Sweet Venom (16 page)

I make an effort to forgive Kyle his slouching and ask, “How was the surf today?”

“Wicked,” he says, sitting forward. “The wind kicked up right at high tide and there were some killer waves.”

I smile, but even I know there aren't really killer waves at Ocean Beach. Down the coast, maybe, but up here the waters are a little less . . . gnarly, as Kyle would put it.

“Must have crested at six feet or more,” he continues. “Yokie took a header and almost cracked his skull on his board.”

Yokie is actually Eric Yokelson, and he is my least favorite of Kyle's friends. He doesn't go to St. Stephen, doesn't even go to private school, which alone isn't enough to indict him. Despite what my alleged sisters might think, even I'm not snob enough to think the only people of quality are those who can afford private school. No, it's more that he has hit on me every time we've met. And not a subtle
Hmmm-was-that-a-pass-or-not?
hit, but a full on, get-the-heck-out-of-my-face come-on. I try to avoid being around him.

I wouldn't cry if he had cracked his skull on his surfboard.

Kyle is still going on about today's surfing when the waiter brings our drinks and takes our appetizer orders. I thank him for the tea and let Kyle order for both of us. Taking a sip of tea, letting the cool earthy taste invade my mouth, I glance out over the Bay.

The fog is thin tonight, and even in the faint light of dusk I can make out the craggy outline of Alcatraz. At night, when the tourists are gone and the only inhabitants are gulls and a pair of National Park Service guards, the island looks positively eerie. A glowing monument to a haunted past.

“Hope you're in the mood for calamari,” Kyle says, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

My lip starts to sneer, but I quickly get it back under control. Kyle knows how I feel about fried foods—or at least he should. In the year we've been dating, I've made it perfectly clear that nothing soaked in oil will ever enter my system to threaten my perfect complexion. My aesthetician would have a fit.

He must sense my displeasure, because he leans forward quickly and says, “Grilled, of course.”

“Grilled,” I repeat with a genuine smile. “Sounds perfect.”

Thank goodness he got that right. After he made me drive here, I might have to leave if he ordered something he should know I don't eat.

Kyle looks relieved by my pleasure.

“What about you, babe?” he asks. “How was your day?”

How
was
my day? Where do I even begin? School was routine and I spent the afternoon finalizing details for the alumnae tea. On any other day, the details of my argument with Veronica would be the perfect dinner conversation, but all I can think about is the doorbell ringing and opening the door to find my look-alikes standing there, telling me crazy stories about monsters and Gorgons.

That's not exactly the sort of thing you tell your boyfriend over grilled calamari. Or, at least, that's not exactly the sort of thing
I
tell
Kyle
over grilled calamari.

I haven't even fully processed the information yet. I'm not ready to tell anyone I'm probably adopted, let alone the other ridiculous stuff.

So, in the interest of an enjoyable dinner, I recount the phone conversation with Veronica about her ice-sculptor boyfriend.

“A dragon ice sculpture?” Kyle asks, his voice a little too full of awe for my taste. “Sounds radical.”

I clench my jaw. It's not his use of entirely outdated slang—he's single-handedly trying to bring back the eighties' surfer lingo—that bothers me. He's my boyfriend and he's supposed to take my side. In everything.

Guess who's not getting a good-night kiss.

“Sorry, babe,” he says, trying to sound contrite. “I know you hate the idea, but it might be way awesome.”

“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to get into another fight today. I've got bigger things on my mind. “Maybe you're right.”

“Ah, thank you, my man.” Kyle changes track as the waiter arrives with our appetizer. He grins at me. “Fruits of the sea.”

I can't help but smile back. It's hard to stay mad at Kyle for long—his grin is infectious. And tonight I'd welcome having his carefree attitude about everything.

While he squeezes fresh lemon over the plate, I look out the window again. For the rest of the evening I promise to let go of all the things that have gone wrong today. I will sit here with my boyfriend, enjoying a five-star meal, while I look out over the—

“What the—?”

Kyle looks up, a forkful of calamari halfway to his mouth. “What, babe?”

I quickly look away from the scene below. That can't be happening.

“What?” I ask, my voice high and startled. I swallow and try again. “Why?”

“You just said, ‘What the—?' like you saw something crazy.” He looks down at the water below, looking for whatever startled me.

“It's nothing,” I insist in a rush, trying to get his attention away from what I cannot possibly have actually seen. “I was thinking. About the dragon ice sculpture.” I resist the urge to glance back down out of fear that it might still be there. “Maybe I'll think about it.”

“Right on,” Kyle says.

He digs into the calamari, and I struggle to get my breathing under control. This is a perfectly normal date with my perfectly normal boyfriend, overlooking a perfectly normal body of water. The setting sun must have reflected into my eyes because, for a second, I thought I saw—

No, it's not possible. It's the stress of the day, and the news of my adoption and my supposed sisters showing up on my front step. Stress hormones are playing tricks on my mind. Because I can't possibly have seen a woman with long, stringy black hair swimming toward the pier, with a giant serpent's tail undulating along behind her human torso.

Picking up my salad fork, I spear a ring of calamari, dip it lightly in marinara, and lift the bite to my mouth. My attention stays sharply focused on Kyle, our food, and the elegantly set table between us.

I'm not afraid to look out the window again. I'm trying to be in the moment, to enjoy my meal and my boy—

Oh, who am I kidding?

I set my fork down on the plate, close my eyes, and turn toward the window.
One, two . . . .
On the count of
three
I open my eyes.

Just in time to see the serpent lady climb out onto the deck below and slink into the crowd of tourists.

“Sugar,” I whisper.

This is not my problem, I reason. I'm Greer Morgenthal, junior class president, alumnae tea chair, and future junior leaguer. I'm wearing Stella McCartney and Jimmy Choo. I can't take on something like, like . . .
that
.

But as I rationalize with myself, the creature slithers through the crowd, running her abnormally long fingers through women's hair and up men's spines. They react to the touch, but not to the creature herself. Can they not see her?

When the pointy end of her tail makes a big swing, knocking three people off their feet, and the crowd only looks confused, I think I have my answer.

“Kyle?” I ask absently. “What do you see down there?”

I point directly at the creature as she cuts a swathe through the crowd.

“Tourists,” Kyle answers. “Loads and loads of tourists.”

“Of course.” They, ordinary humans—I shudder as I realize what this means—
can't
see her.

I want to stay. I want to ignore the snake lady and whatever she plans to do in the crowd below. But I have nothing if not a strong sense of responsibility. If I am the only person who can see what she really is, then I don't have much of a choice, do I?

“Excuse me, would you?” I push back from the table, leaving my napkin on my chair as I get up. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Sure, babe.”

Not even wasting time to get annoyed at Kyle for calling me “babe”—
again
—I turn and hurry for the lobby. Instead of heading through the door with a mermaid sign, I slip downstairs and out the main entrance.

With every fiber of my being, I'm hoping she'll be gone when I get down there.

T
wo hours after Gretchen stormed off Greer's stoop and sped away, I'm beginning to think that maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting about Greer being in immediate danger. After I've sat in the park across the street from her house, watching absolutely nothing happen for the rest of the afternoon, Greer finally pulls out of the garage onto the side street. I have to run full out to keep up with her little gray sports car.

Thankfully, her house is at the very top of a hill, so I only have down to go. And she hits a lot of red lights along the way. From the way she revs her engine, I get the feeling she is pretty annoyed about something—either that or she's very impatient. At least it gives me a chance to keep up without dying from the exertion.

By the time she pulls into a parking garage near Fisherman's Wharf, I feel like I've run a marathon.

“At least it will get me in shape,” I pant, sucking in painful gasps of air while I wait for her to emerge from the structure. “Gretchen will be so proud.”

I lean against the corner of the building, letting my body recover, as Greer crosses the street to the Wharf, hugs a surfer-looking boy dressed in worn khaki cargos and a slightly rumpled white button-up shirt, and disappears up a narrow staircase. I make my way—slowly—after her. The sign above the stairs says Ahab's Fine Seafood. My jeans and tee aren't exactly fine-dining wear. If I try to follow her upstairs, I'll stand out like a fish in a desert.

Besides, they'll probably be up there for a while. Dinner at fancy restaurants always drags by at a snail's pace. For me, anyway.

Instead, I decide to scope out the area. I wander around to the far side of the pier, below the restaurant windows. I can watch out for her from down here, and if anything happens, I can be around the front and upstairs in seconds. Assuming I've recovered by then.

I find a weathered wooden bench and plant myself.

Spending my evening on Fisherman's Wharf, surrounded by a billion tourists and a heavy stink of fish, was not exactly how I planned to spend my evening. Or what I told Mom I'd be doing. She thinks I'll be home for dinner.

I pull out my phone and send her a quick text that says my study session is running long. I add that I'm staying for dinner, so she won't worry. Who knows how long I'll be out?

She replies with a sad face and says Thane's out for dinner too. I wonder if he's with Milo. I text back that I look forward to leftovers tomorrow; with Thane not eating at home, there might actually be some.

Of course, as soon as I send the text, my stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten since lunch. Gretchen's workouts zap everything out of me and I need extra nourishment to keep up. If I were home for dinner more lately, Mom would probably notice a huge spike in my appetite.

Content that Greer will be safe without my eyes on her for a few minutes, I head out in search of food. There aren't that many vegetarian choices in the land of seafood. Most of the vendors give me an are-you-crazy? look when I ask. Pulling out my phone, I open the VegFinder app and do a quick search within a two-block radius. Within seconds it finds a stall with a vegetarian corn chowder on the menu. I gratefully accept the paper container and hand over my cash.

With the chowder warming my hands, I take my time wandering back to my bench.

It amazes me how many people there are in San Francisco. The population of Orangevale was probably smaller than our block's here. So many people from so many different places, a mix-and-match collage of cultures. Between the tourists and the residents, I think every ethnicity, religion, and heritage in the world is represented. It's the most exciting place I've ever been.

In Orangevale, you couldn't leave the house without running into twelve people you knew. With only a couple grocery stores and one post office, everyone had to run their errands to the same few spots. Here, though, there are dozens of post offices and hundreds of grocery stores. Hundreds of restaurants and boutiques and coffee shops. You could live here your whole life and never run into someone you know.

“Grace?”

I jump at the sound of Thane's voice. I swallow the hot bite of chowder before I choke on it. In that moment, I do a quick glance around to see if Milo is here. No such luck.

“Thane,” I gasp. “What are you doing here?”

“Me?” he asks with a scowl. “I thought you were studying at a friend's house.”

“I, um, am.” Great. Lying to Mom via text is one thing, but face-to-face with Thane is impossible. I need to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I was. I—” I look around, hoping for inspiration but finding none. “I'm supposed to be.”

“This isn't your friend's house.” He steps closer. “Tell me what's going on. Have you—”

The crowd jostles, knocking me forward into Thane. We both stumble but stay upright, and I take the opportunity of distraction to change the subject.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “Don't you have practice?”

He scowls more than normal, deepening the creases across his forehead, and a rosy pink floods his cheeks. “Did,” he says abruptly. “It's over.”

“Oh, then why are you—”

“Supposed to be meeting someone here.” He looks around, and I can't tell if he's looking for someone or avoiding looking at me. “She's a no-show.”

“She?” I ask, agog. “You're meeting a girl?”

His blush deepens.

Oooh,
this is so juicy. It's not like Thane hasn't dated before—he's just really particular—and it's not like he couldn't have almost any girl he wanted. I know he's my brother, but I think I can see him objectively. He's tall, broad shouldered, and strong. He has chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, and a square jaw. With his brown hair cropped short, his eyes positively glow. He looks like the star of some Hollywood army flick or a cologne ad. Girls definitely go after Thane.

He doesn't often reciprocate.

“Just a . . . friend,” he mumbles, not sounding pleased at all. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “I'll see you at home. Be safe.”

He turns and disappears into the crowd. How odd. I wonder what set him off? Thane is always a little cryptic, but that was exceptional. I only hope he doesn't plan to tell Mom and Dad that I'm not where I'm supposed to be.

I'll have to ask him later about his girl
friend
.

What a funny coincidence to run into him. At first I thought it was kind of serendipitous that Gretchen and I were at the same nightclub at the same time. But maybe coincidental run-ins aren't as uncommon in the big city as I thought.

Or maybe, I wonder, it was a little more than coincidence. If we really are the Key Generation, then maybe someone has manipulated things to bring us together. From everything I've read about mythology, the gods love to stick their noses into the affairs of others. And fate is their favorite plaything.

Maybe Gretchen and I were
supposed
to meet at that club.

I take another bite of chowder, letting the steaming goodness warm me from the inside, and weave my way through the crowd as thoughts of fate and coincidence swirl in my mind. San Francisco is much colder than I ever imagined. I'm practically shivering in my short-sleeved tee. If it gets any chillier, I'll be tempted to pull my dirty gym clothes out of my bag and start layering.

By the time I make it back to my bench, it's surrounded by a sea of people. A startled shout emerges from somewhere in the crowd, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Relax, Grace. It could be anything. I sniff the air but get nothing beyond the heavy scent of fish and ocean. The people are so thick, I can't see beyond the circle immediately around me. Curious, I climb up on the end of the bench to get a better view.

I almost drop my chowder.

Not twenty feet away, winding through the crowd and knocking people over along the way, is a soaking-wet woman with a serpent's tail. Oh, shoot.

I stand frozen, not sure how to react. There's a snake-woman slithering among the hundreds of tourists filling Fisherman's Wharf, and I have no idea what to do.

For a second, I wish I'd gone home with Gretchen when I had the chance.

No, that's cowardly thinking. I'm done with cowardly. I'm a descendant of Medusa and a monster huntress.
Cowardly
isn't in my blood.

Still, Gretchen is the one with all the knowledge and skills.

“Maybe I should call her,” I tell myself.

A guy shouts an obscenity as the serpent's tail slithers around his ankles.

There's no time to wait for Gretchen. It would take her at least fifteen minutes to get here from her loft. Who knows what kind of havoc the snake-lady could wreak in that time?

I glance up at the restaurant windows, where I know Greer is safely eating dinner with her date. Well, I wanted to protect her. This is my chance.

And I'll save a few dozen ignorant tourists in the process.

Jumping down from my bench, I toss the remains of my chowder into the nearest trash can, tighten down the straps on my backpack so it doesn't get in the way, and head off in the direction of the monster. She's moving deeper into the crowd. The first thing I need to do is get her away from all these people. How on earth am I going to—

“Ugh,”
I grunt as I crash into someone.

“Watch where you're going,” my collision victim snaps. “This isn't bumper walking.”

I jerk back at the familiar voice.

“Greer?” I ask.

Our silver-gray eyes meet.

“What are you doing down here?” I ask. “I thought you were having dinner upstairs.”

“I
was
,” she says, not bothering to disguise her annoyance. “Until I saw this . . .
thing
climb out of the bay. Wait, how did you know where I was? Are you following me?”

“You saw her?” I squeal, ignoring her questions.

She stiffens, like she didn't realize the slip until I commented. But she can't take it back. She saw the monster. She is a descendant of Medusa, destined to be a huntress, just like me and Gretchen.

“That's wonderful!” I scream. I wrap my arms around her before she can push me away. She's got a few inches on me in her heels. “I knew you could see them too.”

“Yeah, yeah. It's a flippin' family reunion.” She pats me awkwardly on the back and then leans away. Gesturing to the snake lady's wake, she asks, “Shouldn't you do something about that?”

“Yes!” I jump back, beaming. “Yes, we should.”

I stare at her, beyond thrilled that she has admitted to seeing the creature. And maybe that will mean she's willing to accept her responsibility as a huntress. Then the three of us can be reunited as sisters, as the Key Generation, and we can roam the streets, tracking monsters together. We'll figure out what the seal is all about and how we're supposed to be making the world safer for—

“And that something would be . . . ?”

“Right,” I say, jerking myself back to the immediate situation. Tourists. Wharf. Sea-serpent lady. “First, we need to get her away from this crowd.”

“Um, we? And how do you suggest
we
do that?”

“Oh, I've got an idea,” I say, a plan forming in my mind. A dangerous plan, true, but it's the only one I've got. “You go down to the end of the pier, out of sight behind the building, where there won't be any people.”

“And where will you be?”

I give her a shaky grin. “I'll bring the monster.”

Greer looks unconvinced but heads off to the end of the pier. I turn and follow the sounds of grunts and thuds to where the snake-lady has almost made it off the pier and onto the mainland. I need to be fast. For a lot of reasons.

Catching up to her serpent tail, I take a deep breath, tell myself to be brave, and stomp my foot down on the scaly flesh as hard as I can.

Snake-lady howls in pain, spinning her torso around to face her attacker.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I say, with mock sincerity and even more mock courage. “Did that hurt?”

“A huntress,” she coos, a look of evil delight creasing her craggy features.

“You guessed it,” I retort. My hands are shaking so hard, I have to grasp the straps of my backpack to hide obvious signs of my fear. “And people say snakes are dumb.”

As she emits an earsplitting howl, her torso dives forward, the rest of her serpenty body coiling around for the strike. That's my cue.

I turn and run, slipping through whatever space I can find in the crush of people, shoving into bodies left and right if they're in my way. It's a dash for my life at this point. Possibly for a lot of people's lives. Maybe I shouldn't have taunted the evil monster—the lure of the bounty might have been enough to get her attention—but I had to get her to follow me. And making her angry was the only way I came up with.

Now I know why a rabbit's heart beats so fast when you catch it, because mine is fluttering in my chest like a butterfly on a sugar rush.

Finally, after what seems like forever, the crowd thins and I can sprint straight for the end of the pier. I skid around the corner, where Greer is waiting with a bored expression.

“She's coming,” I pant. “Get ready!”

“Ready for what?” Greer asks, a sudden look of sheer panic on her face.

“To pounce.” I brace myself into a defensive stance. “Grab on and don't let go no matter what.”

I've barely finished my command when snake-lady comes slithering around the corner. Her beady eyes focus on me, so she doesn't see Greer standing next to the wall.

“Now!” I shout.

Without hesitation, Greer dives onto the serpent tail. I give her a little silent cheer. The creature twists to see what has landed on her tail. I take advantage and launch myself onto her back.