The lunch rush was more of a lunch trickle by the time I hit the floor, apron in place and new socks pulled securely over my knees. The other girls on duty were walking laconically among the customers, taking orders and providing the occasional panty-shot in an effort to drive up tips. They looked profoundly bored. Even without Candy, they had things more than under control. Istas was at the bar picking up a round of cocktails for one of the few occupied tables as I approached. I offered a respectful nod, which she returned without comment. Like most waheela, she wasn’t particularly comfortable with interpersonal interaction, but she made more of an effort than the bulk of her kind. I had to respect her for that, even as I continued to wonder what the hell would drive a member of a solitary, semiferal species to take a job at a Manhattan titty bar.

Ryan was leaning against the bar nursing a cup of something that smelled suspiciously like pickle juice. He smiled at me, waiting until I was close enough to hear him over the thumping music to say, “Hey, Verity. Those new socks? What happened this time?”

“I got snared by a representative from the Covenant while I was making my rooftop rounds and sort of bled through the cotton. Also, your nose for fresh cotton remains creepy and means I want you nowhere near my underwear drawer, ever.” I slid myself onto a stool. “Hey, Daisy, can I get a plate of hot wings? I’m starving to death over here.”

“Got it, hon,” called the bartender, heading for the kitchen.

Ryan, meanwhile, was staring at me like I’d suddenly announced my desire to get wasted and catch a nice social disease. “Come again?”

“The Covenant’s in town,” I said, turning to face him straight on. “Dave didn’t give you the info either?”

Ryan didn’t answer in words. He just growled, lips pulling back to show incisors considerably sharper and more pointed than the average human’s. Those teeth were normally the only sign that he’d inherited more from his Japanese mother than black hair and the sort of exotic features that kept the tourist ladies throwing themselves at him.

I nodded. “Thought not.”

“How many?”

“One that I’m aware of, about my age, pretty good at the hand-to-hand, but not smart enough to avoid bringing knives to a gunfight.” I held up a hand. “Pass the word that he’s out there and people need to be careful, but also pass the word that nobody should do anything stupid, like try to kill him.”

Ryan eyed me. “He’s from the Covenant, Verity,” he said, like that explained everything. From Ryan’s perspective, it did. The Covenant did a lot of “cleansing” in Japan, and Ryan’s species suffered pretty badly. Tanuki are therianthropes—shapeshifters powered by magic, rather than by the virus that causes lycanthropy—and they’ve never had much success with outbreeding. They probably would have died out entirely if not for the fact that they’re incredibly determined and spent several generations sticking it into anything that would wiggle as they tried to find species they could mate with to produce children who would live. My family has a lot of reasons to hate the Covenant. Ryan’s family has more.

“Yes, he’s from the Covenant, and if we go messing with him, the rest of the Covenant is going to find out. If everyone just lies low, stays out of his way, and passes the word around, maybe we can handle him without this turning into something worse. Or we can mess with him, and the Covenant can send a legion to put us down.” Daisy put my wings on the bar. I offered her a nod of thanks, reaching for the tray. “The way I see it, the choice is ours.”

“I don’t like this,” Ryan rumbled. His voice was getting deeper as his vocal chords constricted, modulating toward animal. He’d get control of himself in a minute, and it would be rude to point out the changes. Like most therianthropes, Ryan was very sensitive about his slips.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to help me pass the word along.” I picked up a hot wing, dipping it in bleu cheese dressing before offering a wry smile. “Besides, maybe if we all go underground, he’ll get bored and go away. Stranger things have happened, right?”

“Stranger than the Covenant letting go of a purge before they get to skin somebody?” Ryan gave me a dubious look. “I’m not sure anything that strange has ever happened.”

I shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Not for this.”

“We’ll see.”

Ryan sighed, throat visibly contorting as his vocal chords slipped themselves back into their human configuration. “Yeah,” he said, sounding doleful. “I guess we will.”

Eight

“Remember that most people, human or cryptid, don’t like what they don’t understand. They’re not wired for that kind of compassion. Feel sorry for them, unless they form an angry mob and march on your house. When that happens, release the hounds.”

—Evelyn Baker

The rooftops of Manhattan, sometime after midnight, three weeks later

THE SUMMER HEAT HAD DEEPENED as June slid into July, going from “unpleasant” to “unbearable” and bathing the entire city in a faint but distinctive scent of unwashed bodies, spoiled food, and chemical perfume. The smell was heaviest at street level. After an hour on the rooftops, going back to the ground was unbearable. Sadly, the part of my training that focused on blending in with the natives was firm on the topic of gas masks: they were a big no-no.

Paradoxically, the worse the smell of the city became, the more comfortable the lycanthrope and therianthrope populations seemed to be. As Ryan explained things, they didn’t like the modern attitude that people should be perfumed at all times, but as long as no one squirted strong scents actually on them, they could cope. The hazy, sweaty days of summer made tracking easier while they were in their human forms, and that made it easier for them to remain calm while surrounded by actual humans. Summer in the city is like having the lights turned on in a dark room for a shapeshifter. Interesting. Good to know. Definitely relevant to my field of study. And doing nothing for my reluctance to come down from the rooftops.

It had been almost a month since my last—and thus far, only—encounter with Dominic De Luca, better known as “the asshole from the Covenant.” Ryan, Candy, and everyone else at Dave’s refused to dignify the fact that he had a proper name. I couldn’t blame them. We’d been short-staffed since people learned he was in town, as everybody came up with sudden, pressing reasons to get out of harm’s way. (Most people used the standards: sick relative, family funeral, impending childbirth, whelping, or ovipositing—normal things. Marcy was the only one to take off her apron and say, without prevaricating, “I’m out of here until he’s gone, dead, or both.” Her pure self-interest was refreshing, even if it didn’t do anything to help cover her shifts at the club. At least we knew when she’d be back.)