Dominic shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “There hasn’t been a need since I’ve been here, and I didn’t want to list this as my address.”

I resisted the urge to groan. We should have been working on this weeks ago, as a matter of common sense, and it had taken reality television—which was literally the opposite of “common sense”—to make us get started. “Okay, we’ll add that to the list of things to take to Artie. He should be able to whip together something good enough for emergencies, even if it’s not good enough to be permanent. We’ll get him to fake another ID for you in the process, something burnable. Decide what I’ll be calling you. Make sure it’s something you can answer to. I recommend something that starts with ‘D,’ since it’ll be easier for you to recognize as your name.”

“Is that why you go by ‘Valerie’?”

“Yup,” I said, hoisting the wig box and wading back toward him. “Similar enough to ‘Verity’ that it catches my attention across a crowded room; dissimilar enough that people aren’t likely to connect the two. Same goes for my last name. ‘Price’ for me, ‘Pryor’ for her.”

“You know, there are people in the Covenant convinced that if your family survived, they did so by being intensely cunning, unbelievably clever, and making bargains with one or more demons,” said Dominic. “I’m reasonably sure no one’s ever said ‘why don’t we look under a simple mnemonic?’”

“Simple means you have fewer moving pieces that can break; there’s nothing wrong with simple.” I dropped the wig box next to him and knelt to begin examining its contents. “And we’ve never made any deals with demons. A few deals with my Aunt Mary the crossroads ghost, but she always recommends against it, and for the most part, we listen. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“Once again, I have to ask: how many dead aunts do you have?” asked Dominic, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

I glanced up from the wigs and grinned. “Just the two. Aunt Rose, who you met in New Orleans and may or may not see in the foreseeable future, and Aunt Mary, who we’ll see again at Christmas. She always brings fruitcake from this old lady she knows in Denver who actually bakes fruitcake you can eat without breaking your teeth, it’s amazing.” This said, I looked back to the box. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” echoed Dominic.

“Yeah. Hmm.” Valerie Pryor was a redhead. It was a decision based half on vanity—I always wanted red hair when I was a kid, and I was never allowed to dye it, since that would have made me stand out too much—and half on practicality, because again, red hair stood out. Between the costumes and the hair, few people remembered much about “Valerie’s” face. They came away with an impression of color and semi-nudity, and didn’t really look at things like the shape of my cheekbones.

Unfortunately, while my costumes had fared reasonably well during the move, my wigs were outdated and disheveled after their time in the box. It would look odd if I showed up on television with the exact same hairstyle I’d had three years ago, and if I tried to rehab the wigs, there was a chance I’d wind up damaging them.

“Is that real human hair?” asked Dominic, sounding somewhere between amazed and appalled.

“Yup. Expensive, but you’re not going to find anything that looks more realistic, or does a better job of fooling tracking spells. I buy them from a wig shop in Salem. It’s run by a very sweet harpy and her daughter. They have feathers in their hair, and pulling them out would hurt like hell, since living feathers have blood vessels in them. They make wigs instead. They do a good business among the gorgon community and with other cryptids who have reasons to hide their scalps.” I was already running the numbers in my head on how many wigs I could afford. Dad would probably give me the money if I asked, since he’d approved this mission, and it would be nice to have something styled in a braid or updo, just to make the rumbas easier.

“I see,” said Dominic. He paused, and then said, “When we met, I thought your dancing was frivolous. I suppose I still do, on some level. Your work is more important than the dance floor.”

I glanced up, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head; he wasn’t done.

“But your joy when you dance . . . it’s radiant. The preparation, the work, the thought you put into every element of the presentation . . . this isn’t frivolous. It may not be what I recognize as important, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. I’m glad you’re going to do this reunion show. I think that, as your husband, I owe it to myself to take more time to watch you dance.”