Seanan McGuire - Discount Armageddon

I slid out of bed and started for the hall. “Somebody’s dying for this,” I announced to anyone who might be listening. The cheering from the other room continued. No one was listening.

Finding a decent apartment in Greenwich Village on a ballroom dancer-slash-cocktail waitress’ salary seemed like an impossible dream until Mom got involved. She pulled some strings and found a Sasquatch who was preparing to go on a year’s vacation with some Canadian cousins. The Sasquatch had been open to the idea of subletting as long as I promised to get the bathroom plumbing fixed and didn’t touch her collection of Precious Moments figurines. As if I’d want to?

Still, it was a nice apartment in a good location for six hundred a month plus utilities, and that’s an occurrence about as common in New York City as a herd of unicorns—maybe slightly rarer. Fixing the bathroom wasn’t hard, even if I’m still having nightmares about the hairballs the plumber snaked out of the shower drain. Protecting the breakables required boxing them up and storing them in the very back of the bedroom closet, where threats, bribery, and begging would hopefully be enough to keep grabby little paws at bay.

You could’ve said no, I told myself, and stepped around the hall corner into the kitchen.

Another great cheer arose.

“HAIL THE COMING OF THE ARBOREAL PRIESTESS!”

For what felt like the tenth time since the cheering started, I groaned.

A stranger stepping into the apartment’s tiny, nigh-claustrophobic kitchen would probably have stepped right back out again. A stranger with rodent-centric phobias would probably have skipped stepping in favor of running screaming out of the apartment, because the counters on both sides of the room were overflowing with a teeming sea of furry, multicolored bodies. Mice.

Technically mice, anyway, or at least close enough for taxonomical work. One could argue that most household rodents don’t wear tattered tribal clothing made from scraps of fur and fabric. One could argue further that most household rodents don’t wave weapons jubilantly over their heads when people come into the room. As far as I’m concerned, all that proves is a lack of imagination on the part of most household rodents.

Not even a sea of cheering mice could keep me from noticing the broken glass and gummy bears covering the kitchen floor. “Didn’t we talk about this?”

“HAIL!”

“That isn’t an answer.” I planted my hands on my hips. “Was there a reason for shoving the gummy bears off the counter? Did they tell you they were suicidal? On second thought,” I raised a hand, palm out, “don’t answer that. If the candy is talking, I don’t want to know.”

“The container blocked the Sacred Route of Celebration!” announced one of the junior priests. The bright blue streaks dyed in the fur on his head marked him as a modernist, a member of the class of priests who believed in updating the Teachings to fit the new generation. Sadly, that often translated to “breaking things.” “It required adjustment!”

“Yeah, well, ‘adjustment’ isn’t supposed to wake me up.” I eyed the refrigerator with longing. A sea of broken glass separated us, and I wasn’t sure where I’d left my shoes. Probably under the bed again… “I thought there weren’t any celebrations today.”

“There are no annual celebrations today, Priestess,” replied a tawny-furred female in full regalia. At least she had the good grace to sound apologetic. “Today’s celebration is held every eight years, to mark the union of the Noisy Priestess to the God of Things That It Is Almost Certainly Better Not to Be Aware Of.”

“Oh, crap.” I slumped against the doorframe, mashing the heels of my hands into my eyes. It didn’t make the mice shut up. “You’re celebrating Grandma and Grandpa getting together, aren’t you?”

“ HAIL! ” confirmed the mice.

“Great.”

Back home, Mom keeps a master calendar that details the religious observances of the Aeslin mice, with every feast, festival, celebration, and day of mourning carefully annotated. I never understood why she bothered. Living with my own splinter colony has given me perspective. It’s not anal retentiveness that fuels Mom’s calendar. It’s self-preservation.

Aeslin mice can make anything— anything —into a religious observation, and once they do, they cling to it for as long as the colony survives. The main body of the current colony has been with my family for seven generations. Individual Aeslin come and go, but the memory of the colony is very, very long.

“How long does this particular celebration last?” I asked, already afraid of the answer.

“Only the length of time between the leaving of the family home and the arrival at the graveyard, Priestess,” said the tawny mouse.

“You mean the family home back in Michigan?”

“Yes, Priestess.”

“Jesus.” That could mean anything between “an hour” and “three days.” Anything longer than three days is usually a festival instead of a celebration, but that’s not a hard rule. I straightened up. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” The Aeslin watched with their customary attentiveness, a tiny congregation of furry bodies hanging on my every word. It would have been creepy if I hadn’t been so used to it. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Hail the shower!”

“When I get back, you’re going to have all this glass cleaned up, because if I don’t get something to eat before I go to work, I’m going to look into getting a cat. And not,” I held up my hand again, “because I want to provide meat for the next feast. Understand?”

“Yes, Priestess,” said the blue-streaked mouse, echoed by a half dozen others. That would have to be enough. I was powerless to stop the celebration—nothing short of nuclear war can stop an Aeslin religious observance once it starts—but they understand the need to keep their Priestesses placated. They’d have the kitchen floor clean by the time I got back.

Life as the chosen religious figure for a colony of cryptid mice can be a lot of things, but it’s definitely never boring.

The apartment’s bathroom made the kitchen look spacious, and made me deeply grateful for the fact that I possess the sort of flexibility only achieved through years of hard physical training. I’m probably one of the few people in the world who doesn’t have a problem showering while standing on one leg and pointing the toes of my other leg toward the ceiling. Drying off still required straddling the edge of the half-sized tub and praying I wouldn’t slip. The entire process was enough to make a girl dream of human dry cleaning, and wonder how in the hell the apartment’s usual super-sized occupant ever managed to fit into the stall.

The steam fogging the mirror kept me from needing to face the bags under my eyes until it was time to apply enough foundation to keep me from looking like I was actually dead. I have the sort of farm-girl complexion that tans fast and pales even faster, which means my current nocturnal schedule leaves me looking like I’m a little under the weather all the time. It’s all part of the standard family genetic package, along with the cryptid mice and the generation-spanning blood feud. Price Girl version twelve, now with real salsa-dancing action. I’m five-two, with blue eyes, white-blonde hair, and a cheerleader smile—just your basic girl next door, assuming your girl next door comes spring-loaded with seventeen ways to kill a man. Which implies a pretty interesting neighborhood that most people probably don’t want to visit.

Seventeen ways to kill a man is an average, by the way. I only have about six ways to kill a man when I’m fresh out of the shower, and I’m an underachiever in that regard. Antimony usually has twenty-six ways to kill a man, at least last time I checked.