“Her name is Sarah,” I said. “As far as the rest goes . . .” I paused, studying Shelby.

Either she was an enemy or she was an ally. If she was an enemy, I had nothing to lose by telling her the truth: she might still shoot me and Sarah, but there was no way she’d be getting away with it for long if she did. The mice would tell my grandparents what she’d done, and Grandma would track her down, and Grandpa would make her understand why it wasn’t okay to hurt his family. That assumed she was prepared to shoot me at all. She hadn’t done it when she had the element of surprise, and now? She was on my home turf. I knew where all the weapons were, and I was ready to disarm her if she got distracted again.

Of course, all that assumed that she was an enemy. If she was an ally, she’d only stop lying to me if I stopped lying to her. One of us had to go first.

“The only thing I lied to you about was my last name. It’s not Preston: it’s Price,” I said. “I’m not part of the Covenant of St. George. My family quit several generations ago. If you’re against them, then it looks like we may be on the same side.”

Shelby blinked. “You’re a Price?” she said, disbelieving.

“Yeah.”

“As in Thomas Price, the author of The Price Field Guide to the Cryptids of Australia and New Zealand.”

I vaguely remembered seeing that book in the library at home. “Yes,” I said, with more certainty than I felt.

“You’re lying. He didn’t have children.”

“I think that’s something you should take up with my grandmother, since she’s pretty adamant about us being his, and he married her before my father was born, which means we’re all legitimate in the eyes of the law.”

Shelby blinked again. Then, much to my relief, she lowered her gun. Her shoulders started to shake. I worried for a moment that she was crying, until I realized that the shaking was from the effort of keeping her laughter contained. “All these weeks . . . all those nights of being afraid you’d catch me out, or you’d start asking questions . . . all the times I worried you’d stumble over something on one of your field trips and get yourself eaten . . . I’ve been worrying about a Price. That’s worse than worrying over nothing. That’s like worrying about the well-being of the crocodile in your billabong!”

“Um,” I said. “Sorry about that?” I lowered my own gun. Playing fair is important, especially when there are firearms involved.

“I thought you were completely clueless and just didn’t know how to deal with women!” Shelby shook her head. “I truly believed you were a dead man walking!”

“Getting less flattering by the second, but thanks,” I said. “Now do you want to explain what the hell you’re doing pulling a gun on my cousin? Since we’ve established that we both had a little bit of a smokescreen going on?”

“A little bit of a smokescreen? What would you term a large one? Convincing me you were a Martian?”

“Alex would make a terrible Martian,” said Sarah. “He doesn’t have a giant laser and he’s not planning an Earth-shattering kaboom.” She slid out of her seat and wandered toward the fridge. Apparently, once we’d lowered our weapons, she no longer felt the need to remain seated. That was sort of reassuring, in a way: it meant she recognized the guns for what they were.

Shelby tracked Sarah’s movement, but she didn’t raise her gun. That was also reassuring.

“I’m not a Martian, and the only thing I ever lied about was my last name and my state of origin—we don’t live in California.” I didn’t tell her where we did live. There’s feeling out an ally in the hopes that no one has to get killed, and then there’s being stupid. “I do sort of feel like the information exchange is a little one-sided right now, though, so if you could please explain how you know what a Johrlac is, or why you’ve read my grandfather’s work, that would be awesome.”

“I belong to the Thirty-Six Society,” she said, with an almost prim air. “We’ve got our reasons to be interested in your movement, although it’s been decades since any member of your family set foot in Australia.”

I blinked at her. “You’re a Thirty-Sixer?”

“Just said that, didn’t I?”

“You . . .” The urge to laugh at the sheer improbability of it all was high. “Don’t you think it’s a little, well, bizarre for the first Australian I meet to be a Thirty-Sixer?”

A smile tugged at the edges of Shelby’s mouth. “I don’t know. How bizarre is it for the first American biologist I really get to know to be a Price?”

“It’s zebras all the way down,” said Sarah agreeably, as she walked back to the table. She was holding a can of V8. At least that would keep her occupied for a little while. We both turned to look at her. Then, as one, we turned back to each other and burst out laughing. Shelby sat back down, placing her gun on the table. I did the same.

“All right,” she said. “Story time. We can decide whether anyone’s getting shot later.”

“Deal,” I said. “I came to Ohio to oversee a basilisk breeding project . . .”

Telling Shelby my life story—edited to remove details that could be used to track down my family or otherwise do us harm—took a while. Sarah occupied herself with the V8, and Shelby listened attentively, fingers never twitching toward her firearm. I chose to view that as a good sign, rather than as proof that she considered herself fast enough that she didn’t need to twitch.

“. . . and then you asked if you could come over, and here we are,” I finished. “My grandparents should be home any time now.”

“I want to go over the autopsy reports with you when they come in,” said Shelby. It sounded just like every request she’d ever made for dinner or a movie, except for the suddenly morbid content. I blinked at her. She shrugged. “I was there when you found him. You can’t expect me to sit idly by and let you have all the fun.”

“Since you didn’t tell me until tonight that you had any idea about any of this stuff, I can absolutely expect that.” I wiped a bit of gravel out of the corner of my eye.

“Ah, but by the same token, I expected you to keep your nose out of things that you couldn’t possibly understand. So we’re really in the same position as regards each other.”