Sweet Venom

As a non-jock-type person, this is not the kind of stuff that interests me. Well, at least not beyond what it means for my training.

If I’ve realized anything in the last week since I discovered my heritage and my duty, it’s that I am totally ready to embrace this unknown part of my life. The only problem is that, besides Gretchen’s training and what I’ve been able to get her to tell me, I don’t really know anything about that side of me.

When I feel lost at school, I head to the nearest computer and pull up as much info about the subject as I can find.

“What I need to do,” I mutter, “is research.”

The only problem is that everything available on the internet about my ancient mythological ancestor is rewritten history. The results of Athena’s full-scale smear campaign. Not exactly helpful.

But I know one place where I can find the research I need. “Gretchen’s library.”

Quickly slipping out of the training room, I head for the book-filled library. On the way I grab my backpack. The first thing I do is pull out the six binders I took home to digitize yesterday and trade them for new ones. I’ve managed to scan in more than two dozen, converting them into digital format. At this rate, I’ll have the whole collection of monster files computerized in a few weeks. There are so many, it feels pretty daunting, but it needs to be done. Paper files provide such limited access. And they’re vulnerable.

Besides, when I use the document scanner Mom bought last spring—I finally convinced her to go paperless— the pages are scanned in no time. I can probably get another two dozen done this weekend.

I shove the half dozen new binders into my bag.

“Now,” I say to the walls of books, “where should I begin?”

At least the collection seems to be organized by subject matter rather than author or title. That would be madness to search through, especially without a catalog of some kind, which Gretchen assures me does not exist.

“When I’m done with the binders,” I say, wandering past the laden shelves, “that’ll be my next project.”

My eyes skim titles, looking for something that strikes my mood. Monsters and mythology? No thanks. Martial arts training techniques? Not right now. Medusa and the Gorgons?

I stop at the section of books about my ancient ancestor and her immortal sisters. This is more like it. There are four full shelves of books, everything from collections of myths to anatomy to—

“Bingo.” I tug a book off the shelf. “The Truth About Medusa and Her Sisters: Guardians of the Door.”

This sounds like exactly what I need. Not more about the propaganda that turned Medusa—in the public’s mind—from a protectress into a monster. Libraries and websites are full of the lies that steal Medusa’s noble glory and make her a much-feared beast instead. This looks like a more factual account of her story.

I drop into one of the comfy armchairs and open the book. There is no copyright page, which means that it was either privately published or printed before the first copyright laws. There isn’t an author’s name, either. The book is attributed to “an anonymous descendant of the great Gorgon Medusa.” I suck in a breath. One of my ancestors wrote this book.

I trace my fingers reverently over the worn cover, wondering how many generations back this book dates. A few? A dozen? More?

I flip to the table of contents, curious about what topics the book might contain. As I scan the list, I see a lot of chapters I should probably read. Someday. Right now, though, I’m looking for one particular topic. Autoporting.

Since escaping from cobra lady, I haven’t been able to repeat my disappearing act. It’s a power that could definitely come in handy, so I’d like some hints on how to make it happen.

My eyes skim over the early chapters. History, mostly, detailing Medusa’s life from her birth to her death at the hands of the supposed hero—aka Athena’s pawn—Perseus. There are a couple of chapters on the Gorgons’ roles as guardians and their powers. I’m about to turn to the chapter on their powers when the title of the last chapter catches my eye.

“‘Descendants of the Mortal Gorgon.’”

Forgetting about autoporting, I flip quickly to the first page of that chapter and begin reading.

Although most of the world believes the only offspring of Medusa were the great winged horse Pegasus and the golden-bladed giant Chrysaor, both born from the blood of her decapitated head—

How disgusting and horrifying and—I remind myself that this is my ancient ancestor I’m reading about—sad. To have your head chopped off and creatures born from your blood? That’s awful.

I take a deep breath and plunge forward.

Medusa also had a human lover, a husband who has since been erased from myth and history. His disappearance was yet another strand in the web of deceit woven by Athena to justify her rage and jealousy at the Gorgon’s supposed bid for Poseidon’s love. But the lie that obliterated Medusa’s husband from all written record provided another, unforeseen service: it protected the progeny of their union with a veil of secrecy. Their children, who would carry on the legacy of the Gorgon sisters, passing the magic of Medusa’s blood down through the generations, disappeared from record.

     At first decried as sacrilege, Athena’s fabrications about the evil, murderous monster who turned men to stone eventually became widespread, accepted fact. But if their existence was widely known, the mortal Gorgon’s offspring would become the targets of self-proclaimed heroes, assassins, and anyone fearful of Medusa’s true legacy and Athena’s rage.

“What a scary time that must have been,” I muse. “I wonder how many of my ancestors and their friends and family had to risk their lives to keep the Medusa legacy intact.”

I’m in awe of the sacrifice. Their preserving the line made it possible for me and Gretchen to be here today. We owe a big thank-you to whoever made that happen.

I read on, desperate to know more about my legacy, hoping to learn something about my autoporting incident.

The next sentence nearly knocks me off my feet. I have to reread it three times and then read it once out loud to make sure I’m not imagining things.

Into every generation since have been born three children, three daughters to carry on the guardian legacy.

Three children? Three daughters? Every generation?

This can’t be. Can it?

No way.

Tucking the book under my arm, I sprint to the computer and leap into the desk chair. It only takes a few clicks and taps to do a quick search for adoption records. There are tons of sites designed to reunite mothers and their children. I’ve seen all of them before, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I need to find my official adoption records. I know I won’t find that on any of those sites. The documents I need are protected, shielded by strict privacy laws. I need to get inside the Child Welfare Services website—into their internal database of completely top-secret and sealed records.

I wouldn’t call myself a hacker. Most of my coding skills are used for purely legal purposes. But I’ve finessed my way into a server or two. And now is definitely not the time to get squeamish about legality. I might have sorta accidentally peeked at my record before, but that was just the individual record of my adoption by my parents. I never thought of searching for any siblings.

Now that I know what I’m looking for, my entire brain focuses in on figuring out how to get what I need.

By the time I hear Gretchen’s shower turn off, I’ve broken through their firewall, cracked their surprisingly weak encryption, and am entering the keyword search to find our record. When my record pulls up, it contains all the details I’ve seen before about my adoption, but nothing about where I came from. Or who I came with.

Next I try searching my name and Gretchen’s together. Maybe if our mom named us— “Holy goalie.”

“What?”

I jump at the sound of Gretchen’s voice. I’m sure my face looks white as a ghost as I spin around in the desk chair to look at her. She’s rubbing a towel over her hair and doesn’t notice my utter shock.

“I pulled up our adoption records,” I explain.