She was adopted.)
Grandma Angela is a cuckoo, a form of hyper-evolved parasitic wasp with annoyingly strong telepathic abilities. They look like pale, black-haired humans, for reasons that only nature can explain. Nature’s not talking, possibly because even nature realizes that giving perfect camouflage to apex predators is sort of a dick move. Grandpa Martin is a little closer to human—or at least, he started out that way. He’s what we call a Revenant, a construct of formerly dead body parts that has been successfully reanimated through one highly unpleasant mechanism or another. In his case, it was your standard mad scientist bent on denying the laws of God and man in favor of obeying his own twisted muse. The result of that long-dead scientist’s tinkering was my grandfather, a six-and-a-half-foot–tall man who looks, charitably speaking, like he’s wrestled one too many bears in his day. He’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, maybe because he doesn’t feel like anything is worth getting too worked up over.
Grandma married him because he was the first man she’d ever met who wasn’t affected by her telepathy. This is the sort of thing that Internet dating sites never have a field for. Anyway, they’d settled in Ohio and adopted three children: my mother Evelyn, my uncle Drew, whose room I was currently occupying, and my cousin Sarah, who was my age. (Technically, this makes Sarah my aunt, but “cousin” is a better match for our respective ages and actual relationship.)
Speaking of Grandma, she was taking dinner out of the oven when Grandpa and I walked into the kitchen. She raised her head and smiled. “Alex! You’re home early.”
I glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six. I need to work on my definition of ‘early.’”