Sweet Venom (3 page)

Plus we both have cell phones, bus passes, and—I steal a glance at Milo—a native guide. Of course, Mom didn't know that, instead of walking around our neighborhood, we'd catch the bus heading to Fisherman's Wharf to join the sea of tourists.

“Coach Guerrera likes to run the forwards into the ground for the first week,” Milo tells Thane as the bus bounces down the street. “But after that he lets up. I think he just wants to weed out the quitters.”

Thane nods.

Apparently that is enough of an answer for Milo, because he keeps on talking soccer. “He used to play professionally in Argentina, so he's got the legs to back up his demands.”

I kind of tune out the words. Other than to watch Thane play, soccer is not really of interest to me.

Milo, on the other hand, is definitely of interest. And talkative—especially when Mom was peppering him with questions over dinner. Already I know he is a Bay Area native, is a senior like Thane, has three older sisters, and hates mushroom pizza and avocado. Oh well, he can't be one-hundred-percent perfect.

With each bump in the road, Milo's dark-brown curls bounce as if gravity has no control over them. It makes me smile every time.

“This is our stop,” Milo says as the bus pulls up in front of a hotel.

I jump up to follow him and Thane to the door, not wanting to get stuck on a bus for a second time today. The street we're on is practically deserted, but one block north we step into a churning ocean of people, all ages and sizes and nationalities.

Distracted from my Milo watching, I gawk at the bustle of activity. There are street performers dressed as break-dancing robots or playing unrecognizable exotic instruments beneath giant crab sculptures. A woman in a long, exotic print dress with a shawl over her head tries to give me something, but Milo waves her off. He doesn't stop the man who hands me a brochure for a Bay cruise. It's utter chaos, but somehow everything flows perfectly together, like some kind of crazy, hectic ballet.

I'm surrounded by energy and I try to absorb as much as I can.

I follow the boys onto the pier, sticking close so we don't get separated. I'm pretty sure I'd never find them again. As we push through the Thursday-night crowd, I marvel at all the shops: seashells and pearls, souvenirs, socks, bath salts, candy, and crystals, restaurants serving seafood and ice cream and a hundred kinds of crepes.

No wonder this is such a popular tourist attraction.

“Watch out,” Milo says, tugging me against his side as a tourist with a camera the size of my head nearly knocks me over. “You okay?” he asks.

I nod, dazzled by the feel of Milo against me. “Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem.” He beams, and for a second it feels like we're completely alone in the crowd.

“I'm hungry,” Thane says, killing our moment.

“We just ate,” I complain, mostly because Milo's attention—and his hand—is now off me.

“Me too.” Milo agrees with Thane. “Everything here is overpriced for the tourists. Have you guys ever had dim sum?”

Had it? I've never even heard of it. Still, even though I know it's a bonehead answer, I'm on the verge of saying,
All the time,
because I don't want Milo to think I'm an uncultured hick. “Sure—”

Before I can finish, Thane says, “No.”

“Excellent!” Milo's eyes light up brighter than before, and I'm really glad I didn't get the chance to fib.

“—I haven't,” I finish quietly.

The look Thane throws me suggests he knew what I'd actually been about to say.

“Then I'll get to introduce you to it.” Milo starts walking back in the direction we've come from and then off to the west. “The best all-night dim sum in town is only a cable car ride away.”

I have to practically jog to keep up with his long strides. We cross to a dead-end street where a line of people stand waiting. They're all looking expectantly up the hill. I turn and see an ancient-looking cable car gliding down toward the dead end.

When I knew for sure we'd be moving to San Francisco, I researched the city online. I read a lot about the cable cars and their history and construction. I know the ropes and brakes are supposed to be safe, but I'm not entirely convinced. As I watch the people climb off and the car execute a complicated, man-powered turnaround, I'm getting a little apprehensive.

“Don't worry,” Milo says quietly in my ear. “It's fun.”

A warm, melty feeling spreads from my ear to the rest of my body. I smile and let him lead me to a seat while he and Thane stand, hanging out over the street. I look around and see that other riders are hanging out over the street too, but it doesn't make me any less nervous.

My eyes stay squeezed tightly shut most of the ride, so I don't remember much. There are a lot of jerks and stutters, and one time, when the car stops for a couple minutes, I hear a lot of shouting. I force one eye open and find Thane and Milo gone. Panicked, I lean out to search for them, only to find them—and a bunch of other passengers—actually
pushing
the car up the track. I keep my eyes open long enough for Thane and Milo to return to their spots, and then clamp them shut again.

Two stops later, as the car slowly climbs up a hill, I feel a warmth on my cheek just before Milo whispers, “You're going to miss the best part.”

Despite my fear, I force my eyes open. For a second, Milo fills my vision. Then he leans back and reveals the view. We're at an intersection at the high point of a hill. Straight in front of me is a narrow street leading steeply down to a wider one, full of light and lanterns and activity. It's beautiful.

I smile at Milo for making me open my eyes.

I smile even bigger when he smiles back.

At the next stop, Milo's hand wraps around mine and tugs me to my feet. We've survived. Next time, I'll keep my eyes open the whole time.

“This is the world-famous Chinatown,” he says, still holding my hand as he leads me down a very steep street.

My heart is racing, and not just because of the harrowing ride.

“And this,” he says, pulling up in front of a glass storefront full of hanging meats and birds and unidentifiable things, “is the world's best dim sum parlor.”

Although I can sort of see through the windows, they have layers of dirt caked at the corners, as if every so often someone grabs a rag to wipe only the centers. It doesn't exactly scream Great Place to Eat. Or even No Health Code Violations.

Milo throws the door open wide, flashes me a brilliant grin, and says, “Wait until you taste it.”

Shoving my hesitations about the sanitary conditions aside, I follow Thane through the door and to a once-white Formica table with chipped edges. I take the seat opposite Thane, which means that—deep breath—Milo is sitting next to me. My blood is pounding in my ears, and I have to make the hostess repeat her request three times before I finally hear her ask, “Hot tea?”

“Yes, please,” I say, ducking to hide my blush.

“No menus?” Thane asks.

“Not with dim sum,” Milo explains. “The waiters will bring around trays of dishes, and if we see any we like, we get them.” He spins a small piece of paper beneath his finger. “They stamp this order sheet to keep track of what we eat.”

“Sounds complicated,” I manage.

“It's great,” Milo promises with a wink.

I'm not so sure. But when the first trayful of goodies comes by, my mouth waters at the wonderful smells. It's like I never even ate dinner.

“Barbecue pork buns are the best,” Milo says, pointing to a metal tin containing three puffy white balls of dough. “Just don't eat the paper stuck to the bottom.”

The waiter sets the tin on our table, pulls a stamp from his apron, and marks a symbol onto our order ticket.

“Oh,” I say, eyeing the pork buns. “I, um—”

“Grace is vegetarian,” Thane explains, so I don't have to.

Milo gives me a serious look. Great, now he thinks I'm some kind of hippie-granola weirdo. No, I'm just eco-conscious and doing my part to lighten my footprint. I wave a mental good-bye to my very slim chance with him.

But then he says, “Why didn't you say something?”

He calls the waiter back over, and soon there is a tin of doughy buns—these filled with barbecued veggies—sitting next to the pork.

“Thanks,” I say, and then drop my gaze to the food. Cute and considerate. As if Milo weren't already my dream guy.

It takes only a quick tutorial from Milo for me to manage the chopsticks well enough to pick up my bun and lift it to my mouth.

“Uh-oh,” he says, as I'm about to take a bite. He reaches toward me and, for a heartbeat, I think he's going to touch my cheek. Instead, he peels a thin piece of waxed paper off the bottom of my veggie bun. “Trust me, this does not add to the experience.”

I laugh at his teasing comment, but inside, my heart is doing cartwheels.
Play it cool, Grace.
Don't want him to think I'm totally boy-illiterate.

As if I'm totally together, I lift the bun the rest of the way to my mouth and am about to bite in when a repulsive smell washes over me.

Instant nausea.

I clap my free hand over my mouth as the bun drops and rolls, forgotten, to the floor.

Milo asks, “What's wrong?”

“Grace?” Thane's jaw clenches into a block of stone. “What is it?”

If I weren't on the verge of heaving the remains of Mom's veggie stew, I'd appreciate Thane's protectiveness. He's always been that way, ready to throw himself into anything if he thinks I'm in danger. But then I guess that's what big brothers are for.

At this moment, though, it's all I can do to keep my stomach contents where they belong. I close my eyes and shake my head.

“We should go,” Thane says.

Milo nods. “You get her outside and I'll pay the bill.”

“No,” I whisper, swallowing down the nausea as best I can. I don't want to ruin this night. “I'm—I'll be fine. Just give me a—”

The front door to the restaurant opens with a whine and the stench hits me tenfold. I feel my eyes roll back as my body tries to reject the smell. Or to protect me from whatever's causing it. I've never had such a violent reaction to an odor before.

“Maybe we should—” I force my eyes open, but instead of Milo's adorable face or my brother's strong one, my gaze focuses on the
thing
that has just walked in the front door. The creature.

The body looks like a normal man, with arms and legs and everything in between. The head, though. . . . It's the head of a bull.

I'm not joking. A man with the head of a bull has just walked into an all-night dim sum restaurant as if it were normal.

I look at Thane for reassurance, hoping the panic I'm feeling shows in my eyes, telling him everything he needs to know. He turns to look at the door then back at me, jaw clenched and eyes wide. “Let's go.”

I nod.

“What's going on?” Milo turns and looks too. “Do you two know that guy?”

“Guy?” I choke. Is he blind? Can't he see?

For that matter, can't everyone see? Why isn't anyone screaming or running away? Slowly, I scan the rest of the tables. No one else seems to have taken notice of the man-bull, who is now crossing the main floor and heading for the back room.

I look at Thane, certain he must have seen it.

But no, the look in his eyes now is simply concern for me. Did I just imagine the look of recognition I saw a moment ago? Milo doesn't see it, and neither does Thane. No one does. I'm the only person who saw a slobbering beast instead of a man.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I'm just—” I shake my head. “I don't feel great.”

Both boys nod, as if it's totally normal and logical and not at all out of the ordinary, when it's anything but. There's only one possible explanation for this hallucination. I must be going crazy.

E
ven twenty minutes in a scalding shower can't completely wash the stink of minotaur off my body. I lather-rinse-repeat five times, hoping to purge the lingering residue from my hair. Getting up close and personal with a monster is never pretty, but sometimes it's worse than others.

By the time this one popped back to wherever he came from, my pores were plugged with his toxic odor. Dis. Gust. Ing. I might have nightmares.

With one white fluffy towel wrapped around my chest and another cocooning my hair, I cross to the library and drop down into the task chair in front of the computer. I glide the mouse over the sleek black surface and click open my e-mail.

“Nothing from Ursula,” I think out loud.

This is getting weird. She usually sends me some kind of message if she's going to be gone overnight. I've been living with the woman for four years, and I still have no idea where she goes or what she does when she disappears for days at a time. At first I was too nervous to ask. The woman saved me from the streets and gave me a purpose. I wasn't about to piss her off by questioning her movements. Now I accept her random hours as normal and keep up my half of the don't ask, don't tell policy.

How many other sixteen-year-olds have free range of an awesome loft and a Mustang and no curfew? I know how lucky I am. Fighting beasties and keeping my questions about her whereabouts to myself are prices I'm more than willing to pay.

But when I last saw her a few days ago—has it been a week already?—she promised it was finally time to answer some of the lingering questions about my Medusa heritage and my huntress legacy. I would finally find out the full deal about being the latest descendant of the mortal Gorgon, instead of just knowing the piecemeal story she's fed me over the years.

Ursula has been scarce ever since.

Four years' worth of patience is running out, and she goes and vanishes. I'd say it wasn't fair, but whoever said life was supposed to be? I didn't ask for awful, selfish parents who liked to hit me when the drink and drugs ran out any more than I asked to be responsible for keeping the human world safe from monsters. You can't change destiny.

Composing a new message to Ursula, I type up my report as fast as possible. I still have school in the morning and about an hour of homework left to do.

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hunt Report #0427

Target: Minotaur, male

Discovery: Scent of
wretched puke
sour hay and bile while sniff-testing the air from the balcony window.

Location: Chinatown, all-night dim sum restaurant, back room

Result: Discovered the subject on the verge of attacking human couple on
sappy
romantic date. Used eye hypnosis to keep human couple focused on
sappy
romantic date. Had little trouble engaging and neutralizing minotaur given his massive head and lack of coordination. Entire incident over in less than five minutes.

Sightings: None

Unit: Gretchen Sharpe

 

I'm not sure why Ursula makes me fill out my name in the report. It's not like there are other descendants of Medusa to do this dirty work. I'm not even sure why she makes me write up the reports at all. Who cares about how I took down a Cabeirian horse in the frozen foods aisle or a cyon chryseus at the base of Coit Tower?

From what little Ursula has told me, San Francisco is the only vortex for monster activity. She and I are pretty much the front, back, and only line of defense. And although she can see them, she can't fight them like she used to. She's cagey about her age, but she has to be sixty at least. Not spry enough to wrestle a siren on a rampage. That's partly why she's training me.

That's not the only reason though. One day, a few months ago, I overheard part of a hushed phone conversation. I wouldn't normally eavesdrop, but I heard my name and was curious. But the only other words I could make out were “Zeus must be behind this, cousin” and something about not trusting Athena.

Clearly, something bigger than me is going on.

That's when I started asking questions again. Ursula kept putting me off, telling me it wasn't time yet. And now that it's time, she's nowhere to be found.

I take a frustrated breath and force it out. There's nothing I can do about it right now. I'll keep on with business as usual until Ursula gets back. Then I'll pin her down for the promised answers.

The only other messages in my inbox are spam. I trash it all, shut down the computer, and head for bed. Schooltime will be here too soon, and I can't exactly be late for the second day. That would draw way more attention than I need. A girl's got to stay below the radar if she wants to keep slaying monsters in her free time.

In the dream, I'm asleep at my desk in biology. The sheep of Euclid High School—pretty much the entire student body—are the actual, wool-covered, bleating variety. And the teacher lecturing at the front of the class has a forked tongue. Well, three actually. One for each head.

“Misssss Ssssarpe,” she says, first with one mouth, then echoing with the other two, trying to rouse me. “Misssss Ssssarpe!”

I try to ignore the three-headed, serpent-tongued teacher, burying my head in the crook of my arm to block out the fluorescent light.

“Miss Sharpe!”

I jerk up at the sound of Mrs. Knightly's shout. “Yes?”

She frowns at me from the front of the classroom. The sheep—back to their regular, trend-obsessed, mindless human selves—all stare and snicker at me. I casually swipe my hand across my mouth, in case I'm having a drool moment. All clear.

“First warning,” Mrs. Knightly says before turning back to her notes about photosynthesis on the board.

It's just bad luck that I have biology first thing in the morning. I actually like the subject—and Mrs. Knightly too, not that I'd ever admit it to the ballbuster—but with my nocturnal schedule, I'm usually barely awake for first period. It's still early enough in the semester that she's giving me warnings. She's even given me a slide on the homework I forgot to do last night. If past experience is anything to go by, though, her leniency will last about two weeks. After that, it'll be straight to the office for every little offense, which is the last thing I need.

Keeping my record clear and uninteresting to school counselors, administrators, and welfare officers is mission critical. The last thing Ursula and I need is someone with a government badge and a sudden interest in my guardianship. It's not like our situation is easy to explain.

When Ursula found me, I was on the short path to nowhere, living in a warehouse, stealing candy bars and energy drinks to survive. I can still picture the moment she appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, inside my makeshift home. The scent of lemongrass hit me first, sweet and tangy against the dust- and rotting garbage-filled environment. Then she was there.

I scrambled to my feet, grabbing the broken bottle that was my only defense against intruders.

“You have no need of that weapon with me,” she said, stepping forward. Her long, shimmery gray dress rippled around her. “I am here to help you.”

“Don't need no help,” I snapped.

Her soft eyes smiled. “I am sure you do not.” Another step forward. “But I hope you will accept it all the same.”

“No thanks.” I flung the bottle at her, skewing my aim so it missed by a mile. I turned to run.

Before I took a step she was in front of me, blocking my path.

“How'd you do that?”

“Don't you want to know about your destiny?” she asked, ignoring my question. “The one the oracle told you about.”

I jerked back. How could this stranger know about the fortune-teller I'd visited a few weeks ago, the one whose reading had prompted me to run away from home once and for all? The one who had promised me a greater destiny than I could even imagine.

“How do you know about that?” I demanded.

“Come,” she said, turning and walking away. “I shall explain over a nice hot meal. I find myself quite famished.”

Four years later, I'm amazed she didn't run screaming from the filthy, tattered girl who tried to attack her with a broken bottle. Instead, she took me in, told me about my destiny, and trained me to fulfill it. There's nothing on the books about our arrangement, and nothing about it that would pass a Child Welfare Services sniff test.

As long as I keep my nose clean at school, we can go on as we are. That suits me fine. But one red flag in the wrong file and I'll be in the foster care system before you can say “unfit guardian.” Or, worse, back with Phil and Barb. No thank you. Twelve years with them was enough to last a lifetime.

I pull myself up in my desk, straightening my spine to improve blood flow to my brain. Rubbing the backs of my hands against my eyes, I allow myself one last yawn before focusing my attention on the lecture.

I grab a pen out of the pocket of my cargo pants, click the top, and start to write the date in the corner of my blank sheet of paper.

The classroom door creaks open as I underline the date for the third time. I continue my doodling, covering the left margin of my page with diagonal stripes. I assume the visitor is an office aide come to request the presence of someone less adept than me at keeping below the radar.

The hush that falls across the room is my first clue.

Usually, an interruption by an office aide means an excuse for the sheep to start talking. They snatch the opportunity to trash-talk each other or trade juicy stories while the teacher is distracted. That they've fallen into silence means this isn't an ordinary office aide visit.

I glance up.

“Class, this is Nick,” Mrs. Knightly explains, gesturing at the boy standing next to her desk. “He's new at Euclid. Please welcome him.”

The sheep erupt into chatter, instant gossip about the new boy. He looks fairly ordinary: on the tall side; short, wavy blond hair; dark, unreadable eyes; features that look carved from stone—okay, not so ordinary. But not so exceptional among the male half of the herd.

I go back to my doodling.

Mrs. Knightly looks out over the classroom before telling Nick, “You can take the seat behind Gretchen.”

That regains my attention.

Nick's dark gaze follows the direction she's indicating and stops when he sees me. Maybe I'm imagining things, but I think the corner of his mouth lifts up into the tiniest fraction of a smile.

As he makes his way down the aisle, I pretend not to notice—or care—keeping my attention on my paper when in reality it's killing me not to sneak a glance to see what color those dark eyes actually are.

Nick swings into the desk behind me, and I force myself to relax. I've never gotten this tight and twisted over a boy at first glance. He hasn't even said a word to me yet.

“Gretchen, huh?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Can I borrow a sheet of paper?”

“Um, sure.” I reach down into my bag, pull one out, and hand it back to him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Our fingertips brush as he takes the paper, and I suppress a little shiver. He leans closer, so close I feel his warm breath as he asks, “How about a pen?”

“What?” I blurt. “Forget you were coming to school today?”

“Something like that.”

“Problem, Miss Sharpe?” Mrs. Knightly asks.

I shake my head and sink into my chair. Intent on not causing further distraction, I grab another pen out of my cargo pocket and drop it over my shoulder onto Nick's desk.

“Thanks again,” he says.

I sense him leaning back into his chair, away from me. But I swear I can feel the skin on the back of my neck tingling the whole period.

“Aargh!”
I end the call and punch instant redial on my phone. I listen as the phone rings several times before Ursula's voice mail picks up. Ursula's
full
voice mail. I hang up again. I've been trying between classes all morning, with no success. “Where is she?”

“No answer?”

To my credit, I don't scream or jump or even swing a punch at the sound of his voice. I have every right. Not only has he found me in my favorite hiding spot—a vending machine alcove around the corner from the cafeteria, left empty since the school decided to remove all junk food from campus—but he is also the reason for my desperate call to Ursula. The way he kept leaning forward to ask me questions all through biology, each time a little closer than before. The way his fingers tickled across my palm when he gave me back my pen. The way he managed to cross my path between all my classes since. Something's not right about his presence, I feel it, and Ursula might know what to do. If only I could reach her.

Deep breath, Gretch. You can handle this.

Quickly pocketing my phone, I turn to face Nick.

Big mistake.

I'm not usually a sucker for a pretty face, but this one . . . Well, let's just say he's a little too handsome for my own good, especially now that I can tell his eyes are a midnight shade of blue, the exact color of the water beneath my balcony on a moonlit night. An image fills my head, of the two of us standing together, looking out over the inky bay. In the image, I lean against his side and he wraps a strong arm around my shoulders. The idea is more tempting than it should be.

Where did that come from?

“Who were you calling?” he asks innocently. “Boyfriend?”

I almost snort. My life is beyond too complicated for boy interest, even in boys with midnight-blue eyes. I need to snip this before it goes anywhere, even in my own head.

Throwing on my best huntress glare, I snarl, “What's it to you?”

Without waiting for a response, I stomp away toward the cafeteria. That should scare him away nicely. Only an idiot would want an angry, aggressive girl who makes it clear that she's not interested.