Sweet Venom

The last thing I want is for them to decide we made a mistake and move us back to Orangevale. As much as I don’t like Miranda and wish I could either stand up to her or avoid her altogether, I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Gretchen. Now that I’ve found my sister, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her.

“Focus,” Gretchen shouts, moving somewhere behind me.

I can’t see anything through the scarf tied around my head as a makeshift blindfold. She taps a hand against the left side of my waist.

“That’s another kill,” she grumbles. “If you don’t learn to focus on your surroundings, you’ll never survive a night fight. Feline hybrids especially have excellent night vision.”

I clench my jaw and resist the urge to mention that we’re in a major metropolitan city. There are flashing signs and glowing streetlights everywhere. I’ll never face a monster in complete darkness. At this point, though, my comment will only earn me some push-ups, which Gretchen is oh-so-happy to demand.

I close my eyes behind the scarf. Pointless, I know, but somehow the physical act of dropping my eyelids tells my brain to switch to the other senses. I listen and feel and even smell—taste is proving to be the only sense that’s not exactly an asset in a fight. Actually, the thought of chomping down on a minotaur head or a scorpion tail seems like exactly the scenario in which I’d like my sense of taste to fail altogether. I know I’m going to have to bite one back to the abyss eventually, but I’m not really eager for the first time.

Shoving thoughts of monster bites from my mind, I pinpoint all my attention on Gretchen. She’s been silent, which means she’s been moving. No longer behind me.

I feel a gentle breeze on my right cheek. I tilt my head that way—

Just as Gretchen delivers a gentle punch to my stomach.

“Dead again,” she complains. “You don’t stand a chance in Hades of surviving a blind attack. You’re going to make a nice meal for a sphinx if you don’t focus.”

That was an awfully wordy taunt for Gretchen. During training, she usually rivals Thane in the silent-communication department. This must be a distraction technique. I squeeze my eyes harder and catch a whiff of her eucalyptus shampoo. A soft squeak behind me.

I drop to a squat, spinning as I go.

I hear Gretchen’s soft grunt as her punch connects with air, sending her arm swinging with unchecked momentum. While her center of gravity is thrown off, I reach out, wrap both hands around her waist, and flip onto my back, using my legs to send Gretchen flying over me as I roll.

“Oooft!” She hits the training mat with a nice thud.

I rip off my blindfold, jumping to my feet to survey my success. “Woohoo!” I shout, twisting around in a happy dance. “I did it!”

“Yeah,” Gretchen says, trying to sound all gruff and mean. I can tell she’s proud. “But only because I tried to telegraph my moves. I was getting tired of your failure.”

“Whatever,” I say. Not even Gretchen’s grumbling can dampen my success. “I totally did it.”

I extend my hand to help her up. Not that she needs it—I’ve seen her kick up from her back to a squat without using her hands. I’m surprised when she places her hand in mine and lets me pull her to her feet.

“It’s not much,” she says, reaching back to tug her tank into place, “but it’s something.”

I can’t help but beam. Gretchen’s not exactly free and easy with the compliments, so even this reluctant, minor one feels like a major success.

“What’s next?” I ask, giddy to continue my training.

She sniffs the air.

“What? Do you smell a monster?” I ask. “What kind?”

Despite the disaster that was my last run-in with a monster, I’m kind of eager to go out on a hunt with Gretchen again. I’m ready to test out my training. It’s been only four days, but surely I’ve acquired some useful fighting skills. Besides, with Gretchen at my side, no beast can get the jump on me.

I try sniffing the air the way she does, searching for the scent of a creature that doesn’t belong in our realm. I don’t smell a thing.

“Nope,” she says with a wry smile. “I stink like sweat. Time to hit the shower.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Maybe I am a little overeager to go on another hunt. I feel like such a colossal idiot sometimes.

She hesitates, like she’s thinking about reassuring me or making me feel better. Then, without a word, she walks out of the training room, heading for her bedroom and the giant glassed-in shower with three walls of massaging jets.

“Don’t worry,” I call out after she’s out of hearing. “I’ll amuse myself for a while. No problem.”

I take a look around the training room, a massive gymnasium with padded mats covering half the floor and flat industrial carpet underneath. On the walls are a variety of traditional weapons. Long staffs, nunchucks, throwing stars, daggers, swords, foils, and tons of others I couldn’t name if you asked me. Gretchen won’t let me touch them yet. She says I need to master hand-to-hand combat, to learn to defend myself with nothing but my hands and feet, which are usually all I’ll have.

There are a couple of those wall-mounted ladders you have to climb in gym class sometimes and a long knotted rope hanging down from the ceiling. I can see weight machines and balance balls and even a balance beam, and I’m sure there is plenty more equipment I can’t see.