Sweet Venom
Page 39
Meanwhile, Grace is excited to find herself part of an ancient legacy. She has no clue what membership will cost her in the long run. Her family, her friends, maybe even her life. How can I initiate her into this world? How can I take on that responsibility too?
I’ve done fine on my own for this long, and I’ll keep on doing the same. I can save Grace from the lonely fate I’ve chosen. She can have the safe, normal life I gave up a long time ago.
“Listen, Grace,” I begin, “I really think you should—”
“No.”
She glares at me with hard determination in her silver eyes.
“What do you mean, no?” I ask. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I bet I do,” she says, stepping forward and meeting me toe-to-toe. “You were going to send me home. Back to my safe life—which isn’t so safe, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She’s right.
She holds out her hands, palms first, as if I need the reminder of her brush with a basilisk hybrid. She nearly died—would have died if instinct hadn’t engaged her autoporting power—and it’s my fault. I thought if I sent her away from me, she would stay safe. As if I am the only reason monsters attack. I fight monsters on the verge of killing humans every day. Even if they didn’t know that she’s a descendant of Medusa, she’d still be in danger.
Keeping her away from me won’t protect her.
“So if you think you can just play the martyr,” she continues, “and shoulder all this responsibility on your own”—she punctuates her words with a pointed finger at my chest—“then you’re mistaken. I need to be part of this and—”
“You’re right,” I admit.
She opens her mouth, as if she is ready to keep arguing, but then jerks back as she realizes I have just agreed with her. “I am?”
I nod. It was stupid to think that her life could be normal ever again. She needs training, skills, and knowledge to help her defend herself the next time she’s attacked. I shudder at the thought, but I have to be practical. It’s bound to happen again.
“Now that you’re in San Francisco,” I explain, “there’s no turning back. You see monsters, and that puts you in danger.”
She looks down at her shredded hands, in a kind of helpless gesture. Yes, this is what she wanted, but maybe she’s realizing this is a life-changing moment. Good. She needs to have a healthy respect for the seriousness of the situation.
The wounds on her hands—a fresh reminder of just how dangerous beasties can be—still need to be treated. There may not be any monster venom in her bloodstream, but a little antibiotic ointment couldn’t hurt.
I head for the first aid kit in the bathroom.
“Where are the monsters?” she asks, following me. “When they’re not in our world, where do they live?”
“In another realm,” I explain—not that I fully understand the logistics. “Like a parallel underworld, a dark, cavernous abyss full of all the bad creatures ever born.” I flip on the water. “Here, rinse off your hands.”
“Have you been there?”
She slips her hands under the faucet. I’m impressed that she doesn’t scream at what must be a burning sting all over her palms.
“No, but from how Ursula has described it,” I explain, “I picture a bleak, stinky cave, with nasty stuff dripping from the ceiling and nonstop beastie-on-beastie prizefighting.”
Grace snorts a little and I smile.
“How do they get out?” she asks.
“Ursula says the gods had to leave a crack.” I grab a tube of antibacterial ointment and twist off the cap. “A window barely big enough for one to get out at a time.”
Or, at least, it used to be barely that big. Now it’s big enough to let out two or three or who knows how many. Another sign that something big is happening.
I hand her the tube.
“So they’re in this parallel underworld, hanging out, until they can sneak through the crack.” Grace squeezes a glob of ointment onto her hand. “Why do they come out? Just because their parallel underworld is so bad?”
I take back the tube and replace the cap while she rubs the ointment over her raw wounds. They’re looking better already. She probably shares my quick-healing ability, a definite plus for a huntress. I’m—we’re—not immortal or anything, but our supernatural genes do wonders to speed up recovery time.
“Partly, I suppose.”
“And the other reason?” she asks, proving that she won’t let me get by with half answers.
“To hunt humans,” I blurt, because there is no way to soften this blow. “They come out to feed on humans, on their life force. It gives the monsters a kind of high.”
I leave out the part where it also gives the monster control of the human. Grace is probably freaking out enough already about all this stuff.
“And the ones that escape . . . do you kill them?”
“I wish. Follow me.” I head to the kitchen and grab an apple out of a bowl on the counter. “From what I understand, there’s some sort of magical protection so they can’t be killed in our world. A little bonus rule that some god or goddess slipped into the ritual when Olympus sealed the realms apart.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.” We share a wry smile. “Ursula says no one knows who for sure, but everyone suspects Athena.”
I’ve done fine on my own for this long, and I’ll keep on doing the same. I can save Grace from the lonely fate I’ve chosen. She can have the safe, normal life I gave up a long time ago.
“Listen, Grace,” I begin, “I really think you should—”
“No.”
She glares at me with hard determination in her silver eyes.
“What do you mean, no?” I ask. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I bet I do,” she says, stepping forward and meeting me toe-to-toe. “You were going to send me home. Back to my safe life—which isn’t so safe, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She’s right.
She holds out her hands, palms first, as if I need the reminder of her brush with a basilisk hybrid. She nearly died—would have died if instinct hadn’t engaged her autoporting power—and it’s my fault. I thought if I sent her away from me, she would stay safe. As if I am the only reason monsters attack. I fight monsters on the verge of killing humans every day. Even if they didn’t know that she’s a descendant of Medusa, she’d still be in danger.
Keeping her away from me won’t protect her.
“So if you think you can just play the martyr,” she continues, “and shoulder all this responsibility on your own”—she punctuates her words with a pointed finger at my chest—“then you’re mistaken. I need to be part of this and—”
“You’re right,” I admit.
She opens her mouth, as if she is ready to keep arguing, but then jerks back as she realizes I have just agreed with her. “I am?”
I nod. It was stupid to think that her life could be normal ever again. She needs training, skills, and knowledge to help her defend herself the next time she’s attacked. I shudder at the thought, but I have to be practical. It’s bound to happen again.
“Now that you’re in San Francisco,” I explain, “there’s no turning back. You see monsters, and that puts you in danger.”
She looks down at her shredded hands, in a kind of helpless gesture. Yes, this is what she wanted, but maybe she’s realizing this is a life-changing moment. Good. She needs to have a healthy respect for the seriousness of the situation.
The wounds on her hands—a fresh reminder of just how dangerous beasties can be—still need to be treated. There may not be any monster venom in her bloodstream, but a little antibiotic ointment couldn’t hurt.
I head for the first aid kit in the bathroom.
“Where are the monsters?” she asks, following me. “When they’re not in our world, where do they live?”
“In another realm,” I explain—not that I fully understand the logistics. “Like a parallel underworld, a dark, cavernous abyss full of all the bad creatures ever born.” I flip on the water. “Here, rinse off your hands.”
“Have you been there?”
She slips her hands under the faucet. I’m impressed that she doesn’t scream at what must be a burning sting all over her palms.
“No, but from how Ursula has described it,” I explain, “I picture a bleak, stinky cave, with nasty stuff dripping from the ceiling and nonstop beastie-on-beastie prizefighting.”
Grace snorts a little and I smile.
“How do they get out?” she asks.
“Ursula says the gods had to leave a crack.” I grab a tube of antibacterial ointment and twist off the cap. “A window barely big enough for one to get out at a time.”
Or, at least, it used to be barely that big. Now it’s big enough to let out two or three or who knows how many. Another sign that something big is happening.
I hand her the tube.
“So they’re in this parallel underworld, hanging out, until they can sneak through the crack.” Grace squeezes a glob of ointment onto her hand. “Why do they come out? Just because their parallel underworld is so bad?”
I take back the tube and replace the cap while she rubs the ointment over her raw wounds. They’re looking better already. She probably shares my quick-healing ability, a definite plus for a huntress. I’m—we’re—not immortal or anything, but our supernatural genes do wonders to speed up recovery time.
“Partly, I suppose.”
“And the other reason?” she asks, proving that she won’t let me get by with half answers.
“To hunt humans,” I blurt, because there is no way to soften this blow. “They come out to feed on humans, on their life force. It gives the monsters a kind of high.”
I leave out the part where it also gives the monster control of the human. Grace is probably freaking out enough already about all this stuff.
“And the ones that escape . . . do you kill them?”
“I wish. Follow me.” I head to the kitchen and grab an apple out of a bowl on the counter. “From what I understand, there’s some sort of magical protection so they can’t be killed in our world. A little bonus rule that some god or goddess slipped into the ritual when Olympus sealed the realms apart.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.” We share a wry smile. “Ursula says no one knows who for sure, but everyone suspects Athena.”
