Half-Off Ragnarok: Book Three of InCryptid Read Online Free PDF

languid expression that she could almost have borrowed from the cats she cared for. “I’ll see you then. Don’t you dare be late. And now, you’ll be going. I need to change.”
    She pushed me out of the office and into the hall, where I stood, gaping like an idiot, as she closed and locked the door behind me.

    The rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of school groups and the usual questions about the denizens of the reptile house, many of which were some variation on “can’t you make it be less boring?” Reptiles are fascinating things, but you have to be willing to spend a lot of time waiting for them to move.
    The kids who passed through the reptile house would probably have been a lot more interested in my private research projects—frogs with feathers and winged lizards that could turn a man to stone. Hopefully, with a little luck and a little more time, we’d be able to bring things like the frickens and the basilisks into the protected valley of mainstream science before they went totally extinct in the hinterlands of cryptozoology.
    I was in a rotten mood by the time we closed. I didn’t like abandoning Shelby and her interesting notions of biology homework just to spend another night alone with my microscope. I know I’ve already said that I sometimes envy my sisters, but nights like these are the ones where it gets hard to deal with. Verity chose a field of specialization that regularly brings her into contact with sapient cryptid species who could explain what they were and where they came from. I chose something that looks a lot like traditional biology. Just a little more likely to turn you to stone or melt you or mutate you if you’re not careful about what you’re doing.
    Basically, I chose the specialization that means spending an awful lot of time alone. I drove along the tree-lined streets of Columbus and cursed myself for poor career choices, poor wardrobe choices, poor choices of pet . . . basically, if I could curse myself for it, I did. It made me feel a little bit better, paradoxically; after all, if I was doing absolutely everything wrong, I was at least consistent. That was something, right?
    My grandparents live in one of Columbus’ older housing developments, a place the locals call “Bexley,” which was designed back when they still allowed multiple types of homes in every neighborhood. You have to pay close attention to realize that the same six frames repeat over and over again as you drive through the area. If you don’t, you could easily mistake their neighborhood for something that occurred organically, rather than being planned by some canny developers out to make a buck. Even if you weren’t paying close attention, though, you’d probably realize that there’s something a little bit . . . off . . . about my grandparents’ place. It’s the only three-story house on the block, for one, and the only house with a widow’s walk. But most of all, it’s the only house surrounded by an eight-foot fence with spikes on top.
    My grandparents have been practicing “blending in with the neighbors” for a long time. Maybe someday, they’ll actually be good at it.
    The gate was already open, in anticipation of my arrival. Grandma’s car was in its customary place by the door, and Grandpa’s car was parked behind it. I pulled up behind him.
    “Home sweet home,” I said, turning off the engine. The porch light was already on as I walked up the pathway to the door. I smiled at that small gesture of hospitality, pulling my house keys out of my pocket.
    I didn’t start my stay in Columbus by moving in with my grandparents. I originally had an apartment downtown, right in the heart of the city, where I’d be able to experience the nightlife and see the sights. Only after six months, I figured out that all the nightlife did was make it hard for me to sleep, and the only sights I was seeing were either through a microscope or out in the swamp, which was nowhere near