My family tree can get confusing sometimes. I get that. When you’re dealing with multiple generations, including some people whose lifespans aren’t limited to the human norm, the names and connections and complications pile up fast. So here’s the short and simple, or as simple as it’s possible for me to make things:
My adoptive mother, Angela, was born somewhere in New England and raised by a family in Maine who had been chosen without their consent by her biological mother. Cuckoos pick the nests where they abandon their children carefully, according to a set of standards I don’t fully understand, and never will, unless I decide to have children of my own. Infants are abandoned in homes that have the space and resources to raise them properly, and where there are no other children to get in the way of dedicating those resources to the new cuckoo-child. Her husband, Martin Baker, was originally 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.
“Hi, Else,” I said, once I was close enough to make myself heard without needing to raise my voice. The rattle of wheels on the track continued in the background, a smooth, staccato white noise underscoring everything I said. “Long time no see, huh?”
I was trying to sound cool. I was probably failing. But I felt Elsie’s suspicion melt into surprise, and finally into awe, as she sent a single, virtually shouted thought in my direction: Sarah?
Yeah, I thought back, nodding for good measure. It’s me.
Elsie stood, withdrawing her hand from her purse. “Are you really?” she asked. “I mean, you’re really-really Sarah?”
“I’m really-really Sarah,” I said.
“Prove it.” Her voice was low, in deference to the derby girls circling the track below us—although one of those girls, dressed in black and red, with a long red-brown braid trailing out the back of her helmet, had slowed to a stop just beside the track itself.
A rush of almost startling joy washed over me. Antimony. I’d been hoping I might be lucky enough to catch the league during practice, and to find one of my cousins in residence. Finding two of them was almost unreasonable.
“You were super double bonus mad when Alex and his sisters came back from Lowryland with a new cousin as a souvenir, until Mom explained that even if she wasn’t your grandmother, I was going to be your cousin, too; you think it’s unfair that I have such good eyelashes without mascara; you also think it’s unfair that I’d rather do math than let you practice your makeup techniques on me. You once accidentally made chlorine gas in the front hall and we had to try to convince Artie to come out of his basement before he choked to death, all without saying anything that would alert the mice. Not that it mattered, because they tattled on us anyway, and we all got sent to bed without dessert for practicing our chemical weaponry without an adult present. Your favorite color is this weird shade of maroon that you insist is pink even though it isn’t, you like cocoa without marshmallows, partially as a form of self-defense against Annie, and you had a crush on me for like a year when we were teenagers, which we all pretended wasn’t happening.”