Tera Childs - Sweet Venom

Not hard to guess which option I chose.

Or that Veronica chose the opposite.

I am long past regretting not fighting her bid to be co-chair. If I had known she’d be such a constant thorn in my side, I’d have made certain Emily won the position instead. Oh well, what’s done is done.

Pushing Veronica and her taste for losers aside, I do a quick check in the gold-edged mirror hanging above the foyer table. Not one escapee from my meticulously straightened, crisp chignon; subtle lip sheen still in place; princess-cut diamond studs—real, of course—glinting from each ear. I dust a small speck of lint from my sky-blue cashmere crewneck before deeming myself ready for public appearance. Waving off Natasha, who is only now emerging from the kitchen to answer the door—if she weren’t an impeccable chef, my parents would have fired her long ago—I release the dead bolt and grab the handle.

“Henri, you’re early,” I say with a charming smile, swinging the door wide. “I didn’t expect you until—”

My welcoming comment dies in my throat as I see that standing on my stoop is not the most sought-after pastry chef in the Bay Area, bringing me a sampling of petit fours to choose from for the tea. Instead, I see two girls, about my age. Who, despite wretched taste in clothes, hair that would make my stylist faint, and a pathetic lack of personal style, could be my twins.

Shock does not even begin to describe my reaction.

Not that I allow it to show on my face.

“Greer Morgenthal?” the one on the left, wearing generic blue jeans and a cheap graphic tee, asks.

I rest my hands on my hips. “And who might you be?”

She grins. “We’re your sisters!”

When she starts forward, arms wide like she’s going to hug me, I step back and thrust my palms out to deflect her approach. Her face falls. Is she certifiable?

“I don’t have sisters.”

“I should have printed out the records,” the overfriendly one says. “I just never thought—” She looks at my face and then the other girl’s. “I thought it would be obvious once you saw us.”

The other one rolls her eyes, her dark look matched by her gray cargo pants and fitted black tee. She looks like a walking Army-Navy surplus ad. I wouldn’t be surprised to find daggers hidden in her combat boots.

“I’m Grace,” the cheerful one says, recovering from her disappointment at my reaction. “And this is Gretchen.”

Gretchen crosses her arms in what could be a defensive move, although it is more likely an intimidation gesture. I cross my arms to match her stance. I’m not afraid of her, no matter how many scars and muscles she has.

When I don’t respond, Grace continues. “How funny, we all have names that begin with G-R. Grace. Gretchen. Greer.” She glances nervously from me to Gretchen and back. “Isn’t that cool? I wonder if there’s some special sig—”

“Stop making nice,” Gretchen grumbles, looking bored. “Get to the point.”

“The point?” Grace’s brow furrows. “Oh yeah, the point.” She looks nervously around. “Can we come inside?”

Inside? These girls may look like me, but I don’t know them. For all I know, they could be some new high-tech gang of genetically altered thieves who work their way into houses by posing as the owners.

All right, an unlikely scenario. That’s what I get for electing to read the collected short stories of Ray Bradbury for my extra-credit English project. Too much science fiction.

Still, these girls are strangers. I’m not about to grant them open access to our silver drawer.

“Um . . . no.”

Grace looks slightly taken aback by that, as if she expected me to swing the door wide and say, “Come on in and help yourselves to our priceless art and antiques.”

Undeterred, she repeats slowly, as if I have a hearing problem, “We’re your sisters.” She takes a deep breath, checks the empty street again, and blurts, “And we’re also descendants of the Gorgon Medusa.”

“Excuse me?” I exclaim, losing my well-practiced icy demeanor at her outrageous claim. “I’m sorry. Medusa?”

“You might have wanted to bury the lead a little on that one,” Gretchen mutters.

They are both insane. I curse myself for leaving my phone on the table, several feet away. Since calling for help is out, I nudge the door closed an inch.

“You know, the mortal Gorgon sister,” Grace explains, as if I’m not familiar with the myth. As if I haven’t had an entire semester of college-level classical mythology. Ignorance of the subject matter is not the problem here. “The one Perseus slew by looking at her reflection in his shield.”

When I don’t respond, she looks to Gretchen for help.

Gretchen, in turn, deepens her scowl.

“Of course, that’s not the real story,” Grace continues. “She really was a guardian. History has been rewritten to make her look like a monster. Athena’s involved somehow. Maybe another god too, but we’re not sure who, because Gretchen’s mentor has disappeared and we don’t know where else to—”

“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.

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.”