several human men. They were killed, only to be brought back to life by a scientist with more ambition than sense. I don’t mind, though. I love my father, and he is who he is because of someone with a shovel and a dream.
Mom and Dad couldn’t have children of their own—they’re not biologically compatible—so they decided to adopt. Evie came first, left on their doorstep by one of the scientist’s apprentices as she ran into the night. Drew was next, adopted from the bogeyman community after an accident claimed his birth family. And I came last, dredged out of a storm drain after my instinctive telepathic distress call led them to my location.
By the time I came along, Evie was already a married adult with three children. Alex, who’s three years older than I am, Verity, who’s basically my age, and Antimony, who’s a couple of years younger. And that’s all pretty straightforward, I guess. Big age gaps exist in families. Evie’s husband, Uncle Kevin—and yeah, he’s technically my brother-in-law, but I call him uncle, the same way I call Evie’s kids my cousins, since thinking of Verity as my niece would be way too weird—has a sister, Aunt Jane, who married Uncle Ted. They have two kids: Artie, who’s pretty close to my age, and Elsie, who’s a couple of years older than I am. It’s not the biggest family tree ever, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be confusing.
Elsie likes a lot of things. Shopping, and dyeing her hair to match her nails, and veterinary medicine. And roller derby. She likes roller derby so much, in fact, that when Antimony graduated high school and couldn’t cheerlead anymore, Elsie talked her into trying out for the local league. Annie’s been skating ever since, while Elsie sits in the bleachers and cheers for her cousin. It’s about the closest they’ve ever come to a nonviolent family activity.
The big rolling warehouse doors were closed, but the smaller door intended for humans rather than trucks was propped slightly open. A sign was taped to the outside—“CLOSED PRACTICE. DELIVERIES TO OFFICE.” I ignored it, and let myself in.
Inside the warehouse it was bright and warm. Floodlights overhead illuminated the entire track, making the flat oval look bigger and more dramatic. And on the track, the skaters circled, more than a dozen girls in differently colored gear pushing, shoving, and skating their way to roller derby glory.
None of them looked my way. Neither did the coaches who stood by the sidelines and called encouragement, or the women who weren’t currently on the track for whatever reason. They were skating around the edges of the practice, adjusting gym mats, pushing brooms, doing all the little tasks required to keep an amateur athletic league up and functioning.
There were a few people seated in the bleachers. I scanned them until I settled on a woman with short, blueberry-colored hair, wearing the black-and-red gear of a Slasher Chicks supporter. That’s Annie’s team. I walked closer, reaching out mentally until my thoughts brushed against the familiar, reassuring edges of Elsie’s mind.
She turned instantly, eyes searching the floor until they landed on me. Her consciousness immediately narrowed into a single point of wary suspicion. I nodded, satisfied with her response, and kept walking toward her.
Because see, here’s a fun thing about Uncle Kevin and Aunt Jane: for some reason, they aren’t as vulnerable to cuckoo influence as most humans. Their mother, my Grandma Alice, is even more resistant, and to hear her tell it, her mother, Fran, was basically immune. Someone, somewhere back in the family line, wasn’t human, and whatever genetic gifts they gave their offspring have resulted in generations of people who aren’t at nearly as much risk where cuckoos are concerned. Genetic descendants of Frances Brown notice cuckoos. They can pick us out of a crowd. They remember us when we’re not directly visible. It’s terrifying, and awesome, and I wish to whatever gods watch over my messed-up species that I knew what their inhuman ancestor had been, so I could meet more of them.
Elsie slipped one hand into her purse as I approached, no doubt preparing to draw some sort of weapon if I turned out to be any other cuckoo in the world. She’s not much of a fighter as our family goes—I think I’m the only one who’s worse—but she was still willing to make the effort in order to protect her people. I appreciated that, too.