The hair on the back of my neck stands up at that display of arrogance. Easy as that, he thinks he can read me. Thinks he can put me in a little box as a certain type of girl. Well, guess what: He has no idea. No idea.

Stopping and spinning so fast he almost runs into me, I say, “I don’t ignore all the rules. Only the ridiculous ones.” Then, as a smiles starts to spread across his face, I add, “But I do ignore all the boys who think they can figure me out in under five seconds.”

As I turn and blend into the crowded lunchroom, I think I hear him say, “Oh, it’s been more than five seconds.”

The boy is obviously a wackadoo. It’s not that boys haven’t hit on me before. I’m no beauty queen, but I’m no hideous harpy, either. Freshman year, I almost went out on a date with a boy from my English class who played basketball. Right before our date, a Cyclops popped into town and I had to bail at the last minute. Thus ended my dating life. That night I realized how impossible a relationship would be for a girl who hunts monsters. I’ve been doing my best to drive the boys—everyone, really—away ever since.

Besides, it’s not that hard when you wear combat boots, fall asleep in class, and make yourself scarce as much as possible.

That makes Nick a bit of an enigma. He came back for more, even after my straight-up attempts to scare him away. I shove aside the tiny part of me that wishes he’ll come back for more again. I don’t wish that. I want him to stay beyond arm’s length.

Really, I think.

“Really,” I repeat out loud.

I grab a tray and get in the line for the pasta station. Hunting always leaves me starving the next day, and a nice heaping plate of pasta with extra meat sauce is just what I need. Forgetting Nick, I focus on filling my tray. I toss on a fruit salad, a couple of chocolate puddings—every little bit of caffeine helps—and a glass of apple juice before heading to the checkout. As I hand the cashier a five, I sense a presence at my side.

“That’s quite a meal,” he teases.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see his tray, with practically identical choices, right down to the double pudding.

This guy can’t take a hint.

I suppress the little thrill at knowing he hasn’t given up. I need him to give up, even if a part of me doesn’t want him to.

I pocket my change and head out into the sea of tables, away from Nick, beelining for my regular table in the farthest corner. The outcast table. On any given day there are between six and ten of us who chow together because we have nowhere else to eat. We don’t usually talk, but it kind of alleviates the stress of having to squeeze in at a pre-established table.

I slam my tray on the speckled gray surface, taking the spot between the witch and the manga boy. I’m sure they have names—I just don’t know them.

If I thought squeezing in between two other outcasts would keep Nick from following, I was wrong. He walks around to the other side of the table and takes the seat facing mine. He doesn’t look at all fazed to be sitting next to the gamer boy whose console never leaves his hands.

In fact, he’s smiling.

Clenching my jaw, I focus my attention on my food and ignore Nick.

I’m just forking a giant bite of pasta into my mouth when he says, “You’re not exactly the welcoming committee, are you?”

Manga boy and the gamer are oblivious, but I can sense the witch’s attention on us. Boys like Nick don’t usually hang at the outcast table. They never hit on the outcast girl.

I chew quietly, keeping my eyes on my tray.

When I don’t respond, Nick shrugs and then digs into his own plate of pasta. Guess he finally got it.

I suck down an entire pudding, trying to pretend I’m not disappointed that he’s giving up. It’s not like I want him to pursue me. I can’t want him to pursue me. My own ego liked the attention, I suppose, the interest in me as nothing more than an average girl.

Don’t be dumb, I tell myself. You’re not average. You don’t get the normal life with the bff and the boy. You’re destined for more than that. And your destiny is a solo adventure.

Still, I allow myself a brief moment of sadness when I stand to take my empty tray to the dish line and Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t even react. And like that, poof, I’m forgotten.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter quietly. I drop my tray and dishes into one of the big tubs. “You want him to forget you.”

I turn, eager to get out of the cafeteria, away from Nick and my irrational feelings. Only to walk smack into his chest.

“Careful there,” he says in a charmingly—I mean, annoyingly—teasing way. His hands come up to steady me, wrapping around my upper arms. “Look both ways before crossing the cafeteria.”

The two spots where his hands hold me burn with a warmth I’m not used to. I don’t get much human contact. Monster contact, hell yeah. I’ve had enough monster contact in the last four years to fill a century. But actual direct contact with a human being? Not so much.

Ursula’s less the touchy-feely type and more the this-is-how-you-handle-nunchucks-so-you-don’t-knock-yourself-unconscious type. Maternal and cuddly she is not.

So it’s no wonder that I kind of want to lean into Nick and get even more contact. I want more of that warm feeling that’s spreading from my arms up to my shoulders and down through the rest of my body.

“I—”

Maybe it’s the way his eyes soften as I start to speak. Or the way his head tilts a little to the side. Or the way his hands tighten a tiny bit. Whatever sets me off, in an instant I jump back out of his grasp, shaking my head to lose the spell his touch put on me.

I hear Ursula’s voice in my head, reminding me that I’m a huntress. I have responsibilities that the human world cannot even begin to comprehend. I can’t afford moments of weakness.

And right then, with Nick’s hands on my arms, I felt a whole world of weakness.

With some distance between us, my thoughts clear.

Nick has no trouble reading the scowl on my face. “Whoa,” he says, throwing both hands up in surrender. “Just trying to keep you off the floor.”

“Look,” I say, stepping forward into his personal space, jabbing a finger to his chest for emphasis. “I don’t do friends.”

I give him a quick shove, with more strength than I should but not enough to send him flying across the room. The more space I put between us, the less effect he has on me. I’d put a continent between us if I could.

As I storm out of the cafeteria, I hear him shout, “You think we’re friends? That’s a start.”

Stupid boy. Can’t take a hint. Can’t take a megaphone blast to the ear, either. I made it completely clear that I want nothing to do with him.

Which doesn’t explain why, when I slip into my seat in fourth period, I’m fighting a grin at our parting exchange.

Chapter 5

Grace

“Right click on the download link. Choose Save As,” Miss Mota says, “and save the file to your desktop.”

The trial version of Web Code Wizard is downloading to my station in the computer lab before she finishes her instructions. I’m excited that our first unit is on web programming. Most of my coding experience is with software, not internet design. This will be a fun chance to play around with something new, even if I have to go at the slower pace of my less geekified classmates. I can find ways to fill my time.

While Miss Mota helps a boy who has somehow gotten into a never-ending cycle of pop-up ads, I create a hot key to clear the desktop in a single keystroke—in case Miss Mota comes by to check on my progress—and then open a new browser window.

Since last night I’ve been trying hard not to think about what happened in the dim sum restaurant. When Thane and I got home, I took a steaming shower to wash away the stink, then collapsed into bed. This morning I missed my alarm and had to rush to get ready in time. Every time the thought popped into my mind, I slammed the mental door in its face. Until now, my brain’s been pretty good at blocking out the memory, but while I’m waiting for my classmates to catch up . . . it’s starting to wander.

The image of that creature walking into the restaurant burns in my mind. The nausea returns.

I need a shiny new distraction.

I have every intention of finding a bad-thought-erasing game to play. Or maybe a tech-obsessed gadget blog to read. Instead, my subconscious takes over and I find myself typing man and bull into the search engine box at the top of the screen.

Anxiety washes over me. My palms start to sweat and my heart shudders as I wait for the results to appear.

I almost close out the browser, not ready to face whatever answers show up in this list.

“No,” I whisper to myself. “I have to face this sometime. If I’m going crazy, it’s better to find out now.”

I reluctantly scan the screen. The results are all about some comic-book character, so I refine my search to say man with the head of a bull.

The first link is a Wikipedia article about the Minotaur.

As the article loads, an image shows up on the right side of the screen. It’s an ancient Greek statue of a man’s body with the head of a bull. His arms and horns are kind of broken off, showing the wear and tear of the statue’s age, but it’s still crystal clear what the sculptor was trying to convey.

“No way,” I mutter.

It looks exactly like the creature I saw in the dim sum place last night.

There are a few differences, of course. In real life, the bull head was much bigger and much more slobbery. And way scarier.