Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 15
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We were about halfway there when Dominic raised his head, gave me a bewildered look, and asked, “Where are we going again?”
“To see my cousin Sarah.” He still had some gingerbread left. I leaned over, snatching the last bite from his fingers before he could object. “She just changed hotels last week; that’s why you can’t remember where we’re going. Don’t worry about it.”
Dominic’s bewilderment lasted a few more seconds before it cleared away, replaced first by understanding, and then by an irritated scowl. “I hate the way she does that.”
“I know. But she doesn’t mean to, so you should really just shrug it off and wait until she stops hitting you so hard.” Given sufficient exposure to Sarah, he’d develop more resistance to her passive defenses, even as she got better at reading his mind. It’s a trade-off, and one that most of the family has been more than happy to make, since it means we don’t literally forget that she’s in the house when we can’t see her.
Dominic didn’t say anything. He just kept scowling.
To be honest, I understood his irritation. Camouflage is the cuckoo’s primary weapon; they become a part of their surroundings, disappearing from casual view by fitting in so perfectly that it’s impossible to think of them as unusual. Sarah’s periodic disappearing acts were the result of instinct telling her not to stay in one place long enough to get caught—that, and hotel security systems refusing to be telepathically influenced into ignoring the fact that she was essentially a squatter. Unfortunately, the amount of telepathic static kicked up by a cuckoo in the process of changing nests has a tendency to make even allies forget what’s going on, which is why I made sure to keep her latest hotel address in my phone memos.
(I encrypted the addresses, naturally, using a code key that requires intimate knowledge of the Argentine tango to break. Paranoia is a way of life when they’re genuinely out to get you.)
My Grandma Angela—also a cuckoo, in addition to being both Sarah and Mom’s adopted mother—says Sarah’s relocations make us forget where she is because normal cuckoos don’t have any allies. They just have enemies who happen to not be trying to kill them at that particular moment. So periodically disappearing from absolutely everybody’s radar is the only way most ordinary cuckoos survive long enough to ruin the lives of everyone around them. Sarah may eventually be able to stop that from happening, but it’s going to take years of practice. Luckily, she doesn’t have any natural predators or catch human diseases, so unless she walks in front of a bus, she’s going to live a long, long time. Cuckoos are lucky that way.
They’re a charming species, the cuckoos. Except for the two that I’m technically related to, they’re the only cryptid race I can think of that should really be shot on sight—assuming you’d know one when you saw one, which is questionable. As it stands, they’re the only race that has absolutely no good ecological reason to exist. They’re not true apex predators and they’re not true parasites. They practice brood parasitism, but they usually do it in empty nests, so it’s not even like they’re reducing the human population (something that does occasionally need to be considered, no matter how distasteful I may find the idea).
Near as anyone can tell, the cuckoos don’t serve an otherwise unfilled purpose in any ecosystem. They just kill, and destroy, and break things for the pleasure of seeing the shards come raining down. Oh, and they do algebra. For fun. Their universal fascination with higher mathematics may be the least human thing about them.
The taxi let us off in front of the Port Hope Hotel. Dominic paid the cabbie—tipping generously, I was pleased to note—before turning to join me in studying the building. It was modest by Sarah’s usual four-star standards, although it wasn’t run-down by any means. For a moment, I couldn’t imagine what she was doing here. Then I spotted a sign in the hotel window, and had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
Dominic frowned at me. “What is it?”
“Sarah has finally returned to the Mothership,” I said, pointing to the sign. He followed my finger, and then, to my surprise, Dominic De Luca laughed out loud.
Visit the Manhattan Museum of Mathematics! cajoled the sign. Only four blocks away on East 26th Street. Math can be fun!
“I wonder if they have souvenir postcards,” Dominic said.
“I wonder if she left them any after she hit the gift shop,” I countered. He laughed again. This time I joined him, and together we walked into the light of the hotel’s lobby.
The telepathic static signaling Sarah’s presence hit as soon as we were inside. To my surprise, it was coming from the other side of the lobby. I turned to see her waving cheerfully from the hotel’s restaurant, one of those modern things where the tables also serve as the restaurant wall. It’s supposed to seem homey and welcoming. I think it’s a good way to cut down on the amount of cover in a firefight. My standards are perhaps not those of the people who build hotels.
Sarah was dressed in her going-to-school best—a bulky brown sweater that did absolutely nothing for her porcelain-pale complexion, and a calf-length green skirt that looked like she’d stolen it from one of the Brady Bunch kids—and her long black hair was tied into a ponytail. She had a glass of something that looked like over-thick cherry soda in the hand that wasn’t busy waving.
It’s ketchup and tonic water, she informed me blithely, about a half-second after my eyes hit her glass. Delicious and a good preventative against malaria.
“Sarah, you don’t have blood as most mammals understand it. Why would you need to worry about malaria?” Dominic shot me a startled glance, and I realized that I’d spoken aloud. Dammit. “Stupid telepaths,” I mumbled, chagrined.
Sorry!
No, you’re not, I thought back at her, starting across the lobby toward the restaurant.
No, I’m not, Sarah agreed. She stood as we came closer, putting her ketchup soda down on the table. “What are you guys doing here? Are you hungry? They make a really fabulous lasagna here. The kitchen’s technically closed, but if I asked—”
“Can we go up to your room? It’s sort of important, and I’d rather not talk about it down here.”
Sarah blinked, expression going momentarily confused. Then she nodded. “Sure. I was pretty much done here anyway.” She picked up her soda and stepped around the table, passing over the line between the restaurant’s carpet and the lobby’s hardwood floor.
“To see my cousin Sarah.” He still had some gingerbread left. I leaned over, snatching the last bite from his fingers before he could object. “She just changed hotels last week; that’s why you can’t remember where we’re going. Don’t worry about it.”
Dominic’s bewilderment lasted a few more seconds before it cleared away, replaced first by understanding, and then by an irritated scowl. “I hate the way she does that.”
“I know. But she doesn’t mean to, so you should really just shrug it off and wait until she stops hitting you so hard.” Given sufficient exposure to Sarah, he’d develop more resistance to her passive defenses, even as she got better at reading his mind. It’s a trade-off, and one that most of the family has been more than happy to make, since it means we don’t literally forget that she’s in the house when we can’t see her.
Dominic didn’t say anything. He just kept scowling.
To be honest, I understood his irritation. Camouflage is the cuckoo’s primary weapon; they become a part of their surroundings, disappearing from casual view by fitting in so perfectly that it’s impossible to think of them as unusual. Sarah’s periodic disappearing acts were the result of instinct telling her not to stay in one place long enough to get caught—that, and hotel security systems refusing to be telepathically influenced into ignoring the fact that she was essentially a squatter. Unfortunately, the amount of telepathic static kicked up by a cuckoo in the process of changing nests has a tendency to make even allies forget what’s going on, which is why I made sure to keep her latest hotel address in my phone memos.
(I encrypted the addresses, naturally, using a code key that requires intimate knowledge of the Argentine tango to break. Paranoia is a way of life when they’re genuinely out to get you.)
My Grandma Angela—also a cuckoo, in addition to being both Sarah and Mom’s adopted mother—says Sarah’s relocations make us forget where she is because normal cuckoos don’t have any allies. They just have enemies who happen to not be trying to kill them at that particular moment. So periodically disappearing from absolutely everybody’s radar is the only way most ordinary cuckoos survive long enough to ruin the lives of everyone around them. Sarah may eventually be able to stop that from happening, but it’s going to take years of practice. Luckily, she doesn’t have any natural predators or catch human diseases, so unless she walks in front of a bus, she’s going to live a long, long time. Cuckoos are lucky that way.
They’re a charming species, the cuckoos. Except for the two that I’m technically related to, they’re the only cryptid race I can think of that should really be shot on sight—assuming you’d know one when you saw one, which is questionable. As it stands, they’re the only race that has absolutely no good ecological reason to exist. They’re not true apex predators and they’re not true parasites. They practice brood parasitism, but they usually do it in empty nests, so it’s not even like they’re reducing the human population (something that does occasionally need to be considered, no matter how distasteful I may find the idea).
Near as anyone can tell, the cuckoos don’t serve an otherwise unfilled purpose in any ecosystem. They just kill, and destroy, and break things for the pleasure of seeing the shards come raining down. Oh, and they do algebra. For fun. Their universal fascination with higher mathematics may be the least human thing about them.
The taxi let us off in front of the Port Hope Hotel. Dominic paid the cabbie—tipping generously, I was pleased to note—before turning to join me in studying the building. It was modest by Sarah’s usual four-star standards, although it wasn’t run-down by any means. For a moment, I couldn’t imagine what she was doing here. Then I spotted a sign in the hotel window, and had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
Dominic frowned at me. “What is it?”
“Sarah has finally returned to the Mothership,” I said, pointing to the sign. He followed my finger, and then, to my surprise, Dominic De Luca laughed out loud.
Visit the Manhattan Museum of Mathematics! cajoled the sign. Only four blocks away on East 26th Street. Math can be fun!
“I wonder if they have souvenir postcards,” Dominic said.
“I wonder if she left them any after she hit the gift shop,” I countered. He laughed again. This time I joined him, and together we walked into the light of the hotel’s lobby.
The telepathic static signaling Sarah’s presence hit as soon as we were inside. To my surprise, it was coming from the other side of the lobby. I turned to see her waving cheerfully from the hotel’s restaurant, one of those modern things where the tables also serve as the restaurant wall. It’s supposed to seem homey and welcoming. I think it’s a good way to cut down on the amount of cover in a firefight. My standards are perhaps not those of the people who build hotels.
Sarah was dressed in her going-to-school best—a bulky brown sweater that did absolutely nothing for her porcelain-pale complexion, and a calf-length green skirt that looked like she’d stolen it from one of the Brady Bunch kids—and her long black hair was tied into a ponytail. She had a glass of something that looked like over-thick cherry soda in the hand that wasn’t busy waving.
It’s ketchup and tonic water, she informed me blithely, about a half-second after my eyes hit her glass. Delicious and a good preventative against malaria.
“Sarah, you don’t have blood as most mammals understand it. Why would you need to worry about malaria?” Dominic shot me a startled glance, and I realized that I’d spoken aloud. Dammit. “Stupid telepaths,” I mumbled, chagrined.
Sorry!
No, you’re not, I thought back at her, starting across the lobby toward the restaurant.
No, I’m not, Sarah agreed. She stood as we came closer, putting her ketchup soda down on the table. “What are you guys doing here? Are you hungry? They make a really fabulous lasagna here. The kitchen’s technically closed, but if I asked—”
“Can we go up to your room? It’s sort of important, and I’d rather not talk about it down here.”
Sarah blinked, expression going momentarily confused. Then she nodded. “Sure. I was pretty much done here anyway.” She picked up her soda and stepped around the table, passing over the line between the restaurant’s carpet and the lobby’s hardwood floor.
