Sweet Venom

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.