Sweet Venom

S
WEET
V
ENOM

T
ERA
L
YNN
C
HILDS

For Shane, mentor . . . inspiration . . . friend

Contents

 

 

H
ydras have a distinctive odor. It's somewhere between the acid tang of burning hair and a boat full of rotting fish. You can smell them from miles away.

Well, you can't. But I can.

Some beasties smell mildly unpleasant; others could peel paint. Hydras definitely fall into the latter category.

As I steer my car—Moira, named for the fickle fates as a constant reminder to take charge of mine—into a spot across from a dilapidated seafood shack, the stench is practically overwhelming. Moira's upholstery is going to stink for a week. I pencil in taking her to the car wash on my mental to-do list, right after replacing my favorite cargo pants, which got shredded in my last fight, but before polishing the bladed weapons in the armory.

I twist the key out of the ignition and do a quick gear check: Kevlar wrist cuffs in place, smoke bombs in left cargo pocket, zip ties in the right, and my handy-dandy, military-grade, metal detector–defying, twin APS daggers snug in their sheaths and hidden inside my steel-toe Doc Martens. Nothing like a well-stocked pair of black cargoes to make me feel girly.

The hydra shouldn't be much trouble—balancing nine heads on a massive serpent body throws off their center of gravity so they're not exactly graceful—but it never hurts to be prepared.

Even if I ever get caught off guard, I've got a backup monster-fighting kit stowed under Moira's driver's seat and another in my backpack.

Though the gear makes things easier, all I really need to take a beastie out is the pair of retracted canines that will fang down at the first sign of trouble. They're my built-in secret weapon. A defense legacy passed down from my ancient ancestor.

“Seriously,” I mutter as I climb out onto the sidewalk. “Can't they give it a rest for a while? Maybe take an extended vacation somewhere cold and icy.”

This is the fourth time in the last week that the aroma of dark and nasty has pulled me out for the hunt.

One more visitor from the abyss this week and I'll leave the gear at home and work out my annoyance with my fists. Hand-to-hand combat won't send a monster back to its prison-realm home, but it'll make me feel a hell of a lot better. Who says keeping the human world monster-free can't be good therapy at the same time?

I palm the remote for Moira's keyless entry and am about to lock her sleek, black doors when I realize I've forgotten one element of my monster-fighting gear that is critical, at least when I'm hunting in human-heavy territory.

“Slick, Gretchen,” I tell myself. “Real slick.”

You'd think after four years—a quarter of my life—this would be second nature.

Moments later, I'm crossing the street, my sporty mirrored sunglasses shielding my eyes. Not from the sun, of course. It's not like hydras yearn for daylight. No, they'd rather drag me out in the middle of the night, when dives like this are the only thing open.

Darn inconsiderate when school starts tomorrow.

I walk up to the weathered wooden shack, peer through the dirt- and grime-crusted window, and scan the late-night diners. All distinctly human.

If my eyes weren't practically tearing at the stench, I'd think the hydra wasn't here.

Then I catch sight of the narrow staircase off to the right of the bar, leading to an upstairs dining room. Well, at least that will make cornering it easier.

As I push open the door, the combination of putrid eau de hydra and decades of fried-fish-filet residue is enough to make me nearly lose my heat-and-eat lasagna all over the sandy floor.

But I don't have time for nausea. There's a bloodthirsty monster prowling for a meal, and if I don't stop it, no one will. I'm the only one who can see it.

“Anyone see a slithering nine-headed serpent pass this way?”

I snicker. I would love to see the reaction if I actually asked the question loud enough for anyone to hear.

Then again, this is San Francisco. They might not react at all.

Bypassing the drowsy bartender, I head for the staircase. Monsters generally prefer dark corners and back alleys—and, apparently, second-floor dining areas—which makes them occasionally harder to find but easier to attack. They'll take any less-populated area that's available, though, which is fine by me. The fewer witnesses to our fights, the better. The safer. The human world doesn't need to know monsters walk among them. As long as I do my job right, they never will.

I'm up the stairs, three at a time, in five seconds flat. The instant I step out onto the second floor, I see it, cozying up to a trampy redhead doing her best impersonation of a low-class prostitute. Monsters have the worst taste in women.

I scan the room, checking for potential threats and exits. Besides the stairs behind me, there's an emergency exit at the back. If I position myself behind the redhead, I'll be able to intercept on either path.

As for threats, there's a pair of mounted swordfish displayed on the wall and some framed pictures of deep-sea fishing boats that might hurt if used as projectiles. Nothing really to worry about.

Thankfully, the dining area is sparsely populated. Other than the hydra and its prey there is only a trio of drunken businessmen at the far end. Judging from their raucous volume and the disheveled state of their ties, odds are they're probably pretty much oblivious to anything but the next round. If I do this right, they won't notice a thing.

Straightening my back, I march over to the unlucky couple and tap the girl on the shoulder, making sure I'm centered between the stairs and the door.

“Can I help you?” Red snaps in a very nonsolicitous tone.

“Yes,” I reply. “You can leave.”

“Excuse me?” She crosses her arms defiantly under her chest, like I'm going to be frightened away by her aggressive boobage. “I don't know who you think you are, but—”

With a quick flick of my wrist, I pop my sunglasses up and lean down to look her directly in the eye.

“You were just leaving,” I say, keeping my tone even.

Her eyes widen as her brain disengages. “I was just leaving,” she repeats.

Then, as if pulled by some unseen rope, she stands and crosses to the stairs, disappearing out of view. When the hypno wears off, she'll wonder how she got wherever she's going. But serpent-beastie will be long gone by then.

With the girl safely out of the way, I evaluate the now standing hydra. From the necks down it looks like an overgrown lizard who's been hitting the gym. Too muscular for my taste—I don't go for the bulging reptilian type—but I can see how some girls might want to hit that. From the necks up . . . well, whoever said two heads are better than one never met a hydra.

Too bad humans can't see its real form.

All monsters can affect a sort of false appearance—in faerie circles known as a glamour—so their hideous, grotesque features are hidden from unsuspecting human eyes. Unfortunately for the monsters, I'm not an unsuspecting human. I'm a descendant of Medusa, and I suspect a whole heck of a lot. My eyes see their true nature, and this beastie's true nature is a slimy, scaly, nine-headed snake. Not exactly the perfect specimen Red thought she was getting.

The hydra's eyes lock on mine before I drop my sunglasses back into place. Too bad my freaky hypnosis power only works on humans. Then again, that would make my job way too easy. Where's the fun in that?

“Huntress,” it snarls.

“I prefer Gretchen. But, you know.” I flash it a bored look. “Whatever.”

The freak show moves awkwardly, its undulating tail taking out a couple of chairs.

I check over my shoulder to make sure the drunken trio hasn't noticed—they haven't—then turn back to face my foe. It might look big and scary, but this isn't my first hydra rodeo. I know just how to take it down.

As the freak show reaches for me, I spin right, dodging the grab and sending the monster lurching forward. With the creature off-balance, I take a well-aimed leap onto its back. It writhes, trying to throw me off. I wrap my legs around the scaly body and my arms around one of the necks and squeeze. The table goes flying. I need to hurry, before someone decides to notice all the noise.

Inching my way down its back, I lean off to one side, searching for the spot where its thick, armorlike scales give way to a softer underbelly. My fangs drop. I dive forward, sink my fangs into the tender flesh, and sigh as my snake-girl venom pours into its bloodstream.

There is no better feeling than this sweet surge of victory.

In a flash, it's gone and I'm thudding to my knees on the floor.

Bye-bye beastie.

T
hings are going to be different in San Francisco. I mean, obviously things
are
different—like the mega-tall buildings, the millions of people, and the predominance of concrete over grass. This town is pretty much the complete opposite of Orangevale in every way.

But I want Grace Whitfield—
me
—to be different too.

Frozen like a statue on the sidewalk, I stare up at the imposing facade of Alpha Academy, the private prep school whose full-scholarship offer is half the reason we've moved to the city. It's a giant cube of glass and steel, a monument to modernity that makes the simple single-story stucco and Spanish tile of Orangevale High look like something from California's prehistoric past. This building gleams shiny and new in the morning sun. The perfect place to start over. I know this is the opportunity I've been waiting for all my life. After sixteen years in the same small burb, going to the same schools with the same students, I finally get to be someone new. Someone not me.

Before I can smile at the thought, a person knocks into my shoulder, sending me and my backpack tumbling.

“Excuse you much?” The girl gives me a disgusted look, dusts off her shoulder like I might have given her a virus, and stomps off toward the sparkling glass double doors.

Everything about her screams
confident
. Rich brown hair with auburn highlights that swings as she walks, dark-wash skinny jeans and a magenta V-neck sweater that cling to every single curve, and (most of all) the superior-to-absolutely-everyone attitude. Just as different from me as San Francisco is from Orangevale.

The new me should say something to her retreating back. I
want
to say something like
No, excuse
you
much
, since she, you know, crashed into me. But I don't. I stand there, watching her disappear into my new school, a huge lump of dread in my stomach at the realization that nothing has changed. I'm still the same old Grace, the quiet, passive pushover who can't stand up for herself.

So much for different.

“Grace Whitfield?”

I look up from my spot on the bench across from the guidance counselor's office. The counselor, the woman who just called my name, gives me an encouraging smile.

She looks nothing like the balding, middle-aged, tweed coat–wearing counselor in Orangevale. The one who'd rubber-stamped all my advising sessions and handed me the appropriate papers about SAT prep classes before checking off my name and moving on to the next kid on the list. Not that I needed his help—I know what I have to do to get into a good school and earn a scholarship—but it might have been nice if he'd looked up from his computer for two seconds.

My new counselor has all of her attention focused on me, and commands my attention in return. I can't help but study her immaculate appearance. She's tall and graceful, like a ballerina, and wears a sharply tailored skirt suit in a soft, warm gray that matches her high heels. A petal-pink blouse ruffles out around her lapels. Although her image says poised and elegant, I get the feeling that beneath the surface she is a woman of extraordinary strength.

She seems like she could run a billion-dollar company in her spare time. She would never let anyone plow over her and march off without a word. I'm an eco-geek who can't even walk into my new school without getting trampled by another student.

I stand, feeling awkward and underdressed in my recycled jeans, organic green tee, and hot-pink Chuck Taylors. Not only because of the counselor, but also because of confident girl and the few students who've trickled in through the office while I've been waiting. They look like they walked out of a department-store window display.

Too late to change now. Besides, it's not like I have high levels of fashion hiding in my closet. Mostly more of the same.

“I'm Grace,” I say, extending my hand.

I expect her to shake it, formal and businesslike, but instead she holds it gently and presses her other palm over mine. Her smile positively sparkles. She gives me a squeeze as she says, “I'm Ms. West. I recommended you for the scholarship here at Alpha. You shone above all the other applicants. Your computer skills were especially impressive.”

“I—” I swallow over the strange feeling of tightness—of pride, maybe—in my throat. A good feeling. “Thank you.”

“After reviewing your admissions exam and your previous school records, I have prepared a preliminary class schedule for you,” she explains as she motions me into her office.

I rub my hands against my jeans as I follow her inside.

Other than the small acrylic sign on her desk that says S
TEPHANIE
W
EST
, G
UIDANCE
C
OUNSELOR
, the sleek gray surface is virtually empty. In fact, the office is pretty much empty. Only the desk, chairs, a pair of tall file cabinets, and, on the wall behind her desk, a massive framed photo of a beautiful white sand beach and a turquoise sea. No clutter, no color other than the water in the picture. It's very calming. Which is, I suppose, a good quality in a counselor's office.

Ms. West lowers herself gracefully into the big black leather office chair, indicating that I should take a seat in one of the armchairs facing her desk. I choose the one on the right, swinging my backpack to the floor as I sit.

“Considering your plans to attend a top-tier college,” she says, handing me a sheet of paper, “I thought you might be interested in adding a second foreign language.”

“Do you think that's necessary?” I ask. “Will it help my admissions chances?”

“It certainly doesn't hurt.” She looks me in the eye as she speaks. “But I think your transcript is strong already.”

“Then I think I'll stick with Spanish.” I appreciate her honest answer.

“All right,” she says. “What about a physical education class? We offer a broad selection, including virtually all sports, as well as kickboxing and Tae Kwon Do.”

My records must not have been too enlightening, because she clearly doesn't get me at all. Give me a laptop or a smartphone, and I'm an all-star, but athletics is a bit beyond my skill set. I'm not a superklutz or anything, I'm merely lacking in the finer points of hand-eye coordination beyond basic keyboard functions.

When I shake my head again, she pulls out a folder from her desk drawer and opens it, turning to a sheet of green paper near the back.

“Alpha is dedicated to providing our students with a well-rounded education in a variety of disciplines, not focused exclusively on rigorous academics.” She smiles as she scans the paper. “The elective opportunities are truly astounding. I'm sure you will find something to your liking.”

The green sheet she hands me must have almost fifty classes listed.

The choices are a little overwhelming. At Orangevale High we had your standard math, language arts, sciences, history, foreign languages (Spanish or French), and one elective. Our elective choices were limited to art, choir, band, or study hall. It's hard to wrap my public-school brain around the array of private-school electives. “I don't know. I guess, maybe—”

“You don't have to decide right now,” she interrupts. “Orientation and convocation will take up most of today. Why don't you take the list home and decide tonight? You can come by before school and let me know what courses you've chosen.”

“Great,” I say as I slip the paper into my backpack.

We spend the next few minutes going over the schedule for today, my core class schedule for tomorrow, graduation and extracurricular requirements, and things like dress code and attendance policies. Mom, Dad, and I already filled out a mountain of paperwork over the summer—hasn't this school heard of electronic forms?—but there are still a few for me to sign.

I wonder if my brother, Thane, is going through the same thing at his school.

“Are you ready for your first day at Alpha?” Ms. West asks with an enthusiastic smile.

I take a deep breath.
Am
I ready? New home, new city, new school, new friends. Hopefully. New life. New me.

I feel equal parts fear and anticipation. But one look in Ms. West's sharp eyes and I feel a jolt of confidence. I feel strong and invincible. How can I let myself be afraid of change, when it's what I want? The chance to become the strong, confident young woman I've always dreamed of being.

This is the first step.

“Yes,” I say, gathering my courage. “Ready.”

“Do you have any questions or concerns before I send you to class?”

I square my shoulders and shake my head. I'm ready for this.

“If you need anything,” she says, “my office door is always open.”

I nod, trying to mimic the same air of self-assurance she exudes, as if I appreciate her offer but will never need the help because everything will work out in no time. The facade makes me feel a little more sure of myself, of my future at Alpha and in San Francisco.

The power of positive thinking.

She leans out into the hall. “Miranda, would you come here please?”

When Miranda shows up at Ms. West's door, my false confidence quivers and that sense of dread plops into my stomach again.

“Yes, Ms. West?” asks the girl who plowed through me in front of the school.

“This is Grace Whitfield,” she explains, gesturing to me. “She's new at Alpha. Since you two have the same homeroom, I thought you might give her a quick tour and then show her to class.”

“Of course,” Miranda says with a blinding fake smile. “It'd be my pleasure.”

Think positive
, I tell myself. Maybe I misinterpreted her earlier comment. Maybe she's a really nice person. Maybe she'll be friendly, now that she knows we share a class. Hitch-ing my backpack up on my shoulder, I smile and hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Miranda.”

She smiles and shakes my hand. For a second I believe this positive thinking thing really works. Then, as soon as Ms. West turns back to her desk, Miranda drops my hand like it's a plague-ridden rat, rolls her eyes, and stalks out of the office.

My shoulders sink.

“Have a wonderful first day,” Ms. West says.

“Thanks,” I say, turning to give her a quick wave before following after Miranda's retreating back.

As I stand outside the girls' bathroom, waiting for Miranda to emerge, I'm pretty certain this isn't what Ms. West had in mind for a school tour. After throwing me a look that said she'd rather eat glass than lead around a loser like me, Miranda stalked off into the hall outside the main office and made a beeline for the bathroom.

She's been in there for over five minutes.

I glance at my schedule. Every day at Alpha begins with homeroom, an hour-long period for finishing up homework, going to the library, or seeking help from other teachers. Nothing like the twenty-minute roll call and stay-in-your-seats-for-announcements madness that passed for homeroom at Orangevale. Homeroom here sounds useful.

Around me, the hall is starting to fill with students. The typical first-day-of-school insanity. Girls are shrieking, diving into group hugs with friends they haven't seen all summer. A few couples are taking advantage of the chaos to engage in some pretty inappropriate kissing and groping. Some kids, probably freshmen, are wandering around looking slightly lost and terribly frightened. That won't be me—I won't let it. I'm a junior now, an upperclassman, and I'm not going to let the unfamiliar environment make me feel like a lowly freshman again. No thank you.

I've never been a Girl Scout, I don't even know their motto, but I still believe in being prepared. I swing my backpack around and dig through the pile of papers Ms. West gave me until I find the school map printed on the back of the “Welcome to Alpha!” letter. According to my schedule, I have Mrs. Deckler for homeroom in room 117.

After tracing my finger over most of the ground floor, I find room 117 in a back corner. I squint at the map—it's no 3D-rendered interactive virtual environment, but it'll do—and then scan the hall, deciding that if I go to the end of the main hall and turn left, I'll find my classroom.

Miranda's still in the bathroom though. And, as much as I think she'd be overjoyed to find me gone, I don't want to pull a disappearing flake act on the first day.

I continue studying my map, trying to get a feel for the layout of the school, mentally extruding the walls and creating an image of the building in my mind. There are four floors, with the upper levels reserved for grades five through eight. All of my classes will be on the first two floors, so I focus on those maps. It's when I'm scanning over my current location that I see what—after waiting ten minutes—I should have already guessed. The girls' bathroom has two entrances.

With a groan, I zip my backpack shut and head down the hall toward room 117, clutching my map and schedule. I don't need to pop into the bathroom to know that Miranda's long gone.

I follow the gleaming white hall past open classrooms and walls of lockers. At the end, I make a left, proud of my map-reading skills. Four doors later I find Mrs. Deckler's class.

And I'm not at all surprised to find Miranda already in her desk when I walk into the room.

Pausing for a second in the doorway, I give myself a little pep talk.

This is it
, I tell myself.
This is the moment to leave doormat Grace behind and become . . . fearless Grace.
Confident
Grace
. If I take the offensive, I can turn this moment around. I can make sure that my time at Alpha isn't spent feeling powerless. I take a deep breath, form the words of a biting, witty comment in my mind, and open my mouth.

“Did you get lost?” Miranda asks before I can utter a sound. “I waited outside the bathroom for like ten minutes.”