Tera Childs - Sweet Venom

No wonder. He’s battling a superpowerful mythical creature.

I push off and leap onto the creature’s back, trying to remember the illustration that shows a griffin’s most vulnerable spot. I know I’ve studied this one—it’s a classic. Distracted away from Nick’s face, the eagle head whips around and tries to peck me off its back.

Why can’t I picture the drawing?

In a flash, Ursula’s diagram of the griffin pops into my mind. I see a bright red circle around the beast’s right rear thigh. Bingo! Target acquired.

In a feat of acrobatic wonder, I spin around on the lion’s back, wrap my arms around its waist, and lunge my head down to sink my teeth into the muscular spot just above the bend in its leg.

The griffin has just enough time to scratch its beak across the back of my neck before vanishing into the dark.

“Ooof!” I land, half on Nick, half on the concrete, with a thud that knocks the wind out of me.

This was the hardest fight I’ve had since . . . well, ever. Even my very first—a giant turtle that was attacking tourists down at the maritime park—was a piece of seaweed-wrapped cake compared to this.

With the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream, I can’t feel any of the aches and pains I know will be there in the morning. But not even a morphine drip could kill the searing pain burning across the back of my neck.

“You okay?” Nick asks.

He doesn’t even sound out of breath.

I roll off him. “Bastard scratched me.”

“Gretchen,” he asks, “are you—”

“I need to go.”

I can’t stick around to answer Nick’s questions because, well, there aren’t any good answers, are there? Besides, thanks to the griffin’s last-ditch effort, some nasty monster venom is now making its way through my circulatory system. Wait too long before treating it and I’m in for several days of excruciating pain—which I know from an up-close-and-personal experience with a cynolycus.

The clock is ticking.

Without waiting for Nick to say or ask or do anything, I jump to my feet and run from the courtyard. As I shove my way through the crowd inside, I wonder how on earth I’m going to explain the fight and the disappearing guys to Nick come Monday at school. I’ve never dealt with a hypno-immune human before, didn’t even know they existed. And I know he’s not the kind of guy to let this go without explanation.

Hopefully Ursula will be back before I have to face him again. She’ll have some suggestions.

I’m halfway through the main club room when I’m hit with the smell of burning sulfur. Another monster? Not just any monster, either. Sulfur means a fire-breather.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

That makes three in one night. What is this, the freakin’ monsterpocalypse?

Thankfully, I don’t have to look far to spot the lizard with a spiked tail and smoke curling out of its nostrils. It’s dancing by itself in the middle of the room. Even if they disguise their true appearance, some beasties are less than welcome in a crowd. Bad body odor is bad body odor, no matter the species. I kind of empathize with its loneliness.

“Poor thing.”

Still, it has to go.

I step up behind the lizard, ignoring the throbbing pain in my neck, and grab it by the wrist. It whirls around to face me, sending its spiked tail whipping through the crowd.

Most people don’t react, since all they see is a kind of homely woman in bondage-worthy stilettos and a floral sundress. But as I force its wrist to my mouth, I see the girl behind the creature leap out of the way of the swinging tail.

As I stab my fangs into the creature’s wrist—not the pulse point, apparently, because the lizard doesn’t go anywhere—the girl turns around.

With a gasp, I drop the creature’s wrist. Standing there, in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by dozens of ordinary teens, is a girl who looks exactly like me. I mean exactly like me. And, I realize as we blink at each other, she saw the lizard’s tail.

Just then, a stab of pain sears across my neck. Tick tock, tick tock.

Without stopping to think, I step forward, grab the girl by the waist, and fling her over my shoulder. I don’t wait for anyone to notice or even for the lizard to disappear. It will. I race for the front door, knowing that eventually my venom will reach the creature’s heart and send it home. Right at this moment my two bigger concerns are the monster juice making its way toward my heart and the Gretchen lookalike hanging limp as I run out of the club.

Grace

Maybe I should have screamed, or kicked my legs, or struggled to keep from getting shoved into the black Mustang. On any other day I probably would have. Maybe this is another manifestation of my insanity, letting some random girl kidnap me from a nightclub without saying a word. But the truth is, I’m curious. I’m totally freaked about the girl who looks like me and the monster she bit on the wrist. Because she obviously saw the fire-breathing lizard too, which leaves limited explanations.

Either she’s another figment of my imagination—though the bruise on my left hip suggests otherwise—or we’re both equally insane—what are the odds of that?—or . . . the monsters are real.

I know which option I’m rooting for.

As she jams the car into gear and squeals out into the street, I study her profile. It’s like looking at a photograph of myself. We are virtually identical; the only differences I can see are cosmetic. Her long dark-blond hair is woven back in a tight French braid. Her face is clear of makeup and there are no earrings in her unpierced lobes. And her jaw is set in a rigid clench, with tension that follows the lines of her throat, around to the back of her neck where—

“You’re hurt,” I blurt.

She flicks me an annoyed glance. “I know.”

“You need to go to a hospital.”

She shifts gears, speeding through a yellow light.

“No hospital can fix this.”

I nod, somehow instinctively understanding what she means. A monster caused that wound. It couldn’t have been the lizard I saw right before she hauled me over her shoulder, because I’d have seen if it had been able to attack her. So it must have been one of the other two.

“Was it the eagle-headed lion?” I ask as we crest a hill and spend a couple of seconds airborne before slamming back onto the street. “Or the feathered snake thing?”

“The griffin and the Ophis pterotus.” Her knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “You saw those too?”

A silent cheer erupts in my brain.

“Actually, I—” As weird as it feels to say out loud, it’s an amazing relief to know I’m not going insane. Or, at least if I am, this girl is going with me. “Yes. And I saw another one last night. At a dim sum parlor.”

She snorts. “The minotaur.”

“Ew, right?” I shove away a mental image of the drooling bull’s head. My attempt at shared grossness gets no response, so I admit, “I thought I was losing my mind.”

The girl swerves the car along some winding street and guns it as we pass the lower slope of a big green park. “Unfor-tunately,” she says, turning at an old Spanish-style gatehouse, “the monsters are all too real.”

I have a second when I wonder if maybe I still am going crazy. I mean, maybe I’m imagining this identical twin I never knew I had. This identical twin I always wished I had—what little girl doesn’t? She could be as much a mental trick as the monsters. An expression of an adopted girl’s wishful thinking.

But then she cuts the wheel hard to the left, sending me slamming against the passenger door, and races toward the end wall of what looks like a giant warehouse building. No way am I making up the throbbing in my shoulder. Or the fact that we’re barreling toward a completely solid wall.

“Watch out!” I scream.

Before I can finish my warning, a hidden garage door glides up in the middle of the wall, and the Mustang flies into the building. She slams on the brakes, sending the car squealing across the concrete. I scream again, convinced we’re going to skid into the corrugated metal interior wall.

We don’t.

The car screeches to a halt with a good ten feet between us and the wall. Heart racing and breathing heavy, I stare wide-eyed at my double.

She doesn’t say a word, just yanks the parking break, shuts off the car, and climbs out. I’ve barely unbuckled my seatbelt with shaking hands when I see her march across the empty space and climb a set of metal spiral stairs in the far corner. As I manage to pull myself out of the car, my legs wiggly as wet noodles, I see her disappearing from the balcony through a rusty metal door.

“Quite the welcome,” I whisper.

Not knowing what else to do, I follow her.

My foot is on the first step when my cell phone rings. I pull it out of my jeans pocket and check the screen.

Thane.

Oh shoot, I totally forgot about him and Milo. Meeting a long-lost twin tends to have that affect, I suppose. I need to come up with a believable explanation—emphasis on the believable bit—for my disappearance. I am so not good at coming up with cover stories, which is probably one of the reasons I’ve never snuck out of the house. I’d have no way to talk myself out of trouble if I got caught.

If I don’t answer his call, though, things will only get worse. He would call Mom and Dad, and they would probably call the police, the fire department, and every hospital in the Bay Area. And that’s if he didn’t see me get hauled out of the club over another girl’s shoulder. Who knows what he saw or what he thinks happened.