The servitors didn’t stand a chance. She slapped two of them aside like they were bowling pins, and I dropped back to the floor, putting three bullets in the head of the last one standing. Istas pursued her two across the floor, hitting them every chance she got, until they went down and didn’t get up again.

“I think they’re dead,” I said, breathing shallowly to keep from hyperventilating. One of the servitors closer to me twitched. I shot him twice in the spine. He stopped twitching. I amended, “I think they’re dead now.”

Istas growled deep in her throat, smacking a fallen servitor one last time before she turned to do a slow survey of the room. The hair along her shoulders and spine was standing on end, making her look even larger. As if she needed the help. She finished her circuit, snarled, and trotted over to me, claws audibly scratching the club floor.

“You okay?” I asked her. She shot me what could only be called an amused look. “Sorry. Reflex. Come on; let’s go find Candy. She’s not safe here on her own.”

“She’s not on her own,” said a voice from behind us.

I turned toward the hallway door, blinking in confusion. “Dave? I thought you left with the rest of the—oh, God, Dave, I am so sorry about the damages. In our defense, they were trying to kill us—wait, what?” I stopped talking as his words sank in. “Where’s Candy?”

Dave looked awkwardly at the pair of us, his long-fingered hands tucked deep into the pockets of his cheap polyester slacks. “She’s not alone,” he said. “I really am sorry about this, Verity, but business is business, and you never would have danced for me anyway.”

I took a step back, my hip brushing Istas’ shoulder. “Dave?” I said uncertainly.

“Good night, Miss Price.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and blew their contents—a sparkly white powder that I recognized from the Tooth Fairy arsenal—in our direction.

We were both unconscious before we hit the floor.

Twenty-four

“Well, crap.”

–Frances Brown

Some distance beneath the streets of Manhattan, being held captive by a snake cult

TOOTH FAIRY DUST IS MEANT TO BE administered to sleeping children to make sure they stay asleep while the Tooth Fairy feeds. (The specific dietary needs of Tooth Fairies are irrelevant and a little bit disgusting, so I’m not going to talk about them. Even I have limits.) The standard dose, according to Grandpa Thomas’ Field Guide to Pixies, Sprites, and Other Household Pests, is a small pinch. A small pinch, as measured against the hand of something a little bit bigger than a Barbie doll. Dave had blown two full handfuls on me and Istas. At that kind of dosage, it was no wonder that when I finally stumbled back toward consciousness, I felt like I’d been shot full of curare, chloroform, and cockatrice venom.

I groaned, trying to lift a hand and wipe the residual grittiness from my eyes. My arm wouldn’t move. I couldn’t actually feel my arm. That realization snapped me the rest of the way out of my fugue damn quick, and I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at a distant ceiling that looked like poured concrete shot through with massive brass pipes. The sewers. I was somewhere in the sewers, only this time, I was either paralyzed or tied down. This definitely wasn’t an improvement over my earlier descents.

I tried moving various parts of my body. Nothing responded, but at least I was able to feel my hands and feet when I really focused on it. All my bits were still attached; they just weren’t speaking to me at the moment. I started hurriedly reviewing everything I knew about Tooth Fairy dust, trying to remember whether it had a known overdose point.

“I see one of our guests is awake,” said a jovial voice. I turned my head toward it—or tried to, anyway. All I was able to manage was the faintest twitch of the muscles in my neck. That was better than I’d been able to accomplish a few seconds before. I’d take it. “I’m sorry about the way you had to be brought here, dear. It was unnecessarily violent, and I apologize.”

I made a strangled squeaking noise in the back of my throat. Not the most effective comeback I’d ever managed. This paralysis thing was getting old fast.

“Oh, I’m sorry again—I didn’t think. Here.” Meaty hands grasped the sides of my head, turning it to face the speaker: a big, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair and a Brooks Brothers suit that definitely didn’t come off the rack. Whoever my apologetic kidnapper was, he came from money. “Is that better?”

I made the strangled squeaking noise again.

He nodded like I’d just said something brilliant. “I thought it might be. I do apologize that we had to meet under these circumstances, Miss Price. I’ve been a big fan of your work. Oh, don’t look so surprised—we’ve been keeping an eye on you since your arrival on the East Coast. It’s admirable, the way your family has pursued an accord with the unnatural races that battle humanity for rulership of our fair planet. Idiotic, but still admirable.”

If I could look surprised, I could also glare. I did, wishing looks could actually kill as I stared at the asshole who was apparently responsible for my current situation. The asshole who was, unless my instincts had gone totally haywire, part of the snake cult that killed Piyusha.

Chuckling, he leaned over and ruffled my hair. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re adorable when you’re angry? The sedative our operative administered should be wearing off soon, and then we can begin. I’m afraid you can’t be anesthetized during the ritual. It might disrupt things, and we’re dealing with too many variables as it is. As a scientist of sorts, I’m sure you understand why we can’t risk such contamination.”

I kept glaring at him. There are only two good reasons for a villain to monologue: either they’re stalling for time, or they’re sure there’s no possible way for you to escape. This asshole was apparently combining the two. He needed to stall until I was no longer a danger to his dragon’s delicate constitution, and he clearly wasn’t worried about me getting away any time soon.

The tingling in my hands and feet was getting stronger. If he’d just continue his monologue for a little while longer, there was a good chance I could surprise him. His easy dismissal of the city’s cryptid community meant that, while he might work with them, he probably wasn’t inclined to listen to them. That was too bad for him, because if there was one thing they could all have agreed on, it was that you never mess with a Price girl. Not unless we’re already gut-shot and bleeding out … and frankly, not always then.