Tricks for Free (InCryptid #7)

That wasn’t me. That was my big sister, Verity, she of the awesome dance moves and totally absent common sense. “We’re in hiding from a global organization of monster hunters who thinks we’re public enemy number one,” she thought. “I’ll just go fight a snake cult on national television.”

To be fair to her—not that I’m usually inclined to be fair to her—she probably didn’t say it exactly like that. And she wasn’t the one who summoned the giant dimension-hopping snake during a live broadcast. My family sometimes charges into danger without thinking about it, but we’re pretty good about not endangering civilians, or blowing our cover. Given a choice between blowing her cover and letting a lot of civilians die, Verity had taken the only real option she had available. It was the one I would have taken, too, if I’d been in her place.

But once her face was broadcast around the world, people saw her. People knew her. The Covenant was suddenly aware that our family was still alive, kicking, and getting in the way of their undoubtedly nefarious plans for the world. That was a problem. The Covenant of St. George didn’t become the biggest, baddest monster hunting organization the human race has ever known by standing back and letting their enemies do whatever they wanted to. They’re killers. They were going to come for us.

We needed to know how much they knew. And that’s where I briefly digress from my digression about the Covenant of St. George to talk about monster hunter breeding programs.

See, the Covenant has been a closed wall against the rest of the world for centuries. They take new recruits when they can get them, but the monster hunters of old did way too good a job: they wiped out most of the dragons and ogres and giants and other really big, obvious, impossible to explain away monsters that evolution had to offer. They also believed that a lot of those creatures drew their power from being believed in, so they spent centuries trying to convince everyone that sea serpents were logs and crossroads ghosts were just a trick of the light. The end result? A world where no one believes in monsters and so nobody is really panting to sign up with a paramilitary monster hunting organization.

But they still need members, and like all good paramilitary organizations, they’ve been recruiting from the easiest available population: their own children. This is where I’d say something nasty about their parenting skills, except for the part where my parents raised me the same way. I always knew I was going to go into the family business, because I always knew we lived in a dangerous, complicated world—one that needed me. Maybe that’s the Covenant in us coming to the surface.

Up until five generations ago, we were members in good standing, as bloodthirsty and obedient as the rest. We got better. The rest of the Covenant didn’t.

In order to avoid inbreeding and bad things, the Covenant started a genealogical branch right around the time they started having recruitment issues. Arranged marriages and predictable family traits became the name of the game. My family, my modern, American, non-Covenant family, looks a lot like a Covenant family called the Carews: short and blond and spunky and dangerous. Apparently, Carew genes are dominant, although Alex looks more like a Healy, taller and browner-haired and with slightly worse eyesight.

Me, though? I actually look like a Price. And since my grandfather, Thomas Price, was the last Covenant member of his line, no one in the modern Covenant really knows what that means anymore. Out of all of us, I was the only one who could be sent to find out what the Covenant knew, and what they were planning to do with that knowledge. I barely had time to tell my roller derby league I was going on sabbatical before my family had me on a plane to London, where I’d hooked up with the local Covenant recruitment center and been whisked away to a big manor house in the middle of nowhere to be tested, evaluated, and eventually dropped into a shallow grave if they decided I wasn’t what they were looking for.

I have always done excellently on tests. I passed them all, despite the stress of pretending to be a zealot while concealing my honor guard of talking mice, and the Covenant decided I was a great recruit deserving of a field trial. Which is how I wound up with the Spenser and Smith Family Carnival, having been sent undercover by the people I’d been sent undercover to spy on, and if that sentence feels like a headache waiting to happen, just imagine how I felt when all this was actually going on.

The Covenant wanted me to assess the Spenser and Smith Family Carnival for a purge. There had been some disappearances; there had been some questions raised. If there was something killing people, the Covenant was ready to step in and make it stop . . . and the fact that they’d be doing it on North American soil, in territory my family had been struggling to protect for decades, was almost icing on the cake. They were testing my loyalty. They were testing my skills.

They were backing the wrong horse. In a move that was predictable to anyone who’d ever met me without my masks on, I betrayed them, saved the people of the carnival if not the carnival itself—we sort of burned that down—and then I got my mice to safety and ran, because they knew me. They had my blood, sweat, and skin, and if they were willing to bring their magic-users to the party, they could track me down. I wasn’t going to be the reason they found my family.

The crowds at Lowryland are big enough to confuse that sort of tracking spell. See, everyone in the world is technically related, if you go far enough back along the family tree, and when you put a few thousand distant cousins in one place, the false positives are enough to overwhelm even the most focused magic. As long as I stayed where the people were, I would be safe, and as long as I had no contact with my family, I would be drawing no lines for the Covenant to follow.

All it cost was my home, and my name, and everyone I cared about. No big deal, right?

Right.

Rubbing the back of my neck with one hand, like I could massage away all the aches and agonies of the day before they even happened, I left my room for the dubious comforts of the rest of my shared apartment. Lowryland promised affordable housing to all their thousands of employees, in part, I assumed, so they could figure out how much of our paychecks we were socking away in preparation for heading someplace better. They didn’t promise particularly comfortable housing, or that we wouldn’t have to share it.

Enter my roommates. Banes of my existence, the only reason I was still sane, and best of all, the reason the hall outside my room smelled strongly of bacon and coffee.

“Coffee,” I moaned, shambling toward the kitchen. The door to the room shared by Megan and Fern was shut, which probably meant they had suffered another laundry tornado and didn’t want to risk guests seeing inside. Not that we ever had any. Inviting guests over would have meant allowing other people to enter our home, and we had reasons to avoid that.

Fern looked up when I appeared in the doorway. She was already beaming. “Morning, Annie,” she chirped. “I made you extra bacon because I know you’ve got an extra shift tonight.”

“I love you, don’t call me ‘Annie,’” I said, and made a beeline for the coffee machine.