My name is Verity Price. I’m a cryptozoologist. And this is why I can never get a goddamn date on a Saturday night.

Two

“There’s no such thing as a normal life. Some lives are just more interesting than others, and we shouldn’t judge people for being boring.”

—Evelyn Price

A semilegal sublet in Greenwich Village, the next morning

THE SOUND OF CHEERING filtered through the bedroom wall and across the edges of my consciousness, disrupting a really pleasant dream about teaching Christian Bale to dance the samba. Groaning, I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head. The cheering didn’t stop.

“Oh, come on,” I muttered, trying to burrow into the mattress. All I wanted was ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes, and the chance to finish teaching Christian where I wanted him to put his hands…

The cheers rose to a fever pitch, becoming impossible to ignore. I yanked my head out from under the pillow, pushing myself onto my elbows as I shouted, “If you make me come out there, you’re gonna be—”

Something smashed.

“—sorry.” I let myself fall back to the mattress, going as flat as I could. Becoming one with the bed didn’t help. “It’ll be fine, Very,” I said, imitating Mom’s perpetually upbeat tone. “It’s just a splinter colony. You’ll barely even know they’re in the apartment. Besides, you know they love you. How are they going to feel if you go off and abandon them?”

Another smash. Another cheer. I sighed, dropping back into my own voice as I answered myself, “Probably better than I feel about them breaking all the dishes.”

The clock on the bedside table said it was almost seven o’clock in the evening; I’d been in bed less than six hours, and I was definitely feeling it. Three hours of club crawling, the fight with the ghoul, and two more hours at the club before hitting the studio for my morning workout and rumba class had taken its toll, leaving me with the strong desire to stuff wads of cotton in my ears and try to steal a few more hours of sleep.

I might have done it, too, if there’d been any point. It was almost seven; I had to be at work by nine. That’ll teach me to swap shifts with Kitty.

I slid out of bed and started for the hall. “Somebody’s dying for this,” I announced to anyone who might be listening. The cheering from the other room continued. No one was listening.

Finding a decent apartment in Greenwich Village on a ballroom dancer-slash-cocktail waitress’ salary seemed like an impossible dream until Mom got involved. She pulled some strings and found a Sasquatch who was preparing to go on a year’s vacation with some Canadian cousins. The Sasquatch had been open to the idea of subletting as long as I promised to get the bathroom plumbing fixed and didn’t touch her collection of Precious Moments figurines. As if I’d want to?

Still, it was a nice apartment in a good location for six hundred a month plus utilities, and that’s an occurrence about as common in New York City as a herd of unicorns—maybe slightly rarer. Fixing the bathroom wasn’t hard, even if I’m still having nightmares about the hairballs the plumber snaked out of the shower drain. Protecting the breakables required boxing them up and storing them in the very back of the bedroom closet, where threats, bribery, and begging would hopefully be enough to keep grabby little paws at bay.

You could’ve said no, I told myself, and stepped around the hall corner into the kitchen.

Another great cheer arose.

“HAIL THE COMING OF THE ARBOREAL PRIESTESS!”

For what felt like the tenth time since the cheering started, I groaned.

A stranger stepping into the apartment’s tiny, nigh-claustrophobic kitchen would probably have stepped right back out again. A stranger with rodent-centric phobias would probably have skipped stepping in favor of running screaming out of the apartment, because the counters on both sides of the room were overflowing with a teeming sea of furry, multicolored bodies. Mice.

Technically mice, anyway, or at least close enough for taxonomical work. One could argue that most household rodents don’t wear tattered tribal clothing made from scraps of fur and fabric. One could argue further that most household rodents don’t wave weapons jubilantly over their heads when people come into the room. As far as I’m concerned, all that proves is a lack of imagination on the part of most household rodents.

Not even a sea of cheering mice could keep me from noticing the broken glass and gummy bears covering the kitchen floor. “Didn’t we talk about this?”

“HAIL!”

“That isn’t an answer.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Was there a reason for shoving the gummy bears off the counter? Did they tell you they were suicidal? On second thought,” I raised a hand, palm out, “don’t answer that. If the candy is talking, I don’t want to know.”

“The container blocked the Sacred Route of Celebration!” announced one of the junior priests. The bright blue streaks dyed in the fur on his head marked him as a modernist, a member of the class of priests who believed in updating the Teachings to fit the new generation. Sadly, that often translated to “breaking things.” “It required adjustment!”

“Yeah, well, ‘adjustment’ isn’t supposed to wake me up.” I eyed the refrigerator with longing. A sea of broken glass separated us, and I wasn’t sure where I’d left my shoes. Probably under the bed again… “I thought there weren’t any celebrations today.”

“There are no annual celebrations today, Priestess,” replied a tawny-furred female in full regalia. At least she had the good grace to sound apologetic. “Today’s celebration is held every eight years, to mark the union of the Noisy Priestess to the God of Things That It Is Almost Certainly Better Not to Be Aware Of.”

“Oh, crap.” I slumped against the doorframe, mashing the heels of my hands into my eyes. It didn’t make the mice shut up. “You’re celebrating Grandma and Grandpa getting together, aren’t you?”

“HAIL!” confirmed the mice.

“Great.”

Back home, Mom keeps a master calendar that details the religious observances of the Aeslin mice, with every feast, festival, celebration, and day of mourning carefully annotated. I never understood why she bothered. Living with my own splinter colony has given me perspective. It’s not anal retentiveness that fuels Mom’s calendar. It’s self-preservation.