Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 38
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All the more reason for me to get this taken care of quickly. “Hello, colony,” I said.
“HAIL!” replied the mice, with one voice. Istas jumped.
“Verity . . .” She stepped closer to me. This time, I didn’t remind her about personal space. “There are mice.”
“Yes. I don’t want you to eat them, so it seemed to me that introductions were in order.”
She gave me a sidelong look, expression clearly implying that I might well be insane. I’d been seeing that face since I was old enough to get sent home from kindergarten for telling fibs. (To their credit, my parents had grounded me, not for telling fibs—I hadn’t—but for being stupid enough to tell my teacher about the time my grandmother shot the Boob Fairy with a load of buckshot. All my teacher heard was that things were taken care of. And they were. I became a much better liar after that.)
“The mice are talking,” said Istas patiently, in case I had somehow failed to notice.
“True,” I agreed. “Colony, this is Istas.”
“HAIL ISTAS!” declared the mice.
Istas jumped again. Then she turned and glared at me, like this was all an elaborate trick that I was staging for her benefit. “Make them stop talking,” she demanded.
“I can’t. No one can. If I had that power, my sex life would be a lot less complicated.” I decided to take mercy on her—always show mercy to the apex predators when possible—and cleared my throat before saying, “In the interests of maintaining local harmony, I invoke Conversation for Cake.”
The mice cheered once before going eerily silent. Istas stepped closer still, until I could feel the heat of her skin. I managed not to step away.
A small figure appeared on one of the wooden paths winding around the former Barbie Dream House. It made its slow way up to the very top of the structure, leaning heavily on its staff with every step. I didn’t offer to help. The High Priest was proud. If he wasn’t, he would already have stepped down, letting a younger, more enthusiastic mouse take his place. I wouldn’t shame him by acting like he couldn’t make the walk on his own.
When he reached the top of the house, he stopped, coiling his tail tightly around his feet as he turned to face us. He kept hold of his kitten bone staff, letting it support his weight. His whiskers were forward, signaling his curiosity. “What do you wish, O Priestess?” he squeaked.
“Hello, my friend,” I said. I indicated Istas. “This is Istas, of the waheela. She’ll be staying with us here while we take care of things. I wanted her to meet the colony.”
“Before there could be Bad Decisions,” said the High Priest. He bowed to Istas. “Milady Carnivore. Welcome to our Home.”
The other mice took this as an invitation to cheer. The High Priest silenced them all with a stern glare, and one rap of his kitten bone staff against the roof. He might be old, but he still ruled his people with an iron paw.
Istas, meanwhile, was looking at him with unabashed curiosity. “You are talking mice,” she said. “Mice are not meant to talk.”
“Yet talk we do,” said the High Priest. “Truly, you are wise, to approach such a complicated theological question on your very first introduction.” He rapped his staff again. This time it was a cue, and the colony’s cheering went unabated.
“They’re hyper-religious,” I explained to Istas, quietly. “They worship my family.”
“Oh,” said Istas, looking puzzled. She looked at the High Priest. “If you worship her, what do you do with me?”
“We ask that you do not eat us, Milady Carnivore, and offer to share the spoils of our hunt with you,” said the High Priest. “We will feast well this night, on rat and bat and feathered snake.”
“I would like that,” said Istas. “Do you always talk?”
“Sadly,” I muttered.
The High Priest pressed his whiskers forward. “You are truly a lover of complex theological debate,” he said, sounding delighted. “We will enjoy your company.”
“As long as that company doesn’t involve eating my family’s mice,” I said, to get us back on message. “Istas, please don’t eat my mice. They’re very important to me, and besides, it’s rude to eat anything you’ve been introduced to.”
Istas pondered this for a moment before she said, “I will not eat any mouse that speaks to me, or that is caught within this room.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“May I stay here and partake of the dead rats which they have offered me?”
I grimaced. “Maybe.” I looked to the High Priest. “Istas is not human, and does not share my dietary restrictions. If she dines with you, will you make this a religious ritual? Because I won’t eat rat for you, no matter how important you think it is.”
The High Priest slicked his ears back in evident amusement. “No, Priestess,” he said. “This will be the Feast of the Waheela With Religious Questions, and will be celebrated only when a waheela is present to dine with us.”
“In that case, yes, Istas, you can stay and eat dead rats with the mice.”
Istas beamed, evidently delighted. “Perhaps I can help with the gutting.”
General cheers, and the sound of Istas’ laughter, followed me out of the room. Sometimes my life really is indescribably weird.
With Mike and Ryan off getting supplies and Istas eating dinner with the mice, there wasn’t much that I could do with myself. I went to the office I’d claimed as a temporary bedroom and finished unpacking my weapons, lining them up along the walls until I stopped feeling quite so transitory. A Price girl can live anywhere as long as she has her boots, her knives, and her guns. That’s a lesson we picked up from my great-grandmother, Frances Healy, but near as I can tell, it’s been true for every generation of our family since the dawn of time. Our last name may have changed, but our essential nature has always remained the same.
Even I could only spend so much time fussing with the placement of ammo boxes and throwing knives. Once that was over, it was time to turn to the much less pleasant of my planned chores: making some calls.
Not every cryptid has a telephone, or wants one, but all smart urban cryptids are plugged into the local gossip network. The bogeys and the dragons knew about the impending purge. That was a start; between them, they had connections to two thirds of the city’s cryptid population. With a few calls, I was able to tip off the harpies—for the aerial cryptids—and the nixies—for the aquatic ones. I couldn’t reach any of the gorgons in my contact list, but hopefully between Carol and Joe, they’d hear what was coming.
“HAIL!” replied the mice, with one voice. Istas jumped.
“Verity . . .” She stepped closer to me. This time, I didn’t remind her about personal space. “There are mice.”
“Yes. I don’t want you to eat them, so it seemed to me that introductions were in order.”
She gave me a sidelong look, expression clearly implying that I might well be insane. I’d been seeing that face since I was old enough to get sent home from kindergarten for telling fibs. (To their credit, my parents had grounded me, not for telling fibs—I hadn’t—but for being stupid enough to tell my teacher about the time my grandmother shot the Boob Fairy with a load of buckshot. All my teacher heard was that things were taken care of. And they were. I became a much better liar after that.)
“The mice are talking,” said Istas patiently, in case I had somehow failed to notice.
“True,” I agreed. “Colony, this is Istas.”
“HAIL ISTAS!” declared the mice.
Istas jumped again. Then she turned and glared at me, like this was all an elaborate trick that I was staging for her benefit. “Make them stop talking,” she demanded.
“I can’t. No one can. If I had that power, my sex life would be a lot less complicated.” I decided to take mercy on her—always show mercy to the apex predators when possible—and cleared my throat before saying, “In the interests of maintaining local harmony, I invoke Conversation for Cake.”
The mice cheered once before going eerily silent. Istas stepped closer still, until I could feel the heat of her skin. I managed not to step away.
A small figure appeared on one of the wooden paths winding around the former Barbie Dream House. It made its slow way up to the very top of the structure, leaning heavily on its staff with every step. I didn’t offer to help. The High Priest was proud. If he wasn’t, he would already have stepped down, letting a younger, more enthusiastic mouse take his place. I wouldn’t shame him by acting like he couldn’t make the walk on his own.
When he reached the top of the house, he stopped, coiling his tail tightly around his feet as he turned to face us. He kept hold of his kitten bone staff, letting it support his weight. His whiskers were forward, signaling his curiosity. “What do you wish, O Priestess?” he squeaked.
“Hello, my friend,” I said. I indicated Istas. “This is Istas, of the waheela. She’ll be staying with us here while we take care of things. I wanted her to meet the colony.”
“Before there could be Bad Decisions,” said the High Priest. He bowed to Istas. “Milady Carnivore. Welcome to our Home.”
The other mice took this as an invitation to cheer. The High Priest silenced them all with a stern glare, and one rap of his kitten bone staff against the roof. He might be old, but he still ruled his people with an iron paw.
Istas, meanwhile, was looking at him with unabashed curiosity. “You are talking mice,” she said. “Mice are not meant to talk.”
“Yet talk we do,” said the High Priest. “Truly, you are wise, to approach such a complicated theological question on your very first introduction.” He rapped his staff again. This time it was a cue, and the colony’s cheering went unabated.
“They’re hyper-religious,” I explained to Istas, quietly. “They worship my family.”
“Oh,” said Istas, looking puzzled. She looked at the High Priest. “If you worship her, what do you do with me?”
“We ask that you do not eat us, Milady Carnivore, and offer to share the spoils of our hunt with you,” said the High Priest. “We will feast well this night, on rat and bat and feathered snake.”
“I would like that,” said Istas. “Do you always talk?”
“Sadly,” I muttered.
The High Priest pressed his whiskers forward. “You are truly a lover of complex theological debate,” he said, sounding delighted. “We will enjoy your company.”
“As long as that company doesn’t involve eating my family’s mice,” I said, to get us back on message. “Istas, please don’t eat my mice. They’re very important to me, and besides, it’s rude to eat anything you’ve been introduced to.”
Istas pondered this for a moment before she said, “I will not eat any mouse that speaks to me, or that is caught within this room.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“May I stay here and partake of the dead rats which they have offered me?”
I grimaced. “Maybe.” I looked to the High Priest. “Istas is not human, and does not share my dietary restrictions. If she dines with you, will you make this a religious ritual? Because I won’t eat rat for you, no matter how important you think it is.”
The High Priest slicked his ears back in evident amusement. “No, Priestess,” he said. “This will be the Feast of the Waheela With Religious Questions, and will be celebrated only when a waheela is present to dine with us.”
“In that case, yes, Istas, you can stay and eat dead rats with the mice.”
Istas beamed, evidently delighted. “Perhaps I can help with the gutting.”
General cheers, and the sound of Istas’ laughter, followed me out of the room. Sometimes my life really is indescribably weird.
With Mike and Ryan off getting supplies and Istas eating dinner with the mice, there wasn’t much that I could do with myself. I went to the office I’d claimed as a temporary bedroom and finished unpacking my weapons, lining them up along the walls until I stopped feeling quite so transitory. A Price girl can live anywhere as long as she has her boots, her knives, and her guns. That’s a lesson we picked up from my great-grandmother, Frances Healy, but near as I can tell, it’s been true for every generation of our family since the dawn of time. Our last name may have changed, but our essential nature has always remained the same.
Even I could only spend so much time fussing with the placement of ammo boxes and throwing knives. Once that was over, it was time to turn to the much less pleasant of my planned chores: making some calls.
Not every cryptid has a telephone, or wants one, but all smart urban cryptids are plugged into the local gossip network. The bogeys and the dragons knew about the impending purge. That was a start; between them, they had connections to two thirds of the city’s cryptid population. With a few calls, I was able to tip off the harpies—for the aerial cryptids—and the nixies—for the aquatic ones. I couldn’t reach any of the gorgons in my contact list, but hopefully between Carol and Joe, they’d hear what was coming.
