For once, there was no cheering. Instead, the mice sat silently, and more tiny rodent faces appeared in the other windows, all of them waiting to see what was going to happen next. Finally, a white-whiskered mouse with a squirrel’s skull atop his head stepped laboriously out onto the scaffold in front of that top window.

“Your audience is granted,” he squeaked, in a voice that used to be sonorous—by mouse standards, anyway—and now barely carried past the lintel of the closet. “What do you require, O Arboreal Priestess?”

Aeslin mice live a long time by normal rodent standards, but their lives are short by human standards. I remembered when this Head Priest was young and vital, and full of potentially blasphemous ideals. I grew up, and he grew old. There would be a new Head Priest soon. That knowledge made me deeply sad. “The Covenant of St. George is here,” I said.

He nodded. “I know. The God of Questionable Motivations is one of theirs, at least in body, if not in heart or mind.”

I decided not to think about that too hard. “They know where we live. They have this address.”

“Ah,” he said, sagely. “You are here to tell me that we must leave this pleasant home and move to somewhere new, that we might survive to carry the gospel to another generation.”

“Something like that,” I said. “Can the colony pack up and be ready by tonight? We want to move as soon as possible. It’s not safe here anymore.”

“If I tell them we must go, they will be ready,” he said. He reached out one grizzled paw, clearly beckoning. I held my hand out to him, and he placed his paw gently on the tip of my index finger. “Do not trouble yourself with us, Priestess. We exist only to serve.”

“You do a damn good job,” I said. “Get them ready. I’ll leave the pot roast outside the closet, so you can provision yourselves for the trip.”

“So shall it be,” he said, and pulled his paw away. I withdrew my hand and stood, recognizing a dismissal when I saw one. The rest of the mice ran into the closet before I could close the door, swarming up the scaffolding as they fought to get into the best position to hear the coming sermon.

He was already beginning to speak when I shut the closet door and turned away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but from the cheers of the other mice, it was something stirring and inspirational, at least to them. I shook my head and walked back to the kitchen.

“That seemed to go well,” said Mike, handing me a roast beef sandwich.

“We’re going to get them all killed,” I replied. “I don’t know where they get that much faith in us.”

“Same place anybody gets faith in anything, I guess,” he said, and shrugged. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. Come on. Let’s go see a dragon about an apartment.”

Mike’s car was parked a block down the street from my apartment, where I would have seen it if I hadn’t come in via the rooftops. It was a black Lincoln sedan, and it would be practically invisible in the traffic of any major city. I paused, eyeing it.

“Did you trade in the other car?” I asked.

“Always stay two years behind the times,” he replied, clicking the button to unlock the doors. “Any newer, looks like you’ve got money, you become a viable target. Any older, you risk sticking out. Two years is the sweet spot.”

“I’m assuming that means ‘yes,’” I guessed. “See, I avoid that problem by never driving anywhere.”

“Not all of us want to be Batgirl when we grow up,” said Mike, and got into the driver’s seat. There was nothing to do at that point but get in on my side, and trust him not to kill us horribly.

(To be fair, Uncle Mike is an excellent driver. He has to be, if he wants to stay alive in Chicago, which seems to have been outfitted with more than its fair share of hitchhiking ghosts, phantom roadsters, demonically possessed convertibles, and idiots who don’t know how to use their turn signals. There are cities that just reinforce my decision not to get a driver’s license. Chicago may not be at the top of the list, but it’s right on up there. The first two cities on the list are Los Angeles, for obvious reasons, and Warsaw, Indiana, for less obvious ones.)

“So how’s things with the dancing?” asked Mike, as he steered us around a double-decker bus full of tourists who were gawking, for no apparent reason, at a street mime. Tourists are weird. If you can accept that, everything about New York starts making infinitely more sense. “Lea and I both voted for you every night while you were on TV, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said, touched. “That’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”

“Hey, it was our pleasure. You’re pretty good, you know that?”

“I’m aware.” I wasn’t bragging. I just wasn’t arguing with him. There was no point in false modesty: pretending you don’t understand your own skills is a good way to get yourself killed when you’re out in the field, and once you’ve given up on underestimating yourself in one area, you might as well give it up entirely. “The dancing is going . . . I mean, it’s going, I guess. I spend as much time on it as I can, but other things keep getting in the way, and a lot of the time, they seem way more important. So I guess it’s not going as well as I hoped it would be by now, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” He made a right turn, following the silent instructions of his car’s GPS. “I used to want to be a bartender, you know.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s the perfect job. You mix a few drinks, you listen to people’s problems, you get smiled at by pretty girls, and at the end of the night, unless you have a drinking problem, you get to leave it all behind and go back to a nice little apartment where nothing’s lurking in your closet to rip your guts out. It seemed pretty much ideal if you asked me.”

Like most of us, Uncle Mike is a hereditary cryptozoologist. His family didn’t start with the Covenant—in fact, they didn’t even know that cryptids existed until after they’d settled in Chicago, when there was some sort of an incident involving his great-grandfather, a hungry river hag, and my great-grandparents, Frances and Jonathan Healy. At the end of it, they had a dead river hag and a new associate, Arturo Gucciard. He raised his kids knowing about the cryptozoological world, and his kids did the same with theirs, leading us, three generations later, to me and Mike, driving through downtown Manhattan.