Sweet Venom (4 page)

What I need right now is a trayful of carbs to get my energy up. All the recent late-night hunts are catching up with me. Too bad the school removed all the vending machines, because a caffeine-and-sugar-filled energy drink would sure come in handy right about—

“I thought cell phones were off limits at school.”

Nick falls into step beside me.

Are you kidding me? What kind of guy follows a girl after the face-flat rejection I just served him? He should be running away to the nearest cheerleader for consolation. With a face like his, he'd have no problem scoring the queen bee.

Not exactly sure how to react to his pursuit, I say, “They are.”

“I get it,” he says with a gut-tugging laugh. “You're
that
kind of girl.”

Stopping in my tracks, I know I shouldn't rise to the bait. But I can't help demanding, “
What
kind of girl?”

He steps ahead of me, pushes open the door to the cafeteria, and nods me inside. I move forward because I'm hungry, not because he's holding the door like a real gentleman. I could care less if he's got manners.

As I pass by, he whispers, “The kind who ignores the rules.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up at that display of arrogance. Easy as that, he thinks he can read me. Thinks he can put me in a little box as a certain type of girl. Well, guess what: He has no idea.
No
idea.

Stopping and spinning so fast he almost runs into me, I say, “I don't ignore
all
the rules. Only the ridiculous ones.” Then, as a smiles starts to spread across his face, I add, “But I
do
ignore all the boys who think they can figure me out in under five seconds.”

As I turn and blend into the crowded lunchroom, I think I hear him say, “Oh, it's been more than five seconds.”

The boy is obviously a wackadoo. It's not that boys haven't hit on me before. I'm no beauty queen, but I'm no hideous harpy, either. Freshman year, I almost went out on a date with a boy from my English class who played basketball. Right before our date, a Cyclops popped into town and I had to bail at the last minute. Thus ended my dating life. That night I realized how impossible a relationship would be for a girl who hunts monsters. I've been doing my best to drive the boys—everyone, really—away ever since.

Besides, it's not that hard when you wear combat boots, fall asleep in class, and make yourself scarce as much as possible.

That makes Nick a bit of an enigma. He came back for more, even after my straight-up attempts to scare him away. I shove aside the tiny part of me that wishes he'll come back for more again. I don't wish that. I want him to stay beyond arm's length.

Really
, I think.

“Really,” I repeat out loud.

I grab a tray and get in the line for the pasta station. Hunting always leaves me starving the next day, and a nice heaping plate of pasta with extra meat sauce is just what I need. Forgetting Nick, I focus on filling my tray. I toss on a fruit salad, a couple of chocolate puddings—every little bit of caffeine helps—and a glass of apple juice before heading to the checkout. As I hand the cashier a five, I sense a presence at my side.

“That's quite a meal,” he teases.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see his tray, with practically identical choices, right down to the double pudding.

This guy can't take a hint.

I suppress the little thrill at knowing he hasn't given up. I need him to give up, even if a part of me doesn't want him to.

I pocket my change and head out into the sea of tables, away from Nick, beelining for my regular table in the farthest corner. The outcast table. On any given day there are between six and ten of us who chow together because we have nowhere else to eat. We don't usually talk, but it kind of alleviates the stress of having to squeeze in at a pre-established table.

I slam my tray on the speckled gray surface, taking the spot between the witch and the manga boy. I'm sure they have names—I just don't know them.

If I thought squeezing in between two other outcasts would keep Nick from following, I was wrong. He walks around to the other side of the table and takes the seat facing mine. He doesn't look at all fazed to be sitting next to the gamer boy whose console never leaves his hands.

In fact, he's smiling.

Clenching my jaw, I focus my attention on my food and ignore Nick.

I'm just forking a giant bite of pasta into my mouth when he says, “You're not exactly the welcoming committee, are you?”

Manga boy and the gamer are oblivious, but I can sense the witch's attention on us. Boys like Nick don't usually hang at the outcast table. They never hit on the outcast girl.

I chew quietly, keeping my eyes on my tray.

When I don't respond, Nick shrugs and then digs into his own plate of pasta. Guess he finally got it.

I suck down an entire pudding, trying to pretend I'm not disappointed that he's giving up. It's not like I want him to pursue me. I
can't
want him to pursue me. My own ego liked the attention, I suppose, the interest in me as nothing more than an average girl.

Don't be dumb
, I tell myself.
You're not average. You don't get the normal life with the bff and the boy. You're destined for more than that. And your destiny is a solo adventure.

Still, I allow myself a brief moment of sadness when I stand to take my empty tray to the dish line and Nick doesn't move. Doesn't even react. And like that,
poof
, I'm forgotten.

“You're being ridiculous,” I mutter quietly. I drop my tray and dishes into one of the big tubs. “You want him to forget you.”

I turn, eager to get out of the cafeteria, away from Nick and my irrational feelings. Only to walk smack into his chest.

“Careful there,” he says in a charmingly—I mean, annoyingly—teasing way. His hands come up to steady me, wrapping around my upper arms. “Look both ways before crossing the cafeteria.”

The two spots where his hands hold me burn with a warmth I'm not used to. I don't get much human contact. Monster contact, hell yeah. I've had enough monster contact in the last four years to fill a century. But actual direct contact with a human being? Not so much.

Ursula's less the touchy-feely type and more the this-is-how-you-handle-nunchucks-so-you-don't-knock-yourself-unconscious type. Maternal and cuddly she is not.

So it's no wonder that I kind of want to lean into Nick and get even more contact. I want more of that warm feeling that's spreading from my arms up to my shoulders and down through the rest of my body.

“I—”

Maybe it's the way his eyes soften as I start to speak. Or the way his head tilts a little to the side. Or the way his hands tighten a tiny bit. Whatever sets me off, in an instant I jump back out of his grasp, shaking my head to lose the spell his touch put on me.

I hear Ursula's voice in my head, reminding me that I'm a huntress. I have responsibilities that the human world cannot even begin to comprehend. I can't afford moments of weakness.

And right then, with Nick's hands on my arms, I felt a whole world of weakness.

With some distance between us, my thoughts clear.

Nick has no trouble reading the scowl on my face. “Whoa,” he says, throwing both hands up in surrender. “Just trying to keep you off the floor.”

“Look,” I say, stepping forward into his personal space, jabbing a finger to his chest for emphasis. “I don't do friends.”

I give him a quick shove, with more strength than I should but not enough to send him flying across the room. The more space I put between us, the less effect he has on me. I'd put a continent between us if I could.

As I storm out of the cafeteria, I hear him shout, “You think we're friends? That's a start.”

Stupid boy. Can't take a hint. Can't take a megaphone blast to the ear, either. I made it completely clear that I want nothing to do with him.

Which doesn't explain why, when I slip into my seat in fourth period, I'm fighting a grin at our parting exchange.

“R
ight click on the download link. Choose Save As,” Miss Mota says, “and save the file to your desktop.”

The trial version of Web Code Wizard is downloading to my station in the computer lab before she finishes her instructions. I'm excited that our first unit is on web programming. Most of my coding experience is with software, not internet design. This will be a fun chance to play around with something new, even if I have to go at the slower pace of my less geekified classmates. I can find ways to fill my time.

While Miss Mota helps a boy who has somehow gotten into a never-ending cycle of pop-up ads, I create a hot key to clear the desktop in a single keystroke—in case Miss Mota comes by to check on my progress—and then open a new browser window.

Since last night I've been trying hard not to think about what happened in the dim sum restaurant. When Thane and I got home, I took a steaming shower to wash away the stink, then collapsed into bed. This morning I missed my alarm and had to rush to get ready in time. Every time the thought popped into my mind, I slammed the mental door in its face. Until now, my brain's been pretty good at blocking out the memory, but while I'm waiting for my classmates to catch up . . . it's starting to wander.

The image of that creature walking into the restaurant burns in my mind. The nausea returns.

I need a shiny new distraction.

I have every intention of finding a bad-thought-erasing game to play. Or maybe a tech-obsessed gadget blog to read. Instead, my subconscious takes over and I find myself typing
man
and
bull
into the search engine box at the top of the screen.

Anxiety washes over me. My palms start to sweat and my heart shudders as I wait for the results to appear.

I almost close out the browser, not ready to face whatever answers show up in this list.

“No,” I whisper to myself. “I have to face this sometime. If I'm going crazy, it's better to find out now.”

I reluctantly scan the screen. The results are all about some comic-book character, so I refine my search to say
man with the head of a bull
.

The first link is a Wikipedia article about the Minotaur.

As the article loads, an image shows up on the right side of the screen. It's an ancient Greek statue of a man's body with the head of a bull. His arms and horns are kind of broken off, showing the wear and tear of the statue's age, but it's still crystal clear what the sculptor was trying to convey.

“No way,” I mutter.

It looks exactly like the creature I saw in the dim sum place last night.

There are a few differences, of course. In real life, the bull head was much bigger and much more slobbery. And way scarier.

A quick scan down the page refreshes my junior high mythology lessons. Minotaur, a hideous, murderous monster that King Minos plopped in the middle of his crazy labyrinth so it would eat anyone who ventured inside. All the details match up to my imaginary creature sighting.

“This can't be.”

“Everything going all right, Grace?” Miss Mota asks.

Without thinking, I quickly punch the hot key. My browser—along with the Minotaur article—disappears. I restore the download window, and then spin around.

“Yes, I—” I resist the urge to check over my shoulder to make sure the Minotaur is gone. “Fine.”

Did she see what I was reading? Maybe I didn't clear the screen fast enough. What if she saw that I was off task?
Don't panic,
I tell myself. Even if she did, I could pass it off as research for English class. According to our syllabus, our second unit will be about mythology. If Miss Mota asks, I can just say I'm trying to get ahead.

She pulls up a plastic chair and sits next to me. “I know you are more advanced than the other students in this class,” she whispers conspiratorially. “But I think you will find the work interesting. We can always arrange independent projects if you aren't feeling challenged enough.”

“Okay,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief that she didn't notice the Minotaur. “I'm sure it will be great.”

“You know,” she says, eyes wide and a big smile on her face, “when Ms. West first showed me your application, I nearly cried.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “Why?”

“Because I've never had a student with your level of experience and interest in computer science.” She claps her hands together excitedly. “I absolutely insisted they give you a full ride.”

“Really?” Ms. West made it sound like
she
was the one to get me my scholarship.

“Well . . .” Miss Mota kind of rolls her eyes. “Okay, so I begged. But still! You're here and I'm going to make sure you get some valuable training in this class.”

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “That's great.”

“And”—she leans in close again—“I have a great connection in the computer science program at Stanford.” She pushes to her feet. “But we can talk about all that next year, when you're applying for college.”

Wow, first day of class and she's already working on getting me into a good college computer science program. I'm impressed.

“Okay, class,” Miss Mota announces to the room, “now double click on the downloaded file to begin the installation. A window will pop up, asking you to confirm that you want to run the file. Click Yes.”

Before she's done, I've started the installation, clicked through all the security questions and acceptance of terms, and have the program open to a new web document.

I hope Miss Mota comes through on her promise to give me challenging work soon. Otherwise I'm going to start hoping for a minotaur to walk through this door.

By the time Thane gets home from soccer tryouts that afternoon, I'm done with my second day of school homework. Not that I'm usually the do-your-homework-immediately kind of girl—more like the do-your-homework-at-the-last-minute kind—but the possibility that Milo might come home with my brother again is enough to make sure I have nothing in the way of whatever comes up.

I've also traded out my standard schoolwear tee for a slightly girlier turquoise one with a ruffle along the neckline and some kind of drawstring thingies up the sides. I'm not exactly sure how to operate the drawstrings, so I leave them as is. My Chucks lose out to a pair of dark purple flats that I usually save for weddings and birthday parties. And, for the finishing touch, I pull out my ponytail and swipe a glob of tinted lip gloss over my mouth.

All very out of the norm for jeans-and-tee me. I'm just collapsing into a trying-to-be-casual heap on the couch when I hear a key in the lock. I quickly flip open the fashion magazine I borrowed from Mom to use as a prop. Thane, who walks through the front door disappointingly alone, takes one look at me and gives me a silent, raised brow.

“What?” I demand, more irritated that I've obviously girlied up for nothing than by his questioning look.

He shrugs and shakes his head, giving me a silent
I didn't say anything.

Thane has such an expressive face, he always manages to say more without words than most people do with an entire monologue. And after all these years I can interpret his expressions so easily, I might as well be reading his mind. He drops his bag next to the front door and starts down the hall to his room.

I want to throw something at his retreating back. Mom's magazine could do the job. At the last moment I decide to fight the urge. Obviously I can't
ask
Thane about Milo without completely revealing my crush on his new friend. He doesn't say much and I know he wouldn't break my confidence, but I don't want him feeling weird or awkward around Milo. Thane needs new friends as much as I do. I know he's taking the move pretty hard, even if he doesn't say anything.

He didn't want to leave Orangevale. Not that I can blame him—nobody wants to move their senior year. Thane's becoming friends with Milo can only be a really good thing. And I'm not just saying that for selfish reasons.

Well, if Milo's not coming by, there's no point in hanging out in my uncomfortable girlywear. The flats are already pinching my toes.

Pushing myself off the couch, I swing through the kitchen and grab an oatmeal-raisin cookie and a glass of pineapple Fanta. On second thought, I grab another cookie. I'm going to need it. I'm friendless in a new city and my only prospect for Friday-night entertainment is a no-show.

Heading to my bedroom, down the hall from Thane's closed door, I realize that the anticipation of seeing Milo tonight had been keeping my mind occupied. Now, alone in my room with the door closed against the outside world, there's nothing to keep away thoughts about last night and what I discovered in Computer Science earlier.

Shoving a bite of fortifying cookie into my mouth, I step out of my uncomfortable flats and kick them into my closet.

“Time to be rational,” I tell myself.

But with my mouth full of cookie, it sounds more like, “Mime moo mee mwathonal.”

I force myself to do a quick mental recap. First, I smelled and then saw a man with the head of a bull in a dim sum restaurant last night. Then, this afternoon, I discovered he was a minotaur, identical to a statue dating to ancient Greece. What does that mean?

I swallow the cardboard that was once my cookie and try to reason with myself.

“Let's consider the logical options here,” I say, flinging myself back onto my bed to stare at the too-white ceiling. I miss the rain forest canopy Mom painted when I was in third grade. This could be anyone's ceiling. “Option one, maybe it was a really elaborate Halloween costume.”

Given that Halloween is almost two months away, a pretty unlikely scenario. Although this is San Francisco, and I've heard some wild stories. Still, every detail, down to the matted fur, the thick drool, and the repulsive smell, was too real to be fake.

“Option two, maybe I'm insane.”

I don't feel crazy. Then again, don't they always say that the crazy people are the ones who think they're sane? But no one has ever commented on me being delusional or anything. Someone should have noticed if I was a raving lunatic.

Since I don't know who my birth parents are, I can't exactly check for a family history of madness. Still, if there was anything, wouldn't Mom have mentioned it? I know she has some documents she's saving until I turn eighteen. Maybe I should ask now.

“There's still option three,” I tell myself, shaking my head against the idea even as I allow myself to say the words out loud. “Maybe I saw an actual, real-life minotaur in the middle of Chinatown last night.”

If the fact that I'm even considering that possibility isn't a sign of complete and total lunacy, I don't know what is. When you look at the facts side by side, though—me having no history of craziness, the nauseating smell burned into my brain, and the identical image on the Wikipedia page— it almost seems . . . plausible.

Anxious, I jump off the bed and start pacing.

I must really be going off the deep end. Am I actually considering this possibility? Maybe I should ask Mom to take me to a shrink. Or I could talk to Ms. West—she did say we could talk about anything, and there's probably some kind of student-counselor confidentiality rule, right? So word of my craziness wouldn't get around.

That would mean I'd have to wait until Monday morning, though. Who knows what kind of state my brain might be in by th—

Knock, knock, knock.

I jump and spin to face my door, my heart pounding violently up into my throat. It's not until I try to yell at Thane for the intrusion that I realize my hand is clamped over my mouth to stop a scream. I drop my hand. Clearly, I really am losing it.

Grateful for the distraction, even if I am annoyed at Thane, I yank open the door and blurt, “What?”

“Hey Grace,” Milo says.

I gasp at the sight of him filling my doorway.

It's a miracle I don't collapse into a puddle on the floor. Or slam the door in his face. Or both.

“H-hi,” I manage.

“Thane and I are going to Synergy,” he says, gesturing at my brother, skulking against his own bedroom door a few feet away. “Wanna come?”

“Syner-what?”

“Synergy,” he repeats. “It's an all-ages club. Pretty lame most of the year, but first weekend of school is always hot.”

“A club,” I echo.

Loud music, flashing lights, and stifling crowds of people trying to forget their daytime lives. Exactly what I need to get my mind off the fact that I'm probably crazy. With any luck I can hold the insanity at bay until Monday morning, until I can talk with Ms. West.

“Definitely.” I take a deep breath. “Just let me get a sweater.”

Milo smiles. Yep, I think I can keep it together for a weekend.

Synergy is not like any of the all-ages clubs in Orangevale. Okay, so there
weren't
any all-ages clubs in Orangevale, but I always imagined they would be like a school dance with fancier lights.

This is a far cry from any school dance I've ever been too.

There's a big, scary bouncer at the door who made us show our school IDs to get in. Which doesn't make any sense, because it's an
all-ages
club, but whatever. Inside, everything is black. The walls, the curtains, the ceiling, the floor. And judging from what the bouncer, the cashier, and the coat check girl we passed on the way in are wearing, the club uniform is pretty much all black too.

After walking through a short corridor, we emerge into the main room.

It's a total crush of people, like pictures of Times Square on New Year's. Teens of all ages—and a few creepy older folks—are filling most of the room and the raised stage that runs the length of one wall.

“Wild, right?” Milo shouts in my ear.

I just nod. He won't hear me above the blaring music anyway, and I'm hyperventilating a little at how close his mouth came to my ear.