Tourists and crazy cab drivers aside, New York is an amazing city. I spent two months in Los Angeles during the filming of Dance or Die—America’s number-one televised reality dance competition—and it was a great change from Portland, but New York! New York was practically designed for aspiring ballroom dancers looking for their big break.

It was also designed for cryptids. That was enough to justify my decision to spend a year an entire country away from the rest of the family, and convinced them that I wasn’t doing it just for the dancing. Mostly for the dancing, sure, but not just. Besides, Mom and Dad knew I needed the time to think about what I was doing with my life. You can be a cryptozoologist, or you can be a world-class ballroom dancer. There isn’t time to do both. For a little while, maybe, but not forever.

After three months away from home, I still didn’t know which way I was going to go. At least New York was providing me with plenty of distractions. Any major urban center is guaranteed to have a population of nonsentient cryptids. They’re like normal animals, drawn to the easy pickings generated by lots of people in close proximity. That thing that knocks over your garbage can every night? Yeah, there’s a good chance it’s not a raccoon. New York is also home to one of the highest populations of intelligent cryptids on record, and no one’s really tried to get in touch with the community since the last time the Covenant came through slashing and burning. It was time to take another shot at getting to know the locals, sometimes with literal bullets. Since no Price worth the name would be caught dead unarmed, that wasn’t a problem.

Making it to work on time …now that was a problem.

The door on the roof of Dave’s Fish and Strips was unlocked. Good; that meant Dave hadn’t forgotten about me swapping shifts with Kitty for the rest of the week. I was the only non-winged member of the staff who insisted on using the rooftop entrance. If he’d been expecting Kitty, he would’ve made sure the day shift left the door in the cellar unlocked.

Kitty wasn’t going to be waiting any tables for a few days at least. She was off to play stage candy for her boyfriend’s band, a Rob Zombie knockoff with an uninspiring “creatures of the night” theme. The only thing it had going for it was the fact that the “creatures of the night” in question were totally genuine, but since they couldn’t admit that part, they were going to need to make their fortune on talent alone. I expected Kitty to be back on the nine-to-three shift before the end of the month.

Even if she wasn’t, I’d made it clear that I had zero interest in making a permanent swap, no thanks, no way, no how. Let Dave find himself another naturally nocturnal waitress; I’d come to New York for a reason, and between ballroom competitions and cryptid chasing, my nights were booked for the foreseeable future.

Our dressing room was waitstaff only; the “talent” had their own place to change, one that probably didn’t smell like stale nachos and beer. Or maybe not. Everything at Dave’s tended to take on that dry, greasy smell after it had been there for a while. A couple of the other girls were loitering inside, killing time and making vague adjustments to their uniforms before going back into the club. I waved as I stepped in. They didn’t wave back, and I didn’t take offense. Waving is a human thing, and humans are a minority at Dave’s.

“Evening, Carol, Marcy.” There was no lock on the locker with my name on it. Locks cost money, and Dave didn’t spend a penny he didn’t have to. “How’s the crowd tonight?”

“Insane,” Carol responded, not looking away from the mirror. She was trying to fit her wig into place, and her hair wasn’t helping, hissing and snapping at her fingers as she shoved the individual tiny serpents under the weave. She’d been hired a week after I was, and most of the girls had offered to help her get changed during her first few days. They stopped when it became apparent that getting too close to her head before the wig was on meant a good chance of getting bitten. And the snakes she had in place of hair were venomous.

“Good insane, bad insane, run screaming from the building because this isn’t worth it insane?” I pulled off my T-shirt, wadding it up and tossing it into the bottom of the locker.

“Somebody put our name on another tourist website and we’re getting swarmed by sweaty businessmen who think it’s okay to play grab-ass with anything in a short skirt.” Marcy snapped the top of one knee-high white sock, cracking her gum at the same time for punctuation. “Candice went home sick. Said it wasn’t worth the tips.”

Marcy looked unconcerned, despite the alarming implications of Candy’s departure. Candy was a dragon princess, and she pursued money the way a cop in a buddy movie pursues donuts. I blamed it on the fact that Marcy had the emotional and physical sensitivity of a rock. No, really; all the research on Oreads has concluded that they have the durability and resilience of quartz, assuming quartz decided to turn into an attractive young biped and go out for a stroll. No amount of grab-ass was likely to cause her more than brief annoyance.

“Who gets Candy’s tables?” I asked, trying to ignore the sinking sensation in my stomach as I unloaded my weapons into the locker.

“You do.”

Sinking sensation, officially impossible to ignore. “Great.” I grabbed my uniform. “Just what I always wanted. Extra tables.”

“With extra grab-ass on the side,” Marcy said.

“I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“I wish I had a pony.” Marcy gave her socks one last adjustment and strode out of the changing room, leaving me alone with Carol.

“You’d probably eat the pony,” I muttered.

Carol shot me a sympathetic look in the mirror. “Aren’t you glad you’re working overnights for Kitty?”

“Ecstatic,” I said, and unbuckled my pants.

Every profession since the dawn of time has had its own uniform, its own special set of signals used to broadcast the identity of its practitioners to anyone who meets them. Sadly, the uniform of the cryptozoologist is “whatever is going to help you blend in with the locals.” The need to blend in led, in a roundabout way, to Dave’s Fish and Strips, the only gentlemen’s club in New York City almost exclusively staffed by cryptids.

I had the utmost respect for the other humans on the staff. They weren’t lucky enough to receive my early training in human/cryptid interactions, but they all did just fine—for values of “all” that mean “the three of them,” anyway. Dave didn’t practice discriminatory hiring; most humans were simply seized with the uncontrollable urge to scream and run away after spending more than ten minutes in a room with him …and he wasn’t the strangest thing on staff.