“So we’re looking for one of our own, and we need to look fast,” I said. “We’re running out of time.”
No one said anything for a moment, not even the mice. Finally, Dominic broke the silence.
“Would anyone like an eggroll?” he asked.
It was as good a way to move forward as any.
Brenna’s big car came in handy for more than just Costco runs: it was big enough, and empty enough, that she was able to give me, Malena, and Alice a ride back to the apartments. Dominic remained behind, with half of the mice. It would make sleeping complicated—since they were assigned to me, not him, they weren’t in the habit of obeying him when they didn’t feel like it—but it would also mean he could get to the theater early, before first call, and make his way down into the basement levels while the rest of us were still getting out of bed.
(Was I thrilled by the idea of my husband venturing into the basement of the building with only the mice for company, when there were confusion charms on the place to keep us from noticing right away when somebody disappeared? Hell, no. It was still the best plan we had, and stood a halfway decent chance of getting him inside without trouble from security. We knew we had time before anyone else was killed. That didn’t mean we could afford to sit around twiddling our thumbs until the deadline arrived. We needed to move.)
As for moving . . . Brenna stopped at a light, casting a glance in my direction before she said, with forced joviality, “It’s early yet. Mind making a stop before I drop you lot off?”
“Depends,” said Malena. “Will there be an ambush?”
Brenna looked at the rearview mirror, eyebrow cocked inquisitively. “If there was going to be an ambush, would I tell you?”
“You might. I mean, if I were planning an ambush, there’s a chance I’d be so surprised by someone coming right out and asking that I’d just tell them.”
“But then it wouldn’t be an ambush anymore, dear,” said Alice. “You’d need to call it something else.”
“No ambushes,” said Brenna, an air of desperation creeping into her voice. I guess we could be a bit much to deal with, when you weren’t expecting us. “I just want to swing by the Nest and warn my sisters about what’s been going on. I figure it’ll be more believable if I show up with the lot of you.”
“They’ll be okay with you bringing humans around?” I asked.
Brenna shot me a quick, amused glance. “It’s you. They’d be all right if I invited you to come shopping in their closets, at least right now. Until we have our meeting with the dragons of New York, you can do no wrong that doesn’t end in bloodshed.”
“Well, okay, then.” I twisted in my seat to look back at Malena and Alice. “You two all right with a stop? Keeping the dragons up to date can’t hurt anything.”
“More importantly, I can invite them all to this week’s show, once they know what they’re getting into, and we can use them as extra eyes,” said Brenna. “Adrian will never object to a sudden influx of pretty women in the audience. They don’t directly impact ratings, but you’d never know that to hear him rave after we’ve had a good night.”
“I thought people had to pay for tickets to the live show,” I said.
Brenna looked amused. “They do, up until there are seats going wanting. If we hit day of show without selling out, then there are people who get paid to come and cheer. My sisters have made a pretty decent sum off of showing up and pretending to be excited on camera.”
Another illusion shattered. And here I’d been thinking all this time that I was performing for packed houses because people wanted to see us dance. “Oh,” I said.
“Buck up: they usually don’t get to come,” said Brenna, turning down a side street. “There’s still a loyal audience for the show, and people honestly do enjoy the live performances. There’s an electricity in the air that just doesn’t come across on the screen.”
“My whole family watches,” said Malena. “My grandfather insists. Once a week, everyone gets together in his living room, and then they all vote for me, even when I’m awful.”
“Isn’t family great?” asked Alice.
I snorted.
The drive to the Nest took about twenty minutes, passing through dark residential neighborhoods and only slightly better-lit commercial ones, until we came to a small, ratty looking motel with a “No Vacancy” sign flashing in the parking lot like a blind eye. It was a prime example of 1950s Southern California design, with neon and exposed balconies accented by dead grass and battered cacti. Brenna pulled into one of the few open spaces, a beatific expression on her face.
“Be it ever so humble,” she said blithely.