Page 11 of Tricks for Free

“I couldn’t tell them,” said Fern simply.

“Oh,” I said, as understanding dawned.

The easiest assumption in today’s world is that anything that can pass for a human is a human. For me, as a human, the numbers said I was probably in the right. Humans are very, very efficient predators when we want to be. Life evolved on this planet in hundreds of forms, a daunting number of them intelligent, and it only took us a few centuries to put ourselves firmly at the top of the food chain.

For Fern, as a nonhuman, rational threat assessment said it didn’t matter whether she was in the right. She needed to see everyone as a human until she was told otherwise, because humans were dangerous, and letting her guard down around the wrong people could get her killed. Even other kinds of cryptids could be dangerous. Some of them we’d hunted because they were predators, not because they were competition for the top billing on the world’s list of intelligent species. A ghoul would devour someone like Fern as quick as they’d devour someone like me, and with even less concern for getting caught. A lot of cryptids won’t call the police when something bad happens to one of their own. Too many of the cops are human, and sometimes the risk of exposure isn’t worth the hope of justice.

I went very still as it struck me that, right now, I was living like a cryptid. I was hiding from people who wanted to do me harm as much because of who I was as because of anything I’d done. That was normal—being a Price meant I’d had a bounty on my head from the day I was born—but the isolation that came with it was new. The need to view everyone around me as a potential danger, to hide, it was all new, and it burned. There were dragons working all over Lowryland, and while none of them were part of my personal clique of Mean Girls, none of them knew my name either. It wasn’t safe. It might never be safe again, not until we’d found a way to end the danger posed by the Covenant—and that was something we’d been trying to accomplish for generations.

Fern nodded gravely. “You understand,” she said, and took another sip of her milkshake.

Fern had never been safe, not really. Fern couldn’t afford the risk of telling a little girl that magic was for everyone, even children whose mothers had borne them without fathers, children who could set themselves on fire without fear of the flames, because what if she was wrong? Wrong could be easy, saying something weird to a human child and getting written up for breaking character, but wrong could be very, very hard. Wrong could be a Covenant family scoping Lowryland for signs of cryptid infiltration. Wrong could trigger a purge. For Fern, breaking cover had always come with the risk of never being safe ever again.

The target of my musings looked at me over the rim of her cup. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re dwelling again,” she accused. “You can’t do that.”

“Can, will, do, watch me,” I said, and sighed. “What flavor do you have tonight?”

“Boysenberry chocolate maple vanilla banana with cookie dough and sprinkles,” she said. “I can tell when you’re changing the subject, you know.”

“Yes, but you go along with it anyway.” I wrinkled my nose. “That is a horrifying concoction.”

“I like it.” Fern took another slurp. “They let me clean out the machines.”

“Couldn’t someone get fired for that?”

Fern shrugged. “If someone got fired for everything that someone could get fired for, there wouldn’t be anyone to keep the Park running, and then the alligators would reclaim the land. Alligators everywhere. As far as the eye can see.”

“Right. Somehow it always ends with alligators for you.”

Fern’s grin displayed remarkably purple teeth. “That’s because alligators are awesome.”

The sound of the Clock of Ages striking one tolled through the Park, low and somehow ominous, like it had never been intended to be heard at this hour. That part was intentional: the engineers who controlled every aspect of Lowryland wanted the Clock of Ages to sound foreboding when it signaled the closing of the gates. Not enough to discourage repeat guests—heavens, no—but enough to put a bit of extra sparkle in their steps as they rushed for the exit. A dismaying percentage of them would be back tomorrow, ready to do the whole thing over again.

A cheer followed the tolling of the clock, rising from benches and cul-de-sacs all around Fairyland. Cast members who’d been hiding until the coast was clear began appearing as if by magic, rushing down the walkways that had been filled with tourists only a little while before. The smell of sweat and sunscreen still hung in the air, only slightly leavened by the layer of cordite left behind by the evening’s fireworks spectacular. Sometimes it amazes me that anyone can fly home after staying to watch the Lowryland fireworks. They should all set off the TSA chemical detectors as soon as they get within twenty yards.

Fern and I stayed where we were, watching the others stream by. She sipped her milkshake. I did the same.

“Have you heard from Megan?” I asked.

“She got here half an hour ago,” said Fern. “She brought the stuff.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.” Fern grinned at me again. “Still feel wiped out?”

“I think I just got my second wind.” I got to my feet, offering her my hand. She grabbed it, laughing, and bounced to her feet.

Together, hand in hand, we ran into the fairy-lit gloom of Lowryland. Like so many guests before us, we left our troubles behind. Unlike so many guests before us, we disposed of our trash in the appropriate receptacles, because we’re not assholes. Fine as that distinction can sometimes be.

Here’s a secret about Lowryland after dark: yeah, it shuts down hard at one AM, except on those rare and horrifying occasions when the place stays open for twenty-four hours to punish us all for believing in mercy, and no, it’s not possible to slyly turn a roller coaster back on for your own private edification. (Although the engineering teams do most of their testing and repair between the hours of two and six, and they’re always happy to have warm bodies to play sacrificial lamb when they’re messing with the settings.) But—and there’s always a “but” when you’re talking about something like this—that doesn’t mean the place is ever truly empty.

Maintenance happens after closing. Construction happens after closing. Sanitation happens after closing. And while cast members aren’t encouraged to stick around, since there are liability issues to be considered, we’re also not tossed out on our rears if we happen to linger for a while. If we’re willing to deal with the fact that the last bus from cast parking leaves at two, and don’t mind riding in an empty, reportedly haunted train back to housing, we’re free to do whatever pleases us.

According to a few of the cast members who swam downstream after getting booted from Disney, the Great Mouse has stricter rules about what employees can and can’t do after the lights go out. Lowry Entertainment, Inc., however, is aware that they’re the second choice for much of their target market, which means they have to keep their ticket prices just a sliver lower, their rides just a trifle better, and their employees just a bit happier. If being allowed to treat the Park as our private playground once the guests are gone aids in retention and keeps us all from trying to unionize or anything else profit-impacting like that, well, they can turn a few blind eyes.

Megan was waiting outside Lizzie and Laura’s meet-and-greet area, a long brown wig on her head and an athletic bag in her hand, which she held up enticingly while wiggling her hips like the world’s least erotic go-go dancer. It was like being lured by a happy children’s show host. Fern and I raced toward her regardless, Fern falling back at the last second to let me snatch the bag from Megan’s grasp. It was a shallow victory, granted more than earned, and I didn’t care, because the weight of what I held was so familiar that I could cry.

“Bad day?” asked Megan sympathetically.