The golden handmaids of the sun collected the tribute and carried it to him deep beneath the world, while every day he sent his magic into the sky, bringing heat and life. The handmaids were human in appearance, but the heat of the sun did not burn them, and the sharpness of stones beneath their feet did not cut them. Some among the settlers found the lure of the sun’s handmaids irresistible, and went to the cave indicated by the legends as the place of tribute. The sun’s seven golden handmaids came, and the men, dazzled by their beauty, took them as their wives. When locals protested this disruption of the tribute, they were chastised, and told that the sun did not sleep beneath the island, but that the golden women had tricked them.

No pictures survive of the “golden handmaids,” but their description and purpose matches that most often ascribed to the so-called “dragon princesses,” a symbiotic cryptid race which evolved to live in parallel with the dragons. It is possible that the last of the great dragons, fleeing the Covenant of St. George, may have taken refuge in the caves beneath Manhattan, bringing as many of the symbiotic race as possible into exile. Once the dragon died, possibly of wounds sustained before coming to Manhattan, it would be an easy matter to remove the dragon princesses from their home. There can be no question that the dragon died, if it was there at all; no living dragon would allow the dragon princesses to be removed.

The article went on to describe the various physical and psychological characteristics of dragons from around the world. There were—or had been, before people got tired of being on the buffet menu—six known species of “Great Wyrm,” which is cryptozoologist for “enormous fucking lizard with wings.” They all liked caves and precious metals, they all traveled with dragon princesses, and they were all, supposedly, extinct.

“And that, kids, is why we still have to depend on fieldwork,” I muttered. I instructed the computer to print the file, and rose, picking up my phone as I walked toward the kitchen. After I got some ice packs for my leg, it was time to call home and let the parents know what I was dealing with.

“Can I help you?” inquired a flat, utterly nonhelpful female voice. The speaker’s air of disdain was enhanced by a broad Ohio accent, making her sound like the stereotypical bored secretary from a bad sitcom.

I fell backward onto the bed, relief wiping the tension from my neck and shoulders. “Hi, Mom. It’s Very. How was the Underworld?”

“Verity!” The disdain vanished in an instant, replaced by Mom’s more customary brand of good cheer. My mother: one of nature’s pep squad team captains. “How are you, honey? Your father said you were having some boy troubles.”

The image of Dominic De Luca’s face if he heard his presence referred to as “boy troubles” was enough to make me snort briefly with laughter. “Well, he’s Covenant, and he’s male, but I’m not sure that’s the way I’d phrase it,” I said. “When did you get home?”

“Just this morning. I’ve barely had time to rinse the brimstone out of my hair.”

“There was actually brimstone this time?”

“Not literally, but close enough. There was this acidic slimy stuff that ate through the straps on our packs like they were sugar candy. Didn’t melt skin or hair, though, so I can’t complain overmuch.”

I heard the faint resignation in her tone, and placed a guess: “No luck this time, either, huh?”

“None,” she said. “I know she says she’s sure he’s still out there somewhere, but Very, I’m just not convinced. She was so certain that this was going to be the time we brought him home … maybe it’s time she moved on.”

“I’m not sure that she can.”

Mom sighed. “To tell the truth, honey, neither am I.”

Every family has their tragedies. My family has about a baker’s dozen, starting with the death of my great-grandmother and increasing in unpleasantness from there. Grandpa Thomas is probably the worst of the lot. Somehow, he managed to get himself linked to one of the planes in the Underworld, probably by trying to pull off some sort of spell from the “no, really, don’t do this” section of the family library. He spent years trying to sever the connection, sometimes on his own, sometimes with help. They never succeeded, and Grandma Alice was pregnant with my Aunt Jane when that link finally yanked him out of this dimension and into that one … wherever that one is. Grandma’s been looking for him ever since. After forty years of chasing rumors and half-coherent clues across the dimensions, I don’t know if she remembers how to do anything else.

Mom cleared her throat, breaking the melancholy silence that had grown up between us. “You didn’t call to talk about this, though, did you? What’s going on, Very?”

“Can you get Dad on the other line? I’d rather not go over this more than once if I can help it.”

“Sure thing, sweetie; just hang on a second.” There was a soft scraping sound as she set the receiver against her shoulder, and she shouted, sounding somewhat muffled, “Kevin! Pick up the phone! It’s Verity!”

The line clicked as Dad picked up the extension in his office, saying, “Verity! How was your dance contest this morning?”

“It was a tango competition, and it was fine, until it got interrupted by an act of Covenant.” I put an arm across my face, blocking out the light, if not the distant chatter of the mice. “Dominic decided the best way to get hold of me was to infiltrate the hall, stuff my partner in a coat closet, and get me disqualified for bringing an unregistered dancer onto the floor. Good times all around.”

A long silence greeted this announcement. Finally, carefully, Dad asked, “Verity, has the Covenant blown your cover?”

“You mean ‘does the Covenant know that Valerie Pryor is actually me’? Yeah. They do. But that’s sort of secondary to the real problem at hand.”

“If the Covenant knows—”

“So far, only Dominic knows, and he isn’t telling anyone, because if he calls home, he’s going to wind up losing control of this operation pretty much immediately.”

There was a long pause before Mom asked the question that had to be preying on both of their minds—after all, losing my Valerie identity could mean the final end of my attempts at a dance career and, while they wanted me following in the family business, not dancing, this wasn’t the way they wanted to win the argument. Her voice was almost hesitant, like she was afraid of what my answer would be. “Verity, if the Covenant knowing who you are is the secondary problem … what’s the primary one?”