“What are we doing here?” hissed Dominic.

“I told you, we’re visiting my cousin.” I stopped in front of the elevators, smiling at the operator—yes, the real, live elevator operator—responsible for keeping the buttons from soiling our dainty fingertips. “Penthouse, please. Sarah’s expecting me.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. I didn’t call ahead, but once a cuckoo is telepathically attuned to someone, they can “hear” them coming a quarter of a mile away. I haven’t been able to sneak up on Sarah since I was eleven.

Dominic gave the lobby another mistrustful glance as the elevator operator pressed the button for the penthouse. “Your cousin is staying here?” he asked.

“You don’t have to sound so doubtful,” I said. The elevator doors opened. Tossing a smile to the operator, I grabbed Dominic’s arm and tugged him with me into the elevator, which was as lush and lavishly appointed as the lobby. The doors closed. I released his elbow. “She likes hotels.”

Dominic looked at me, stone-faced, and said nothing.

Even if his discomfort amused me, I could at least understand it; I used to feel grubby when I visited Sarah “at home,” no matter how nicely I dressed. Sample sale Prada and secondhand Alexander McQueen does not quite live up to the standards set by the sort of hotels she likes to take advantage of. Poor Dominic had to feel like he’d just been dropped into the middle of a Bond flick without having the time to get his tux out of storage.

Over time, I’ve learned that once Sarah has successfully “nested,” the hotel staff doesn’t really care how I look. I’m there to visit Sarah Zellaby, and that’s good enough for them. Besides, it’s not like Sarah makes any sort of effort with her appearance when I don’t force her into it. Ninety percent of her wardrobe is essentially shapeless, the sort of bulky sweaters and knee-length skirts that people tend to gravitate toward when they’re Velmas instead of Daphnes. No amount of telling Sarah to embrace her Daphne-ocity has managed to fix her fashion sense.

(Cuckoos are natural thieves. They want something, they take it. Sarah was raised to play nicely with the other children, so she doesn’t go for the normal cuckoo targets—bank accounts, houses, husbands, other things that can destroy your life. She restricts her nest snatching to hotel chains and big corporations, where she figures it’ll never be noticed and won’t really be hurting anyone. She’s basically right. She’s also basically proof that some forms of credit card fraud will never be stopped. But she always tips the bellboys and maids really well, and the people who remember her once she’s moved on are always sorry to see her go.)

The elevator slid upward with silent, well-oiled precision. I wouldn’t even have known we were moving, if not for the numbers above the door. “About Sarah…” I said.

“Yes?”

“She’s a cousin by adoption, but she’s still a cousin. So hassling her is hassling family, and we don’t tend to react very kindly.”

His eyebrows rose. “Is there a particular reason I’ll want to ‘hassle’ your cousin?”

“Just be cool.”

The elevator stopped with a ding, and the doors slid open to reveal the penthouse. I stepped out. Dominic followed half a beat behind.

If there’s ever been a race of cryptids that came close to justifying the Covenant’s “shoot on sight” attitude, it’s the Johrlac, colloquially known as “cuckoos.” They’re the perfect ambush predator, capable of blending into crowds anywhere in the world without leaving so much as a ripple to track them by. They look human on the outside, and their particular brand of telepathic camouflage means that even when you cut one open, if it’s still breathing, you’re still going to see what the cuckoo wants you to see, rather than whatever’s really there. They have clear blood, no hearts, and a decentralized circulatory system that looks like somebody’s drunken knitting project. There’s no way you should be able to mistake that for human … but people have been doing it for centuries, because the only ways to see a cuckoo clearly are for the cuckoo to decide you’re allowed, or for the cuckoo to die.

If cuckoos were just mimics, they wouldn’t be a problem. There are lots of cryptids that specialize in pretending to be human, and for the most part, they make pretty decent neighbors. But cuckoos are telepaths, cuckoos are predatory … and cuckoos are mean. The average cuckoo has no qualms about destroying a person’s life just because they want to, and given their natural Invasion of the Body Snatchers talents, they’re damn good at what they do.

The Covenant of St. George never confirmed the existence of the cuckoos. They suspected, sure, but how do you find something that’s wearing the perfect disguise?

You look for the holes.

Great-Great-Grandpa Healy started hunting for the cuckoos shortly after the family moved to North America. It was the Salem witch trials that set him off; there was something about how the behavior of certain key parties kept changing that just didn’t ring true. He dug. When he hit rock bottom, he reached for the jackhammer, and he kept digging. What he found was a pattern of replacements, sudden personality changes, and horrible atrocities that went back as far as he cared to go. That, and a marked lack of Apraxis wasps.

Nothing scares the Apraxis. They’re thirteen-inch-long parasitic wasps that band together to form a telepathic hive mind, and they were designed to be scary, not to be scared. Normally, when a hive gets settled, they stay and slaughter the locals until they get burned out or run out of locals, whichever comes first. Only sometimes, they run for the hills, usually just before one of the people the Apraxis were preying on goes apeshit and starts really messing things up. Great-Great-Grandpa started tracking Apraxis wasps, and—when he found a hive established in Colorado—he sent my great-grandfather to get the lay of the land. Great-Grandpa Healy came home with a fiancée, a police record, and proof that the cuckoos existed. So it was a good vacation.

I won’t be all dramatic and say the cuckoos are our family’s arch-nemesis or anything—for one thing, we’re related to at least two of them—but they’re definitely something we keep an eye on. Invisible telepaths who like to kill people for fun? Not helping the cryptid cause. Not helping one little bit.

The penthouse at the Plaza Athenee was palatial verging on outright ostentatious. The carpet was plush enough to complicate walking, and the wallpaper was gilded with genuine gold leaf. The upholstery on the couch and settee was a stark ivory white, the sort of thing that only stays clean if you have an army of maids steam cleaning it on an almost daily basis. There was even a crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer—because every hotel room needs a foyer.