Sweet Venom

“Stop!” I shout, abandoning my grip on the door and flinging my arm forward, as if I can physically stop her stream of babble. I never lose my calm. But honestly, if the girl strings one more phrase into that outrageous story, I’m liable to go a little insane. Maybe a lot insane.

“Look,” Gretchen says, “this isn’t a game or a prank or a reality TV show. This is very real and very dangerous. You need to know what’s going on.”

“I don’t think so.” I reach for the door again and start to close it. “I’m quite busy right now and—”

Gretchen’s combat-booted foot wedges between the door and the jamb before I can finish. She pushes against the door and, hard as I try to hold it shut, manages to send it swinging into the wall so hard, the mirror rattles. I meet her steely gray gaze, ignoring the fact that her eyes are almost the identical silver shade as mine and—I flick a quick glance to the left—yes, the same as Grace’s. That doesn’t mean anything.

“Have you ever seen a monster?”

“Of course not.” My mind is spinning, but I somehow manage to keep my face emotion free. My mother taught me well. I don’t betray an ounce of how ridiculous this sounds. “What an absurd idea.”

Gretchen’s eyes narrow. “You need to train,” she explains. “To learn how to defend yourself if a hydra attacks you from behind or an ichthyocentaur blocks your way out of an alley.”

“You’re insane.” I shake my head. “Monsters don’t exist.”

“They do,” Grace insists. “And it’s our legacy to hunt them. To protect the unsuspecting human world.”

“They’re dangerous,” Gretchen argues, pushing into the doorway. “Now more than ever. If they recognize you as a descendant of Medusa, then they won’t stop until you’re dead or in their power.” She takes a quick breath before adding, “Or both.”

That’s it. It was bad enough, them trying to convince me they’re my sisters and that we’re descendants of some hideous monster, but now they’re trying to scare me. I do not scare easily.

When Tommy Willowick tried to frighten the girls at my eighth-grade Halloween party by sneaking into my bedroom closet in a werewolf costume, he’s the one who ended up running from the room, screaming for his mommy. I didn’t let him scare me then and I won’t let these two strangers scare me now.

I school my features into a falsely pleasant facade, a skill I learned early on from my mother.

“I’m sorry,” I say, not meaning it. “I have a very full schedule today. The pastry chef is delivering samples and then I have to confirm the place settings with the caterers, not to mention finalizing the seating chart, the menu, and the procession of events.”

“But you’re in danger,” Grace interrupts.

I ignore the sincere fear in her eyes. While she may believe this fantasy tale, I do not. And I will not allow her delusion to disrupt my genuinely busy day.

Still, I can’t dismiss our identical faces so easily.

“It’s enough to process that you freaks might”—I allow the possibility—“be my sisters. But you’re obviously deranged. And I have appointments.”

Gretchen rolls her eyes again, and I sense a moment of distraction. I snatch the opportunity. Giving her a quick shove to send her back a step out of the doorway, I pause only to say, “Thank you for stopping by,” before slamming the door in their stunned faces.

I do not have time for this kind of drama.

It’s not until I’m leaning back against the door, dead bolt in place, that I realize my heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and I have a truly horrid feeling in the pit of my stomach. A combination of fear and anxiety and nausea. I can remember feeling exactly like this only one other time in my life. Now that’s an unpleasant memory . . . and an unsettling coincidence.

Chapter 16

Grace

Gretchen turns and stomps down the steps to the sidewalk below, a boiling look on her face. I hurry down after her. This was not exactly how I imagined our sisterly reunion turning out.

“We can’t leave her,” I insist, grabbing Gretchen’s arm to make her stop and listen. “She’s in just as much danger as we are.”

“She’s a snob,” Gretchen says, looking like she wants to spit.

Okay, that’s true. I can’t deny the blinding reality that she looked at us like we were peasants come to beg favor from the queen. But that doesn’t change the facts of the situation.

“She’s our sister.” I’m still kind of reeling at the thought that, in less than a week I’ve gone from having no blood relatives to having two as-close-as-you-can-biologically-get sisters. I can’t let either of them get away. “We have to make her understand.”

“We don’t have to do anything.” Gretchen sneers up at the dark-gray door of Greer’s house.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous building, one of those three-story gingerbread Victorians you see in postcards, with a big round turret in one corner and classical details trimming every inch. The main color is a pale gray, almost identical to today’s overcast sky, with bright white trim. The architectural details are highlighted with touches of black and gold. Kind of old Hollywood. Everything about it screams classical glamour.

Just like Greer.

I can’t imagine anyone more different from me and Gretchen. Greer is poised and elegant and reminds me of photos I’ve seen of Princess Grace of Monaco. I’m pretty sure her sweater was cashmere. Her high-heeled shoes probably cost more than my entire closet. She is delicate in a way I could never be.