He blinked at me, nonplussed. “I—”

“Save it and come with me.”

“What?” His expression turned wary. Not a bad call on his part. I was just about angry enough to shove his body into the nearest dumpster and take my chances on some concerned citizen finding him before the local ghouls did.

“You’ve fucked up my day, you’ve fucked up my chance to qualify for the next big competition, and you may have fucked up my cover. You’re not getting out of here without telling me what you came here to tell me. Now come on.”

I was starting to realize that the last of the items on that list was the one that represented the real danger. He’d blown my cover. A member of the Covenant knew that Valerie Pryor was actually Verity Price in insufficiently concealing clothing. Depending on what happened next, he might not have disqualified me from a single competition; he might well have disqualified me from my entire career.

It was a horrific thing to even think about, but if Dominic De Luca wanted to, he could make certain I’d never dance professionally again. I didn’t want to kill him. It was looking increasingly likely that I wasn’t going to have a choice.

I’ll give Dominic this, even if I didn’t want to give him anything else: he followed me without complaint, despite the havoc the heat outside had to be wreaking on his overly heavy attire. I marched him down the street, around a corner, and through the back door of a greasy spoon that stank like a hundred years of deep-fried dinners. He hesitated when he saw the kitchen, and I grabbed his jacket sleeve, dragging him deeper in. The fry cook on duty was a hulking shape in dirty whites, his back to us as he chopped some unidentifiable cut of meat into smaller and smaller chunks.

“Hey, Nigel,” I said.

He grunted, waving us on.

Dominic picked up the pace slightly, drawing close enough to hiss, “Is he—” in my ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I shoved open a door at the back of the kitchen, revealing a rickety flight of stairs leading to the storage rooms overhead. I took the steps two at a time, focusing my anger on the difficult task of not punching my five-inch heels through the half-rotten wood. It helped, a little. If I was thinking about not puncturing things with my shoes, I wasn’t thinking about how easy it would be to impale Dominic with them.

He managed to stay quiet until we reached the second floor. The hallway was choked off with boxes of old newspapers and stacks of dishes retired after they became too chipped for even the establishment downstairs. I wove between them, careful to keep from triggering an avalanche.

Dominic wasn’t so lucky. There was a shattering crash, followed by the sound of him swearing in loud, enthusiastic Italian. “Keep walking,” I said, in a singsong tone.

“What are we doing here?” he demanded.

“I need to change.” I looked back over my shoulder, smiling sweetly. “If you’d called, you wouldn’t be following me into the place where dishes go to die. Think about that the next time you decide to mess with my competition schedule.”

“Because God forbid something gets in the way of your dancing,” he sneered.

“Damn right,” I said, and half-pushed, half-slammed the nearest door open, storming into the mostly-empty storage room on the other side. More crashes and clattering punctuated Dominic’s progress as he followed after me.

More things that don’t really survive their first encounter with the glamorous, exhausting world of professional ballroom dance, much less their first encounter with the glamorous, exhausting world of professional cryptozoology: modesty. Sure, I’d scream like any other girl if someone walked in on me in the changing room at Victoria’s Secret—probably right before I kicked that someone in the head—but when it comes to changing into street clothes, I could do it in the middle of Fifth Avenue. I knew Dominic had entered the room when I heard his breath catch, and twisted to look over my shoulder at him, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“You …ah…” he stammered, eyes darting around like he wasn’t sure where he should look. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of targets. I was, after all, standing there in emerald green thong panties, thigh-high sheer stockings, stiletto heels, and an assortment of holsters, having already shucked my costume to the floor.

If I took my arm away from my chest, he’d probably die. Maybe not a standard way to kill a man, but hey, beggars can’t always be choosers. “Yes?” I prompted.

Dominic swallowed. “You dance with a gun at your back?”

“Wouldn’t you?” I crouched to start digging through my duffel bag, producing a plastic baggie full of Ace bandages before I straightened up. Wrapping is pretty standard after a competition—it helps to keep me from injuring myself when I inevitably go running across the rooftops to burn off all my extra adrenaline. Plus, a nice layer of Ace bandage counts as at least minimal armor, which is always nice.

I would normally have stayed low while I wrapped my ankles and knees, but I didn’t feel like doing Dominic any favors. I stretched my left leg into a full extension instead, staying balanced on the right as I started winding bandages around my knee. “Worst thing about the Argentine tango: you can’t fit more than a few weapons under your costume without it getting really obvious. The waltz is better. You can hide a regulation machete under a waltz costume.”

“Er, yes. Of course.” It sounded like he still didn’t know where he was supposed to be looking. Tough. “I suppose you’d like to know why I felt the need to seek you out.”

“Because you’re a pompous asshole who didn’t get a decent cell plan? I could be in your network. All calls would be free.” I bent my leg back to make it easier to get to my ankle, and repeated the wrapping process. “Yes, Dominic. I would like to know why you decided to ruin my day and damage my career. Please, enlighten me.”

“I believe I’ve discovered the reason for the local disappearances.” He sounded a bit more sure of himself as he made the pronouncement, some of his usual arrogance coming back into his voice. He understood making dire pronouncements. Apparently better than he understood seminaked, highly flexible women. The poor guy must have led a very boring life.

“What would that be?” I asked. My left knee and left ankle were wrapped, and would be able to take a lot more pressure without getting damaged. I strapped my left ankle holster on over the Ace bandage and switched legs.