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 w
e 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.
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.
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