Sweet Venom (13 page)

I
'm sorry, Miss Sharpe,” the assistant principal says, “but all the other first-period science classes are full.”

“There has to be something else,” I say, verging on desperate. “Like an art class or maybe choir.”

I can't sing, but anything would be better than being stuck in first period with Nick every day. I've skipped two more classes, forging Ursula's signature on notes to clear things with the front office. But any more misses and the administration is going to start poking its nose into our business.

They probably won't like the idea that I've been living alone for almost two weeks, or that before that my only guardian was a woman who found me on the street. Authorities tend to frown on things they can't file into a neat little box.

Avoiding Nick isn't worth the kind of trouble that would bring. The best solution is for me to transfer out of Mrs. Knightly's class.

“What about shop?” I ask. “I would totally rock Woodshop.”

The assistant principal shakes his head. “You need a science class.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to stay in biology.”

“Yeah, fine,” I say, shoving out of the brown Naugahyde chair and snatching my backpack off the grimy linoleum floor. “Thanks.”

For nothing.

As I weave through the halls of students, heading for Mrs. Knightly's class, I tell myself to grow up. Avoiding Nick is a weak move, and I'm stronger than that. I won't let him affect my life any more than he already has. It's not like me to run away from a problem. I turn and fight instead.

But as I walk into class and see him sitting there in the desk behind mine, my courage fades.

I'm not scared of him, not exactly. I just don't understand him. I don't understand why he's immune to my hypnoeyes, why he won't back off from pursuing me, why he keeps showing up when I'm in the middle of a monster fight. And it's not as if I can ask him any of those things.

I can't run from the unknown forever.

Straightening my shoulders, I march into the room and drop into my seat. I ignore the fact that the hair at the back of my neck prickles to attention. I ignore the fact that I can practically feel his eyes on me. I ignore everything but the process of getting my notebook out of my backpack, pulling my textbook out from under my chair, and opening it to the page indicated on the board.

I'm tense, waiting for him to say something. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

The bell rings and he hasn't said a word. There's no indication that he's even noticed that I'm here. Or that I was gone the last three days.

When Mrs. Knightly closes the door and moves to the whiteboard, I think I'm home free.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Sharpe,” she says. “I do hope your teeth are feeling better.”

“Uh,” I stammer, remembering that my notes said something about dentist appointments. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I trust you can find someone to catch you up on what you've missed.”

“I—”

“I'll help her,” Nick says.

“Thank you,” she says, turning her attention to the board. “Now, if you'll look at the diagram . . .”

“You're welcome,” Nick whispers over my shoulder.

Ignore him. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore—

I feel a tickle against my left ear, and when I jerk around at the sensation, I find a folded piece of paper waving before my eyes. I snatch the paper, throwing Nick a quick glare, and turn back to face front. I don't need Mrs. Knightly calling me out for note passing, especially not because of
him
.

For several long seconds, I sit with the note clasped between my palms, resting in my lap. Don't be curious, I tell myself. It's only going to annoy you anyway.

In the end, of course, curiosity wins out.

Carefully, so I don't draw any attention, I unfold the note and slip it beneath my textbook. When I'm sure Mrs. Knightly is focused on the board, I slide it down to read:
Can we talk after class?

Frankly, I'm a little disappointed. My imagination came up with so many better ideas for what the note might say. Like
You fight giant scorpions often?
Or
Can we be more than friends now?
Or even
Thanks for leaving me with a concussion.

Can we talk?
seems so tame in comparison.

I quickly scribble
No
on the paper and slip it under my arm and onto his desk.

Seconds later it comes flying back over my shoulder. I slap my hand down before it sails off to the floor.

Mrs. Knightly glances up at the sound, and I force a very interested and attentive look on my face. When she looks away, I open the note:
Coward.

I write back:
Brain-dead idiot
.

He chuckles when he reads that, and I find myself smiling in return. I have to admire a guy who can laugh at being called an idiot. He must be pretty self-confident.

When he doesn't return the note right away, I catch myself anxiously waiting for the next installment. Get real, Gretchen. I turn my attention to the board and start copying the academic notes I should have been writing all along.

I've almost forgotten his presence—almost—when the note slides back over my shoulder a few minutes before the bell.

I nonchalantly open it over my notebook and see that the message is longer this time. Like half a page long.

 

I'm sorry for whatever happened on Monday. I don't remember the whole thing, but I know you were upset and for that I'm really sorry. It won't happen again. I think you're a different kind of girl—

 

I have to snort at that. He has no idea how different I really am. And he can't know. I keep reading.

 

—and I like that. But if you want me to back off, I will. Even if I don't want to. (BTW, in case you haven't noticed, I don't want to.)

 

The bell rings. I don't say a word, just fold the note up and slip it into my backpack along with my notebook. I half expect him to stop me as I get up and head for the door. I'm relieved. And, to be honest, a little disappointed.

He's backing off. That's exactly what I've wanted all along, and I refuse to let myself be annoyed that it's finally happening. This is a good thing. And I'm really glad I didn't transfer out of biology . . . because I like Mrs. Knightly.

O
ur next unit in English class is on mythology. Like I haven't had enough myth showing up in my life lately. As Mrs. Deckler starts handing out unit outlines halfway through class on Friday, I can't help a giddy giggle at the thought that I
am
myth now.

I accept the papers from the girl in front of me, take one, and pass the rest behind me.

“Something funny, Miss Whitfield?” Mrs. Deckler asks.

I bite my lips and shake my head. “No, ma'am.”

“While you read over the unit plan,” she says to the class, “I'm going to set up a quick introductory PowerPoint to prepare you for Monday's lesson.”

I scan the topics—everything from Homer to Edith Hamilton to some contemporary fiction about teens descended from gods.

“As you can see from the list,” Mrs. Deckler says as she walks to the light switch, “we will be studying, in depth, the heroes, gods, and monsters of ancient Greece.”

I bite my lips again to keep from laughing. Between Gretchen's training, the creatures I see on the street almost every day, and studying the binder contents as I digitize them, I think I'll be the definite authority in the class when it comes to mythological monsters.

Not that I'll be able to admit why.

“I think you'll find that Aristotle was a nice introduction.” She gives the room a big grin before flipping out the lights. “But now we're getting to the good stuff.”

As the PowerPoint begins, my mind kind of drifts. I think about the monsters I've seen and the training Gretchen and I have been working on. I wonder if any of the monsters I've studied, seen, and fought will be part of the unit.

“You will learn about hideous creatures.”

I look up as the slide changes.

“Like the Minotaur.”

There, on the screen, big as life, is an extremely accurate drawing of a minotaur. So exact, I can almost smell the rotten odor of—

I feel something slide against my upper lip. From the inside.

“Shoot,” I whisper.

But since my fangs just decided to make an appearance, it sounds more like
Ssssoot.

I slap my hand over my mouth and jump out of my seat.

“Problem, Miss Whitfield?”

This isn't the first time my fangs have dropped on their own. Ever since Gretchen first got my fangs to engage, they keep popping down at really awkward times. Like when Thane snuck up on me while I was brushing my teeth. Or when the Rottweiler down the hall escaped his leash and I barely slammed the apartment door shut in time. But this is the first time at school, and I never know how long they're going to hang out.

I rush to the front of the classroom.

“Misssesss Deckler,” I say from behind my palm, “I need to—”

She takes in my horrified look and the hand over my mouth and draws her own conclusions. “Go,” she insists. “Don't worry about a bathroom pass.”

Thank goodness. I nod and race out of class, heading for the girls' room.

I'm almost there when someone calls my name. I spin around to see Ms. West hurrying toward me. My hand is still clamped over my mouth, so I just wave.

“Why are you outside of class?” she demands. “Do you have a pass?”

“No,” I say from behind my hand. I try to focus on using words that won't lisp because of the fangs. “Girl twouble.”

Shoot.

“I understand.” Her eyes widen. “Don't let me keep you.”

I nod and turn to dash into the bathroom. From outside, she calls out, “Please see a nurse if you are unwell.”

Gosh, I appreciate the concern. Doesn't she have other students to bug?

Inside the bathroom, I check to make sure it's empty before leaning on a sink to inspect my fangs in the mirror. The bluish glow of the lights above make them shine like pearls. Anyone walking in on me right now would think I'm some kind of vampire wannabe. A freak of a whole different kind.

I guess they do look like vampire fangs, extended canines that narrow down to a sharp—an extremely sharp—point.

“Come on,” I tell my reflection. “Retract already.”

Gretchen says it will take time for me to learn to fully control them. Now would be a really useful moment. I don't really look like the vampy goth type, so it would be hard to explain why I'm wearing fake fangs.

As if they understand my plea, my fangs slowly slide back up into regular humanlike position. I watch as my canines return to normal. As I return to normal.

“Whew.”

I'm not sure what I would do if they stayed put. Hide in the bathroom all day? Mom would get a call when I missed class, and that would be even harder to explain.

Thankfully, I don't have to face that today. I turn the faucet handle and am splashing a little cold water on my face when I hear the door swing open.

“Did you vomit?”

I turn toward the sound of the voice I am unfortunately learning to recognize. Miranda. Just what I need.

“No,” I reply calmly. “I didn't vomit.”

Her eyes scan me from head to toe.

“You look like you did.” She makes a disgusted face. “Then again, you usually do.”

She starts for a stall. I know I should walk out, should leave it alone, be the bigger person and all that. But some desperate part of me can't help asking, “Did I do something to offend you?”

She turns to face me. “You mean other than being alive?”

“Yeah,” I say, despite the warning bell in my stomach. “Other than that.”

She looks me over again, and I can feel myself squirming under the attention. When her blue eyes return to my face, she says, “Nope, that's enough.”

She turns and heads into the stall, slamming the door shut behind her. I feel my fangs drop back into view.

“If only.”

I wonder what my venom would do to a human. With my luck it would only make Miranda more unbearable.

I head into the last stall, quickly shut and lock the door, and lift my feet off the floor. While I'm glad my fangs have decided that Miranda is a worthwhile threat—she could rival a minotaur any day—if I don't get them under control soon, if I have to keep hiding in the bathroom to avoid anyone noticing, my grades are going to suffer. And I don't think there's a believable explanation on the planet that could convince my parents of why that's happened.

The last thing I want is for them to decide we made a mistake and move us back to Orangevale. As much as I don't like Miranda and wish I could either stand up to her or avoid her altogether, I couldn't stand the thought of leaving Gretchen. Now that I've found my sister, I'll do whatever it takes to keep her.

“Focus,” Gretchen shouts, moving somewhere behind me.

I can't see anything through the scarf tied around my head as a makeshift blindfold. She taps a hand against the left side of my waist.

“That's another kill,” she grumbles. “If you don't learn to focus on your surroundings, you'll never survive a night fight. Feline hybrids especially have excellent night vision.”

I clench my jaw and resist the urge to mention that we're in a major metropolitan city. There are flashing signs and glowing streetlights everywhere. I'll never face a monster in complete darkness. At this point, though, my comment will only earn me some push-ups, which Gretchen is oh-so-happy to demand.

I close my eyes behind the scarf. Pointless, I know, but somehow the physical act of dropping my eyelids tells my brain to switch to the other senses. I listen and feel and even smell—taste is proving to be the only sense that's not exactly an asset in a fight. Actually, the thought of chomping down on a minotaur head or a scorpion tail seems like exactly the scenario in which I'd like my sense of taste to fail altogether. I know I'm going to have to bite one back to the abyss eventually, but I'm not really eager for the first time.

Shoving thoughts of monster bites from my mind, I pinpoint all my attention on Gretchen. She's been silent, which means she's been moving. No longer behind me.

I feel a gentle breeze on my right cheek. I tilt my head that way—

Just as Gretchen delivers a gentle punch to my stomach.

“Dead again,” she complains. “You don't stand a chance in Hades of surviving a blind attack. You're going to make a nice meal for a sphinx if you don't focus.”

That was an awfully wordy taunt for Gretchen. During training, she usually rivals Thane in the silent-communication department. This must be a distraction technique. I squeeze my eyes harder and catch a whiff of her eucalyptus shampoo. A soft squeak behind me.

I drop to a squat, spinning as I go.

I hear Gretchen's soft grunt as her punch connects with air, sending her arm swinging with unchecked momentum. While her center of gravity is thrown off, I reach out, wrap both hands around her waist, and flip onto my back, using my legs to send Gretchen flying over me as I roll.

“Oooft!”
She hits the training mat with a nice thud.

I rip off my blindfold, jumping to my feet to survey my success. “Woohoo!” I shout, twisting around in a happy dance. “I did it!”

“Yeah,” Gretchen says, trying to sound all gruff and mean. I can tell she's proud. “But only because I tried to telegraph my moves. I was getting tired of your failure.”

“Whatever,” I say. Not even Gretchen's grumbling can dampen my success. “I totally did it.”

I extend my hand to help her up. Not that she needs it—I've seen her kick up from her back to a squat without using her hands. I'm surprised when she places her hand in mine and lets me pull her to her feet.

“It's not much,” she says, reaching back to tug her tank into place, “but it's something.”

I can't help but beam. Gretchen's not exactly free and easy with the compliments, so even this reluctant, minor one feels like a major success.

“What's next?” I ask, giddy to continue my training.

She sniffs the air.

“What? Do you smell a monster?” I ask. “What kind?”

Despite the disaster that was my last run-in with a monster, I'm kind of eager to go out on a hunt with Gretchen again. I'm ready to test out my training. It's been only four days, but surely I've acquired some useful fighting skills. Besides, with Gretchen at my side, no beast can get the jump on me.

I try sniffing the air the way she does, searching for the scent of a creature that doesn't belong in our realm. I don't smell a thing.

“Nope,” she says with a wry smile. “I stink like sweat. Time to hit the shower.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Maybe I am a little overeager to go on another hunt. I feel like such a colossal idiot sometimes.

She hesitates, like she's thinking about reassuring me or making me feel better. Then, without a word, she walks out of the training room, heading for her bedroom and the giant glassed-in shower with three walls of massaging jets.

“Don't worry,” I call out after she's out of hearing. “I'll amuse myself for a while. No problem.”

I take a look around the training room, a massive gymnasium with padded mats covering half the floor and flat industrial carpet underneath. On the walls are a variety of traditional weapons. Long staffs, nunchucks, throwing stars, daggers, swords, foils, and tons of others I couldn't name if you asked me. Gretchen won't let me touch them yet. She says I need to master hand-to-hand combat, to learn to defend myself with nothing but my hands and feet, which are usually all I'll have.

There are a couple of those wall-mounted ladders you have to climb in gym class sometimes and a long knotted rope hanging down from the ceiling. I can see weight machines and balance balls and even a balance beam, and I'm sure there is plenty more equipment I can't see.

As a non-jock-type person, this is not the kind of stuff that interests me. Well, at least not beyond what it means for my training.

If I've realized anything in the last week since I discovered my heritage and my duty, it's that I am totally ready to embrace this unknown part of my life. The only problem is that, besides Gretchen's training and what I've been able to get her to tell me, I don't really know anything about that side of me.

When I feel lost at school, I head to the nearest computer and pull up as much info about the subject as I can find.

“What I need to do,” I mutter, “is research.”

The only problem is that everything available on the internet about my ancient mythological ancestor is rewritten history. The results of Athena's full-scale smear campaign. Not exactly helpful.

But I know one place where I can find the research I need. “Gretchen's library.”

Quickly slipping out of the training room, I head for the book-filled library. On the way I grab my backpack. The first thing I do is pull out the six binders I took home to digitize yesterday and trade them for new ones. I've managed to scan in more than two dozen, converting them into digital format. At this rate, I'll have the whole collection of monster files computerized in a few weeks. There are so many, it feels pretty daunting, but it needs to be done. Paper files provide such limited access. And they're vulnerable.

Besides, when I use the document scanner Mom bought last spring—I finally convinced her to go paperless—the pages are scanned in no time. I can probably get another two dozen done this weekend.

I shove the half dozen new binders into my bag.

“Now,” I say to the walls of books, “where should I begin?”

At least the collection seems to be organized by subject matter rather than author or title. That would be madness to search through, especially without a catalog of some kind, which Gretchen assures me does not exist.

“When I'm done with the binders,” I say, wandering past the laden shelves, “that'll be my next project.”

My eyes skim titles, looking for something that strikes my mood. Monsters and mythology? No thanks. Martial arts training techniques? Not right now. Medusa and the Gorgons?