Sweet Venom by Tera Lynn Childs Page B

after a long exhale, she says, “I was adopted too.”
    There’s something in her tone, in her use of the past tense about her adoption, that makes me think that she wasn’t quite as lucky as I have been. I wouldn’t trade my mom and dad for anyone. I know things could be so much worse, that other kids wind up in awful homes all the time.
    My heart goes out to her.
    â€œAre you sixteen?” I ask, knowing this is the only way to be anything close to certain right now. It’s a very Parent Trap moment, only without the summer camp and the prank war. When she nods, I say, “My birthday is July thirtieth.”
    I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping.
    It feels like a lifetime before she says, “Mine too.”
    My mind reels. Literally reels. I’ve always wondered about my birth parents, imagining what they might look like or what kind of people they are. Where did I get my silver eyes and my crooked pinky fingers? I used to spend hours at the mirror, studying every little detail and wondering where it came from. The identity of my birth parents has never been something I desperately needed to know, though. Mom and Dad are my parents in every way that counts. Maybe by the time I turn eighteen and can get access to my records, I’ll be ready to investigate.
    But now, finding out that not only am I a descendant of some mythological guardian, but I also have a sister. A twin sister. It’s a little—
    â€œI think I need to sit down,” I say, feeling a little bit lightheaded.
    Gretchen pushes away from the counter. “Let’s go to the library. You can sit and I’ll try calling Ursula.” She leads the way into the room lined on three walls with books and binders. “There is some serious weird going on lately, and she might know why.”
    She yanks open the sliding glass balcony door, and I suck in a breath of salty night air as I drop into a chair at the conference table.
    â€œWeird how?” I ask.
    â€œLike three monsters showing up in one night.” She drops into the desk chair and spins around once.
    â€œThat doesn’t usually happen?”
    â€œNo,” Gretchen pulls out her phone and starts dialing. “There is supposed to be a one-beastie-per-night rule in place.”
    That’s a relief. Or it would be if it were still true.
    â€œWhat about during the day?” I want to ask as many questions as possible while she’s answering. Who knows how long this opportunity will last.
    â€œThey don’t come out when the sun is up.” She dials the phone and holds it to her ear. “They’re nocturnal, I guess.”
    With Gretchen’s attention fully on her phone call, I turn mine to the room around me. I instantly forget the crazy news that just moments ago threatened to overwhelm me, the news that I have a sister and a heritage and, apparently, a destiny. Instead, I am hypnotized by row after row of books.
    I’m not really such a bookworm—my academic specialty veers more toward the digital—but I appreciate the amount of data and research contained in these volumes. It lures me out of the chair and toward the shelves.
    My fingers trail respectfully over their spines as I scan the titles. There’s an entire case of books on martial arts and fighting techniques. Another two full of books on mythology and ancient Greece. The rest are titles on a variety of minor subjects, like computers and technology and geology and cartography. What those have to do with monster fighting I’m not sure, but they must be useful.
    I’m a little gaga over all the books, but it’s the final case that captures my attention. Its shelves are full of white three-ring binders. Not so unusual, I suppose, but the spine labels promise something very unusual inside: MINOTAURS. HYDRAS. SERPENT HYBRIDS. CHIMERAS. LAELAPSES. UNIDENTIFIED SPECIES.
    With a quick glance at Gretchen, who has left her chair and is staring out