Sweet Venom mg-1 Read online

  “Am I ready to go?” I ask to buy time.

  “It’s not a trick question.”

  Cover story, Grace. Come on, you’re a smart girl. You can do this. “Um, I—er, ran into a new friend.”

  “New friend?”

  “From school.” For the first time, I’m really thankful Thane and I are not at the same school. Otherwise he’d know I haven’t met a single person I could call a friend. “Yeah, she lives nearby and invited me over to watch movies.”

  “You left?”

  The heavy silence after his question tells me he’s angry. Rightfully so, since I bailed without telling him and can’t exactly share the real reason.

  “Sorry,” I say, glancing up at the rusty door. I don’t have time to deal with Thane right now. Not when I have a mysterious, monster-fighting twin upstairs who has answers to my burning questions. “I should have told you first.”

  “Grace—”

  “Look, I gotta go,” I said, partly because I don’t want to risk answering any more questions, but also because my curiosity is killing me. I need to know what’s up with the monsters and why no one else can see them and who the lookalike girl is and a million other things. Thane will be waiting at home. I can only find my answers upstairs. “I’ll call home to let them know what’s up.”

  I hang up before he can argue.

  I allow myself a few seconds of rest against the railing before gathering the courage to call Mom. Before gathering the courage to lie to Mom. In the end, the call isn’t as stressful as I feared. I give her the story about running into a friend and going over to watch movies. After assuring her that my friend’s parents would bring me home before midnight, she lets me go without an interrogation. She’s probably thrilled to think I’ve made a friend.

  “Little does she know,” I whisper, pocketing my phone and following my double up the stairs.

  As I push open the squeaky door, I’m shocked to step into an entirely modern space. All the surfaces are gleaming black and white, polished metal, and shiny glass. The complete opposite of the dull beige exterior and the rusty metal garage area.

  “Wow,” I can’t help but say to the expansive room.

  It’s such a huge, open space. I sweep my gaze around the room, taking everything in. Directly in front of the door is what looks like a living room, with black leather sofas and armchairs around a metal-and-glass coffee table. Along the right wall is a trio of doors, maybe bedrooms and a bathroom, on either side of a flat panel TV the size of my bed. Across the living room is a glassed-in space lined with full bookshelves and with a giant conference table surrounded by chairs in the center and a computer workstation along one wall.

  To my left is another door next to a black granite and stainless-steel kitchen and an equally sleek dining room.

  Despite all the slick and shiny covering every surface, the thing that enthralls me is the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with sliding glass doors and a balcony beyond. Both the dining room and the library have unobstructed, picture-perfect views.

  I make my way past the kitchen toward the balcony. I slide open the doors and step out into the chill air. The view of the Bay and the houses, boats, and other lights twinkling all around is breathtaking. I’m so caught up by the sights before me that I don’t hear my double walk up behind me.

  “What’s your name?” she demands.

  My heart jump-starts and I whirl around with a gasp, clutching my palm to my chest. “Omigosh, you scared me.”

  She lifts her brows.

  She’s pulled off the long-sleeved black tee she was wearing at the club and is now in a black tank top. One leg of her cargo pants is rolled up to the knee, and her ankle is wrapped in white gauze. She’s dabbing at the back of her neck with a cotton pad soaked in a blue liquid that smells like mouthwash.

  “Grace,” I say, leaning back against the railing. “My name is Grace.”

  “Grace what?”

  “Whitfield,” I answer. “What’s your name?”

  She turns away, walking back inside. I follow her through the living room and into a brightly lit bathroom, a little annoyed that she ignored my question. Twisted around with her back to the mirror, she’s trying to secure a second gauze bandage to the back of her neck.

  “Here,” I offer. “Let me help.”

  She gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t argue when I brush her hand aside and hold the bandage to her wound. As I tear off a piece of first aid tape, she mumbles, “Gretchen.”

  “Gretchen?” I echo, securing a second piece of tape.

  “Sharpe,” she says, almost reluctantly.

  I release the bandage, and it seems like it’s going to stay in place. I step back and around to face Gretchen. With a smile, I say, “All patched up.”

  She mutters a quiet “Thanks,” and then turns to put away the first aid supplies.

  I would offer to help, but I have a feeling she’s not interested.

  “So, Gretchen,” I say instead. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  She closes up the first aid box, slides it under the sink, and then leans back against the counter. It’s hard not to squirm as she scrutinizes me with eyes the same silvery gray as my own.

  “That depends,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “How much do you know?”

  I laugh. A big giant guffaw just bursts out, I can’t help it. It’s a slightly hysterical reaction to an extremely ridiculous question. “How much do I know?” I ask, still laughing. “I know that yesterday I started seeing monsters from Greek mythology come to life, and you look like my twin.”

  She looks at me, like she’s waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, she asks, “That’s all?”

  “To the syllable.”

  “And before yesterday you never saw a monster?” She uncrosses her arms and tucks her hands into the back pockets of her black cargo pants.

  “Not once.”

  “What happened yesterday?” she asks.

  “I told you,” I say, getting a little frustrated that she’s doing all of the asking and none of the answering. “I saw the minotaur in the dim sum parlor. And then I—”

  “No, before that.” She shifts her weight to the other foot. “What was different about yesterday? What’s changed in your life recently?”

  Well, there’s only been one really big change.

  “We moved to San Francisco,” I say, using up the last of my patience. “Yesterday was my first day at the new school.”

  “That explains it,” Gretchen says, as if now everything should be clear. “Monsters don’t get far from the city.”

  Without another word she walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there like an idiot, facing my own reflection. That explains it? That doesn’t explain anything.

  “Grrr,” I growl at the mirror.

  I let myself get kidnapped by a stranger and then lied to my family about it. I at least deserve some answers in exchange. Obviously, she’s not going to give them to me. I have to go after them.

  I stomp out of the bathroom.

  “Look,” I say, finding her in the kitchen. “I want to know what’s going on. You obviously know a lot more than I do.”

  “It would be hard not to,” Gretchen says, pulling an energy drink out of the giant silver fridge. “Want one?”

  “No. I want answers.”

  “Fine,” she says with a sigh. She pulls the tab on the energy drink and throws back half the can before continuing. “Here’s what I know. I’m a descendant of the Gorgon Medusa, and—”

  “Medusa?” I gasp. I don’t have to think hard to remember that character from mythology. “The snake-haired monster who turned people to stone with her eyes?”

  “Same one.” She finishes off her energy drink and tosses the can into a recycling bin. “That’s not the real story, though.”

  She acts like that’s the end of it, like that’s all the info I’m going to get. I jab my hands onto my hips and give her my best scowl.

 
; Finally, she sighs and says, “Medusa was a guardian, not a monster. Along with her two immortal sisters, she kept monsters from terrorizing the human world.”

  My arms drop. The human world. The earth tilts a little beneath my feet. Why do I feel like, from this moment on, that’s going to have a slightly different meaning?

  “And the eyes-to-stone thing?” I force the question out around my shock.

  “Pure myth.” Gretchen starts to rub her neck and then winces with pain. “Her eyes had the power to hypnotize—temporarily. Totally harmless.”

  “Wow, that’s—”

  If it weren’t for everything I’ve seen in the last twenty-four hours, I would think she’s lying. I shake my head, realizing that everything I thought I knew—about myth, about Medusa, about whether monsters might really exist—is wrong.

  “How—” I begin again. I have to swallow before I can finish. “How did that happen?” I ask. “How did the real story get so twisted?”

  “Ursula, my mentor, says it began with Athena’s jealousy.” Gretchen shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “She thought Medusa seduced Poseidon, and she wanted revenge.”

  More mythology lessons resurface. “That’s why she helped Perseus kill Medusa, right?”

  Gretchen nods, and I feel a little surge of pride.

  “Ever since her assassination it’s been up to her descendants to keep the monster population in check,” she explains. “Something I’ve been doing for the past four years.”

  Four years? That’s a long time, a quarter of my life. I wonder if it’s been a quarter of her life too. As much as I might want to believe she’s my long-lost sister, just because we look alike and see the same monsters doesn’t necessarily make it true.

  But I have to ask.

  “And do you think . . . ?” I can’t bring myself to finish the question.

  In truth, I’m not sure what I want the answer to be. There are pros and cons either way. If it’s yes, then I’m some kind of mythological monster hunter, destined to fight the disgusting creatures I’ve been seeing for two days. If it’s no, then Gretchen isn’t my twin and that empty spot in my heart stays wretchedly empty.

  “That you’re one too?” she finishes for me. “I guess it’s possible.”

  As I look at the girl who might be my sister, I realize the cons don’t matter. Blood matters. Family matters.

  “I’m adopted,” I blurt, suddenly wanting everything to be true. Needing it to be true, needing Gretchen to be my real flesh and blood, even knowing what that means. As much as I love Mom and Dad and Thane, we don’t share any genes. It’s not the same. “I don’t know anything about my birth parents.”

  Gretchen hesitates, freezing like a statue. I try to tune in, to sense some kind of twin connection. But she’s like a brick wall. Finally, after a long exhale, she says, “I was adopted too.”

  There’s something in her tone, in her use of the past tense about her adoption, that makes me think that she wasn’t quite as lucky as I have been. I wouldn’t trade my mom and dad for anyone. I know things could be so much worse, that other kids wind up in awful homes all the time.

  My heart goes out to her.

  “Are you sixteen?” I ask, knowing this is the only way to be anything close to certain right now. It’s a very Parent Trap moment, only without the summer camp and the prank war. When she nods, I say, “My birthday is July thirtieth.”

  I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping.

  It feels like a lifetime before she says, “Mine too.”

  My mind reels. Literally reels. I’ve always wondered about my birth parents, imagining what they might look like or what kind of people they are. Where did I get my silver eyes and my crooked pinky fingers? I used to spend hours at the mirror, studying every little detail and wondering where it came from. The identity of my birth parents has never been something I desperately needed to know, though. Mom and Dad are my parents in every way that counts. Maybe by the time I turn eighteen and can get access to my records, I’ll be ready to investigate.

  But now, finding out that not only am I a descendant of some mythological guardian, but I also have a sister. A twin sister. It’s a little—

  “I think I need to sit down,” I say, feeling a little bit lightheaded.

  Gretchen pushes away from the counter. “Let’s go to the library. You can sit and I’ll try calling Ursula.” She leads the way into the room lined on three walls with books and binders. “There is some serious weird going on lately, and she might know why.”

  She yanks open the sliding glass balcony door, and I suck in a breath of salty night air as I drop into a chair at the conference table.

  “Weird how?” I ask.

  “Like three monsters showing up in one night.” She drops into the desk chair and spins around once.

  “That doesn’t usually happen?”

  “No,” Gretchen pulls out her phone and starts dialing. “There is supposed to be a one-beastie-per-night rule in place.”

  That’s a relief. Or it would be if it were still true.

  “What about during the day?” I want to ask as many questions as possible while she’s answering. Who knows how long this opportunity will last.

  “They don’t come out when the sun is up.” She dials the phone and holds it to her ear. “They’re nocturnal, I guess.”

  With Gretchen’s attention fully on her phone call, I turn mine to the room around me. I instantly forget the crazy news that just moments ago threatened to overwhelm me, the news that I have a sister and a heritage and, apparently, a destiny. Instead, I am hypnotized by row after row of books.

  I’m not really such a bookworm—my academic specialty veers more toward the digital—but I appreciate the amount of data and research contained in these volumes. It lures me out of the chair and toward the shelves.

  My fingers trail respectfully over their spines as I scan the titles. There’s an entire case of books on martial arts and fighting techniques. Another two full of books on mythology and ancient Greece. The rest are titles on a variety of minor subjects, like computers and technology and geology and cartography. What those have to do with monster fighting I’m not sure, but they must be useful.

  I’m a little gaga over all the books, but it’s the final case that captures my attention. Its shelves are full of white three-ring binders. Not so unusual, I suppose, but the spine labels promise something very unusual inside: MINOTAURS. HYDRAS. SERPENT HYBRIDS. CHIMERAS. LAELAPSES. UNIDENTIFIED SPECIES.

  With a quick glance at Gretchen, who has left her chair and is staring out over the Bay, I pull the one labeled MINOTAURS off the shelf and flip through. There are sections on history and myths, traits and characteristics, preferences, sociology, physiology, and battle tactics. There are myths and legends about the minotaurs. A table of reported sightings. A detailed anatomical drawing, with a big red circle around the back of the neck.

  “Come on, Ursula!”

  Gretchen’s boots squeak on the sparkly white tile as she starts pacing back and forth, dialing and redialing her phone. With no luck, judging from the curse that punctuates the end of each attempt. With a final curse, she throws the phone onto the table in the middle of the room.

  I slide the minotaur binder back into place. After a quick estimate, I conservatively calculate that there must be over two hundred binders. Two hundred different kinds of monsters, with valuable hunting information trapped inside the pages. The whole collection should really be digitized. Maybe even made into a smartphone app so Gretchen can get the info she needs anywhere, anytime. That could be a lifesaver sometime.

  “Where is Ursula?” Gretchen snaps. “It’s not like her to disappear for days at a time without letting me know.”

  She sounds really worried, and she doesn’t seem like the worrying sort.

  “How long has she been gone?” I ask.

  Gretchen spears me with a look, and I’m pretty sure she forgot I was here. Or maybe thinks I’m to blame for the weirdness going around and he
r missing mentor. I hope it’s the first, because I spotted what I thought was a knife handle sticking out of her boot when she carried me out of the club. I confirmed it when her pant leg was rolled up earlier. I bet she knows how to use it too.

  Finally, reluctantly, she says, “A few days. Maybe a week.”

  “Does she leave often?”

  “Yes,” Gretchen answers. “But she usually sends me an email or a text so I know she’s okay.”

  “She could be somewhere with no signal,” I suggest.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Gretchen agrees.

  I think she’s humoring me.

  For what feels like an hour Gretchen stares blankly at the table and I stare blankly at Gretchen. Like I’m staring in the mirror. I mean, it’s a little freaky. Our faces are identical. And even without an adoption record or a DNA test, I know without a doubt she’s my sister. My twin. I can feel it in the same way I feel Thane when he sneaks up behind me. I just know.

  “So . . . ,” I finally say to break the silence. “What do we do now?”

  “How should I know?” Gretchen barks.

  I jump back a little at her harsh tone.

  “Everything’s going sideways at the moment. Ursula’s missing, monsters are breaking the rules”—she spears me with a glance—“you show up in the middle of it all.”

  Even though I didn’t do anything but move to a new town, I feel a little guilty. Gretchen obviously thinks these changes might have something to do with me, and how do I know that they don’t?

  “I’m sorry, okay?” she says before I can apologize, still sounding agitated but a little more calm.

  I give her a little slack. “No problem,” I say. “You’re worried about your mentor. I understand.”

  It’s a lot to take in all at once. Multiple monsters, missing mentor, long-lost twin. No wonder she’s a little snappish.

  She runs a hand over her hair, swiping her bangs back across her braid.

  “Look, I think the best thing you can do,” she says, her tone final and far more mature than our sixteen years should have made her, “is to go back to your world. Forget about this one. Go back to your life. You’ll be safer there.”

  What? “I—”