“I don’t suppose you can give me their names, can you? Just so I can find out who we’re dealing with.”

Dominic hesitated.

“Come on,” I said, a bit more sharply. “I’m the one who’s standing solo here. It’s not betraying the Covenant to tell me who I’m going to be fighting against.”

He sighed. “All three are from the British arm of the Covenant, possibly because that was where I had the bulk of my training, after my parents died. The men are Peter Brandt and Robert Bullard. The woman . . . Verity, please understand that I had absolutely no influence in choosing who would be sent with this team.”

“I know that.” I frowned. “Why?”

“The woman’s name is Margaret Healy. She’s your third cousin. And if there is anyone in the Covenant who hates your branch of the family more than she does, I have yet to have the misfortune of meeting them.”

I stared at him. “Oh,” I said, finally. “Well, shit.”

Dominic sighed again. “My thought exactly.”

Eleven

“Nobody loves you like family. Nobody hates you like family, either. That’s why it’s so important for us to stick together. If we don’t, we’re going to wind up hunting each other down.”

—Enid Healy

The rooftops of Manhattan, heading back toward the Meatpacking District

I RAN ACROSS the rooftops faster than I ever had before, managing to make the leaps and changes in elevation needed through a combination of skill and raw terror. Terror is a powerful motivator toward perfection. Even so, it was something of a miracle when I reached the Meatpacking District without falling to my death.

Margaret Healy. The woman who was almost certainly going to kill me was named Margaret Healy. Her friends probably called her “Peggy” or something—if being a member of the Covenant of St. George left her any time for making friends. She was probably a really nice person in her off hours. And she had all the training, resources, and focus she needed to take me down.

I was so screwed.

That thought clung to the front of my mind like a Pacific Northwest tree octopus clings to a branch as I grabbed the rail of the nearest fire escape and jumped off the slaughterhouse roof. By swinging hand over hand, I was able to make it to a low enough point to let me safely drop down to the brick courtyard attached to the Nest. I landed harder than I would have liked, still too distracted by my encounter with Dominic to balance myself right. Pain shot up my heels and into my calves as my legs protested the impact.

“Walk it off,” I muttered, and straightened, starting toward the slaughterhouse door. The pain lingered for the first few steps, but then it faded, except for a few distant grumbles that would probably be bruises in the morning. There’s a reason I buy my Tiger Balm in bulk.

When I was sure that the pain was on the way out, I broke into a run, and kept running until I was inside the Nest. The door echoed as it slammed closed behind me. There was no one there.

“Uncle Mike?” I looked around before cupping my hands and shouting, “Uncle Mike! If you’re here, we need to talk!”

“He is not present.” The voice came from behind me. I whirled to find Istas standing less than two feet away, her head cocked to the side, a quizzical expression in her dark brown eyes. She was wearing her hair loose for once, hanging around her round face in heavy black waves, and had a bright blue feather fascinator clipped above one ear. She was probably the most stylish waheela in the world, for certain values of “stylish.”

She was still a waheela. I took a step back. “Personal space, Istas, remember? We’ve talked about this.”

“My apologies.” She also took a step back, creating an acceptable bubble of emptiness between us. Istas was a coworker, a friend, and someone I was perfectly happy to share a converted slaughterhouse with. Sometimes, she was also a giant, man-eating wolf-bear from the primal heart of humanity’s nightmares. I like her a lot, but having her stand too close can still remind my reptile hindbrain that part of her will always view me as prey. “Your not-relation and Ryan are currently not present.”

“Where are they? I have news.”

“They said we required provisions, and Ryan wanted to inform Kitty that we would be accessible via telephone only for the duration of the crisis.” Istas suddenly smiled, showing teeth that were too sharp to be entirely human. “I am very pleased that we will be staying here. It makes Ryan feel better, and increases the potential for carnage.”

“Oh, trust me, the potential for carnage is very high right now,” I muttered. Then I paused, an unpleasant thought striking me. “Uh, Istas? Not to be indelicate or anything, but what is it that you, you know, eat?”

“I can eat all types of human food, although I am very fond of pizza and chicken wings. They’re crunchy.”

“Oh, good—” I began.

But Istas wasn’t done. “I am also fond of alley cats, small dogs, and urban rodents. I make an excellent rat casserole. Ryan says I am a natural.” Istas perked up. “Would you like me to prepare dinner?”

“No,” I said, wincing. “But there are some people I think you need to meet before we do anything else.”

Freed from the confines of their front hall closet, the Aeslin mice had been busy. Their raiding parties had returned with several dead rats and a coatl—a feathered snake four feet long. It was probably a tohil, one of the smaller, less venomous varieties of feathered serpent, judging by the color of its plumage. The mice had been in the process of skinning the thing when Istas and I arrived, and I didn’t feel like interrupting dinner preparations to find out.

It was funny, in a way. If Dominic had killed the coatl, I would have lectured him for days about harming cryptid wildlife that wasn’t dangerous to the human population. But the coatl was one of the natural predators of the Aeslin mice, and if they wanted to eat it before it could eat them, I wasn’t going to hold it against them.

The entire colony stopped their preparations for the moving feast when Istas and I walked into the office, and a sea of tiny heads turned in our direction, tiny black eyes glittering in the overhead light. More heads poked out of the walls and the converted Barbie house—which was now surrounded, I saw, with smaller lean-tos and half-built ceremonial buildings. This wasn’t just a feast. It was a barn raising, Aeslin style.