“What do you want me to tell him? I’m not going to be the one to say, ‘Oh, hey, the Covenant’s throwing a purge on the island of Manhattan and me and Verity are both invited.’ I’m just not.”

“Tell him I need to know, and that I’ll explain later.” If I’d called Artie myself, I would have been explaining now, because otherwise he would never have done it. If the request came from Sarah, he’d go ahead, minimal questions asked. And then the two of them wonder why the rest of the family is betting on when they’ll just go ahead and start dating already.

“Verity . . .”

“I’m not leaving New York while the Covenant’s here, and you’re not leaving while I’m here, so will you just call Artie? Please, for me?”

Sarah sighed. “Okay. I’ll call him. But I’m really not sure this is the way to go about things.”

“I’ll tell you what: if you come up with any better ideas, you be sure and let me know.” I hung up before she could say anything else, and sank down against the roof, briefly closing my eyes. This was one hell of a mess, and it was going to get a lot worse before it got any better.

I stomped up the stairs to my apartment, taking my frustrations out on the poor, innocent banister, which had never done anything bad to anyone. None of my neighbors poked their heads out to see what the ruckus was about. Most of them probably had respectable jobs that kept them away from home during the day. That just served to make me grumpier. New York was about to be a battleground, and the rest of my building wasn’t even going to notice unless the Covenant decided to firebomb me while I slept.

Somehow, that particular thought didn’t do anything to help. I dug my keys out of my pocket, grumbling as I jabbed them into the lock—

—and froze as the doorknob shifted under my hand. The door wasn’t locked. But the door had been locked when I left the apartment. I’d locked it from the inside, and I’d left via the kitchen window, like I normally did.

Moving carefully now, I slipped my keys back into my pocket and pulled the pistol from the back of my pants. I pressed myself to the side of the door, reached over, and twisted the knob, shoving the door open in the same gesture. It banged against the wall, and I spun into the doorway, pistol in front of me in a shooter’s stance.

There was a tall, neatly-groomed man standing in my hall with an automatic crossbow in his hands. It was loaded, and aimed at my stomach. He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Is that how you say hello now?” he asked.

“Uncle Mike!” I didn’t lower my pistol. “What’s the password?”

“There is no password,” he replied. “If you need a password, you’re probably already dead, and that makes it a moot point. Now get in here before you scare the neighbors.”

I beamed, clicking the safety on my pistol into place before replacing it in its holster and stepping through the open door. The mice—who had been obeying my edict never to let themselves be seen from the hall, and were consequentially plastered against the wall just inside—cheered loudly. “What are you doing here?” I asked, while I closed and locked the door. I sniffed the air. “Is that pot roast?”

Uncle Mike just looked at me, eyebrow still raised.

Oh, right. “Before you scare the neighbors” was the first half of the family passcode. “I mean, the neighbors don’t scare easy,” I said. “I’m pretty sure they’ve seen it all before.”

“Your father called me and said you needed backup,” he said, finally lowering his crossbow. “And yes, it’s pot roast. I figured you’d be going largely nocturnal for the duration of the shit that’s about to hit the fan, and there’s no such thing as too much readily available protein.”

“Hail!” chorused the mice. “Hail the High Priest of Goddammit Eat Something Already!”

I grinned. “See, I almost didn’t need to get a passcode from you. The pot roast would have been effective proof of identity.”

“Yes, but if you hadn’t confirmed my identity, I would have shot you on general principle,” said Uncle Mike. Then he smiled. “Come over here and give me a hug, or I may shoot you anyway.”

I went over there and gave him a hug. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience. Uncle Mike—full name Michael Gucciard, a cryptozoologist from the Chicago area who specializes in water-based cryptids—was large, solid, and an excellent hugger. He also wasn’t related to the family in any biological sense, but anyone who puts up with as much of our crap as he does should get to be an honorary relation, or at least get hazard pay. (Being an honorary relation is why he’s only a High Priest, and not a God. If you want to be a God, you need to bang a Priestess, and Aunt Lea wouldn’t approve.)

“Where’s Aunt Lea?” I asked, pulling away. I paused. “Please tell me she stayed home.”

“She stayed home,” he said reassuringly. “I love your family, and you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for your father, but the day I bring my wife into the path of a Covenant purge is the day the papers report on my mysterious drowning.”

I relaxed slightly. “Good.” Like so many cryptozoologists, Uncle Mike had fallen in love with his work—specifically with an Oceanid he met in Palm Beach. The Covenant had a history with Oceanids. It wasn’t a pretty one. Then again, the Covenant didn’t have a pretty history with anyone, so far as I could tell.

“Your security is terrible,” Uncle Mike informed me, pleasantries apparently completed. “I picked the locks in under a minute. No one came out to see what I was doing. I even passed someone in the downstairs hall, and he asked if I was heading for the second floor, since he didn’t want to carry a misdelivered newspaper all the way up the stairs.” He scowled briefly. “It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

“I tell myself that every day,” I said. “Where are you staying?”

“Here, at least for tonight,” he said, in a tone that left no room for arguing.

I looked around my postage stamp of an apartment and considered arguing anyway. “Where?” I asked.

“There’s a couch,” he said. “I fold.”

“Uncle Mike—”

“Your father gave me a précis on the whole situation, Verity, including your on-again, off-again boyfriend.” He fixed me with a stern eye. “I’m the last person who’s going to tell you who you should be dating—”