Part 16 (1/2)

”I'm here to make sure nothing goes wrong,” said Mike implacably. His tone was flat, the verbal equivalent of a brick wall suddenly appearing in my path. ”Call if you need help, or if you're going out of cell range for more than a few minutes. I want to be able to reach you if anything comes up here.”

”Deal. Istas, Mike's in charge until I get back.” The irony of telling the woman who could probably bench-press a Buick to obey the human wasn't lost on me.

It wasn't lost on Istas, either. She raised one eyebrow, looking amused. Then she nodded, and agreed, ”Yes. I will listen to the man I have just met when he is making judgments regarding my safety and the safety of my mate.”

”See, the sad thing is, I know you mean that.” It took me a while to learn to speak waheela. After being Istas' coworker for a year, I had it pretty much down. (If it sounds sarcastic, it isn't; if it involves a threat of physical violence, it's sincere, but unless it comes with claws, it's probably friendly. Like having a pet wolverine with rabies.) Istas smiled. ”Precisely. Enjoy your hunt for things to hurt. Save some carnage for the rest of us.”

”I will,” I said, and turned, walking back out into the main room. I paused by the table where we'd left Margaret's weapons, picking up her telepathy-blocking charm and dropping it into one of the pockets of my backpack. If things were calm enough to allow for a few personal errands, I'd take it by the Freakshow. Bogeymen are some of the best information brokers and rumormongers in the world. Kitty might know how the thing worked, and better, how we could counter it. What's the point of having a telepathic early warning system if you can't use it?

The stairs beckoned me upward, but I forced myself to ignore them, walking instead to the door leading out to the small, enclosed courtyard. Much as I hated to start any journey on the ground, I didn't want to risk attracting attention by taking the same path too many times. That meant starting from a different rooftop. I crossed the courtyard to the abandoned bodega, and from there, made my way out to the street.

New York is the city that never sleeps, but there are still neighborhoods that quiet down after a certain hour, losing the majority of their vibrancy and life in favor of stillness and the dark. Being popular with the tourists has done a lot to revitalize the Meatpacking District. That also means that it's one of the areas that clears out quickly after midnight. A few well-dressed people on their way home from the bars lingered, but the streets were otherwise left to the homeless, the taxi drivers, the lost, and of course, the cryptids. I recognized them by the way they wore their hats, pulled low over their faces, and the quick anxiety of their steps. The Covenant had everyone on edge, most of all the people who inhabited this shadowy slice of the Big Apple.

I kept close to the buildings as I walked, looking for a good route upward. I found it about three blocks away from the Nest, at a corner that seemed to be in deeper shadow than most of the others, where the cornices of the building formed an almost perfect series of handholds. I glanced around once, making sure that no one was looking at me. Then I reached up, and started to climb.

There's a security on the rooftops of a major city that I never feel anywhere else, a feeling like I could run forever if I had to. The city limits always loom, but no one can chase in a straight line across the slope of that much disparate architecture; there's always a chance to double back and find another way. It would take an army to take me out when I'm that far above the street.

With no real idea of where I was going or what I was going to do when I got there, I took a long step backward, tensed, and ran.

Running helped to clear my head, allowing me to review the events of the night so far in a clearer, more rational light. Bad: Margaret Healy had seen me, and even if she didn't know for sure who I was, she knew I was someone who wasn't on her side. Not even an idiot could wake up facedown on the carpet of someone else's hotel room, wrists and ankles taped together, and not realize that something was probably up. Good: even if she'd seen me, she didn't know for sure who I was, or that I had anything to do with Dominic. She might be furious-she would be furious, if she was anything like every other member of our mutual family-but she wouldn't know where to start looking for me.

Bad: Sarah's cover had been blown, and Gingerbread Pudding was no longer safe. Good: I'd managed to get Sunil, Rochak, and Sarah all to safety before the Covenant could reach them, and under the circ.u.mstances, that was a victory. Better yet, the Freakshow was still secure. We had options. They might not be as diverse as I would have liked them to be, but at least they existed.

Bad: Dominic was with the Covenant, at least for the moment . . . and that was good at the same time, because he'd called to warn me about Sunil and Rochak, and there'd been no ambush waiting for me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Margaret had just been at the Port Hope for the normal reasons, and he hadn't betrayed us. When this was over . . . it wasn't impossible to think that maybe when this was all over, he'd be standing with me, not against me. Covenant members had chosen to walk away from their duty before. I was living proof of that.

I was so lost in thought that I misjudged the drop as I leaped from one roof to another. I landed harder than I intended to. I caught myself with my hands before I could face-plant on the roof. The gesture cost me a lot of momentum, and rather than trying to get started again, I let myself skid to a stop, turning my feet to the side to increase my friction. Once the last of my inertia had bled off I straightened, looking around.

I was near the Freakshow, in one of those weird New York neighborhoods that mixes commercial and residential buildings in a patchwork of brownstone, concrete, and gla.s.s. I walked to the edge of the roof, looking down. There were a few people on the street, and the ubiquitous taxis slid endlessly by, but everything was silent, or as close to silent as New York ever gets. It was a real cinematic moment, the sort of thing that normally only exists in movies.

The sound of a gun being c.o.c.ked somehow managed to fit right in. I stiffened. ”h.e.l.lo,” said Margaret from behind me, her sharp British accent somehow turning that single word into a threat. ”I was wondering when you'd arrive.”

Then her gun caught me across the back of the head. I had just enough time to realize that I'd done something completely stupid-and that wasn't like me, what the h.e.l.l was I doing?-before I fell. The last thing I heard was the sound of my own body hitting the rooftop, a heavy, wet thud, like a sack of cement being dropped. Then there was nothing.

Sixteen.

”d.a.m.n.”

-Alice Healy A converted slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District, resuming narration with the a.s.sistance of Sarah Zellaby THE CEILING in my temporary room was water stained enough that it sort of looked like a Magic Eye puzzle, one of those pictures that's supposed to resolve into three dimensions if you stare at it long enough. It was a far cry from the kind of hotel where I usually stayed. It was even a far cry from the Port Hope, where I could probably have found a few water stains if I'd been willing to look hard enough.

It was better than being dead. I stretched out on the air mattress with my hands folded behind my head, squinting up at the ceiling. Maybe it would be a sailboat. Or a functional solution for the Riemann Hypothesis. Either one would be fine with me.

I was starting to relax when pain flared into sudden life at the back of my skull, as intense as if I'd somehow slammed my head into the concrete floor. Only I hadn't moved. I cried out, too startled to do anything else, and sat up, clapping a hand over the spot. The pain got worse . . .

. . . and then it was gone, disappearing as suddenly as it had come. One second, pain, the next second, no pain. I lowered my hand slowly, waiting for the pain to come back. It didn't. Everything was silent.

That was when I realized that the sense of Verity's presence-a low constant, as long as we were within a few miles of each other, even if I normally couldn't ”hear” her when we weren't in the same building-was gone. Verity? I thought, as hard as I could. At this distance, she shouldn't have been able to answer me, but there should have been something.

There was nothing.

I staggered to my feet, trying to make sense of the silence. It was the loudest thing I'd ever heard. I've had family around me for as long as I can remember, people I was so telepathically attuned to that I could hear them without trying. It was disorienting, like blowing out the last candle in the middle of a blackout. It was also terrifying, because I didn't know what it meant . . . but I suspected.

”Uncle Mike!” The words came out in a wail as I turned and bolted for the door.

The main room of the slaughterhouse was empty. I practically flew down the stairs, following the vague sense of ”people this way” to the kitchen where Istas and the Madhura were sitting around a table. I grabbed the edge of the doorframe to keep myself upright, aware that I had to look half insane with worry, and not really giving a d.a.m.n. ”Where's Mike?” I demanded.

Istas blinked. ”You are distressed,” she said. ”Why? Are we under attack?”

”I don't know,” I said. ”Where's Mike? I need him. Tell me where he is.” I couldn't resist giving a telepathic ”push” at the end, trying to make her tell me. I encountered nothing-no resistance, no response. Istas might as well have been a rock for all the effect that I had on her mind. That was what I got for trying to push someone who wasn't human. I'm more attuned to humans than I am to any other species, even my own. Istas was the only waheela I'd ever met, and I had no idea how to make her do what I wanted. I couldn't even pick up on her thoughts, just her emotions, and even those were blurry, like I was reading them through thick fog.

Luckily for me, she felt like playing along. ”He is in what was originally the foreman's office,” she said. ”I believe he is attempting to make the Internet function, so you can communicate with the outside world, and I can go shopping.” A brief scowl crossed her face. ”I hope this is resolved soon. Verity will not allow me to have things s.h.i.+pped here, and Kitty becomes annoyed if I receive more than one package per day.”

I stared at her. The Covenant was in town and Verity had gone silent in my head, but Istas was worried about the mail. Verity would probably have called that proof that trivial desire endures no matter what, allowing our minds to find stability under the most chaotic conditions. Then she would have made a bad dance pun. All it made me do was want to scream.

I swallowed my first three responses before asking, ”Where is the foreman's office?”

”He said that he would be in the office in the leftmost corner,” said the younger Madhura. I could feel him at the edge of my mind, a little static melody against the louder, less delicate noise generated by Istas. I couldn't feel his brother at all. If I hadn't been looking at the table, I would have a.s.sumed that only two people were there. ”Are you well, lady Johrlac?”

The older Madhura hissed, ”Sunil! Do not insult her.”

”I'm sorry.” Waves of stricken embarra.s.sment that I didn't understand washed off the younger Madhura. ”I meant no offense.”

Exhaustion swept over me, was.h.i.+ng the Madhura's incomprehensible embarra.s.sment away. I shook my head. ”It's fine. I need to go talk to Uncle Mike.” He would know what to do. He would know what to tell me. Standing in this kitchen with three relative strangers, the only thing I could think to do was crawl back into my bed and wait until all this blew over, and I knew that wouldn't help anyone. ”Thanks for your help,” I said. Then I turned and left the kitchen.

Somehow I managed not to start running again until I was out of their sight. This time, I looked for the sound/feeling of a human mind nearby, and followed it to the office where Uncle Mike was setting up a cable router on another of the folding card tables that seemed to be everywhere around the Nest. He didn't look up when he heard my footsteps, but his thoughts tensed, going from calm to on alert without visibly changing his posture. I glanced toward his hand. He had a knife that I was pretty sure hadn't been there a moment before.

”What's going on, Sarah?” he asked.

His question was calm, reasonable, and the last straw for my overstretched nerves. ”I can't find Verity!” I wailed.

”What?” Uncle Mike lifted his head. Concern baked off him like heat off pavement in the summer sun. ”Verity went out for a run, to clear her head. She should be back in a little while. Is there something I can help you with?”

I took a deep breath. Sometimes humans can be so slow. Choosing my words carefully, I said, ”I don't mean 'she's not in the building'-I knew that. I mean I can't find her anywhere in the city. I should be able to find her no matter where she is in this city, and if she left, I should have had time to realize that she was moving farther away. I was in my room when my head started hurting like my skull was busted. Then the pain went away, and Verity was just gone.”

Uncle Mike stood slowly, putting both modem and knife down on the table. ”Sarah, are you telling me Verity's dead?”

Those were the words I'd been most afraid of hearing. Tears suddenly burned in the corners of my eyes. I managed to swallow and forced myself to shrug, whispering, ”I don't know. I've never been connected to anyone who died before. I don't know what it would feel like. Maybe she's dead. I don't know.”

”Shh, Sarah, shh.” He closed the distance between us in three long steps, putting his arms around me and gathering me close to him. It was a human gesture, and not one I was entirely comfortable with, but I let myself be gathered, pressing my face against his chest and sobbing. At least there was a layer of fabric between his skin and mine. He stroked my hair with one hand. ”You need to calm down, okay? Can you do that for me? Because if Verity's out of the picture, we have to figure out what we're going to do, and I need you to be with me for that. So let it out, and let yourself calm down.”

How can you say that? I demanded, my throat too full of tears-and snot, since mucus production is one of the biological traits that cuckoos are ”lucky” enough to share with the human race-for me to speak.

Mike didn't respond. He just kept stroking my hair. Slowly, I realized that he hadn't heard me. I can only communicate telepathically with people I'm attuned to, and that requires spending a certain amount of time in my physical company. Uncle Mike and I only saw each other at holidays, if then, and I usually spent Christmas and Thanksgiving hiding in my room, if we were in Columbus, or hiding in Artie's room, if we were in Portland. Without Verity, there was no one left who could hear me when I didn't remember to talk out loud.

Swallowing to try and clear some of the stickiness from my throat, I pushed away from Mike and said, ”Verity's not out of the picture, okay? She's just missing. I don't know how, or why, but she's not out of the picture. She's not gone. Don't you let yourself think that she is, not for an instant, or I swear, I will make you regret it.”

”I'm not saying she's dead, Sarah, but if you can't find her, and you hurt before she disappeared, there's a pretty good chance that she's not in fighting shape right now. We're going to need to find her, and you've been here a lot longer than I have. So what do we do?”