“I didn’t know this wasn’t always what you wanted,” I admitted. “What changed?”

“I met Lea. Realized I couldn’t trust that other people would always keep her safe—no offense to you or your family, but since you split out of Michigan, it’s not like you’re exactly the folks next door, you know?”

“No offense taken.”

“I wanted to make sure things stayed safe for her, and that meant staying a part of the community. Besides, it turns out that I’m pretty good at monster hunting and cryptid social work. It’s hard to fit on a résumé. It still keeps the bills paid, and it keeps my wife nice and breathing, which is a priority for me.”

“Yeah.” I leaned back in my seat, sighing. This seemed like an odd time for a heart-to-heart—Covenant, eminent danger, possible purge—but Manhattan traffic doesn’t respect dramatic tension. We’d get there when we got there, and not a minute before. “I want to dance. I mean, it’s what I’ve wanted my whole life. But it’s a daylight career, and so much of what we do happens at night. I’ve missed three competitions, I’ve had to stop working as a dance instructor . . . I don’t know. I’m just not seeing how I can make both things work at the same time, and if I have to choose one over the other . . .” I stopped.

Mike chose cryptozoology for Lea. I could do the same for Sarah and Ryan and Istas and the mice—all the people that I cared about who didn’t fall on the “human” side of the fence. Even my cousin Artie and Uncle Ted, although they had Aunt Jane to make sure nothing came after them. But dance was what I loved. How long would I be able to go without resenting everyone I cared about if I felt like they had forced me to give up the thing that I loved most in the world?

Uncle Mike patted my knee as he pulled into a parking space that had just opened up on the block across from the Freakshow. He neatly cut off a taxi in the process, and the driver leaned hard on his horn, shouting obscenities that were drowned out by the noise. I smiled a little. Uncle Mike smiled back.

“You’ll figure it out, Very,” he said, turning off the engine. “You think you’re the first one who didn’t want to grow up and take over the family business? Hell, your daddy didn’t always want it. He was going to teach history. And my grandpa used to say that your great-grandpa Johnny wanted to be a librarian.”

“Great-Grandpa was a librarian,” I said.

“That was his daytime job. He never made it out of Buckley, because his real job was in those woods, with your great-grandma. They figured it out. So will you.”

I frowned. “Has anyone ever figured out that what they really want to do is walk away and have that daylight job all by itself, forever?”

“No,” said Mike. “Come on. Let’s go meet your boss.”

The dragon from before was no longer in the ticket booth. She had been replaced by a more familiar, less friendly face: Istas, who was sitting calmly behind the glass, stitching another layer of lace onto the edge of her parasol as she waited for a paying customer to demand her attention. I rapped on the edge of the booth. She lifted her head and frowned, eyes narrowing.

“Why are you on the ground?” she demanded. Her gaze flicked to Uncle Mike, who was standing behind me and trying politely not to loom. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. I’m five-two, and almost any adult male will wind up looming over me if he stands too close. “Who is this man?” Her expression brightened slightly, although the frown remained, which was a neat trick. “Are you being held against your will?”

“No,” I said quickly, skipping pleasantries in favor of stopping Istas before she could decide to disembowel my uncle. “Istas, this is Mike Gucciard, a friend, associate, and honorary member of my family. Uncle Mike, this is Istas, one of my coworkers.”

“It’s a pleasure,” said Mike, giving Istas a thoughtful look. Istas looked unflinchingly back.

This is Istas: picture a drop-dead gorgeous Inuit girl, about five-six, and roughly an American size sixteen. Now give her a wardrobe entirely based on the concept that one can never have too much lace, too many ribbons, or too many puffy skirts. She’s possibly the only waheela in the world devoted to the Gothic Lolita school of fashion, which means she’s almost certainly the only waheela in the world who regularly wears her hair in spiral-curled pigtails.

“Waheela?” he asked finally.

“Yes,” replied Istas, without batting an eye. “Human?”

Waheela come from the upper reaches of Canada, where they normally spend their days running around in the shape of huge man-eating wolf-bear things, and view dried blood, unspecified muck, and the occasional half-tanned hide as perfectly acceptable wardrobe choices. They aren’t very friendly, and no one really gets too upset about that. As members of her species go, Istas is practically a social butterfly. There are days when she not only talks to six whole people, she manages not to threaten any of them.

Uncle Mike nodded. “At least that’s what my parents tell me.”

“We’re going to go inside,” I said, before the two of them could start comparing family trees. “Is Kitty in her office?”

“I believe so.” Istas resumed stitching lace to her parasol. From a predator, that was a serious compliment. She didn’t feel the need to watch me while we talked. Insisting on eye contact would have been a lot more worrisome. Sometimes, dealing with cryptids is all about understanding the social cues they don’t share with the human race. “She has said that she will be remaining here as much as possible while she prepares for a siege. Angel is at the Costco, buying things.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “See you.”

“Probably,” Istas agreed, and kept sewing.

“Come on,” I said, and led Mike past the bouncer on the door, into the canvas-draped hallway beyond. He came quietly, looking around as we walked. I felt the sudden urge to start justifying my place of work, explaining how it wasn’t as bad as it looked and how really, Kitty’s design choices were completely reasonable and understandable. I swallowed it and kept walking. The Freakshow was what it was. If Mike had a problem with that, nothing I said would change it.

We stepped through the last doorway into the main club. Mike stopped, blinking. I followed his gaze to the floor. The lunch rush was over; the people who were left were the truly devoted, the deeply bored, and the ones with no place better to go. A few waitresses circulated, but most of them were clustered near the bar, where Ryan and Daisy were busily setting out the remains of the appetizers they’d over-prepared for the lunch crowd. Marcy was eating a bowl of gravel with whipped cream and what looked like kitty litter on top. Carol was taking mincing bites from a buffalo wing. She’d given several bones to her hair, and the tiny serpents were fighting over them.