Sweet Venom

silence means this isn’t an ordinary office aide visit.

I glance up.

“Class, this is Nick,” Mrs. Knightly explains, gesturing at the boy standing next to her desk. “He’s new at Euclid. Please welcome him.”

The sheep erupt into chatter, instant gossip about the new boy. He looks fairly ordinary: on the tall side; short, wavy blond hair; dark, unreadable eyes; features that look carved from stone—okay, not so ordinary. But not so exceptional among the male half of the herd.

I go back to my doodling.

Mrs. Knightly looks out over the classroom before telling Nick, “You can take the seat behind Gretchen.”

That regains my attention.

Nick’s dark gaze follows the direction she’s indicating and stops when he sees me. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I think the corner of his mouth lifts up into the tiniest fraction of a smile.

As he makes his way down the aisle, I pretend not to notice—or care—keeping my attention on my paper when in reality it’s killing me not to sneak a glance to see what color those dark eyes actually are.

Nick swings into the desk behind me, and I force myself to relax. I’ve never gotten this tight and twisted over a boy at first glance. He hasn’t even said a word to me yet.

“Gretchen, huh?” he asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Can I borrow a sheet of paper?”

“Um, sure.” I reach down into my bag, pull one out, and hand it back to him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Our fingertips brush as he takes the paper, and I suppress a little shiver. He leans closer, so close I feel his warm breath as he asks, “How about a pen?”

“What?” I blurt. “Forget you were coming to school today?”

“Something like that.”

“Problem, Miss Sharpe?” Mrs. Knightly asks.

I shake my head and sink into my chair. Intent on not causing further distraction, I grab another pen out of my cargo pocket and drop it over my shoulder onto Nick’s desk.

“Thanks again,” he says.

I sense him leaning back into his chair, away from me. But I swear I can feel the skin on the back of my neck tingling the whole period.

“Aargh!” I end the call and punch instant redial on my phone. I listen as the phone rings several times before Ursula’s voice mail picks up. Ursula’s full voice mail. I hang up again. I’ve been trying between classes all morning, with no success. “Where is she?”

“No answer?”

To my credit, I don’t scream or jump or even swing a punch at the sound of his voice. I have every right. Not only has he found me in my favorite hiding spot—a vending machine alcove around the corner from the cafeteria, left empty since the school decided to remove all junk food from campus—but he is also the reason for my desperate call to Ursula. The way he kept leaning forward to ask me questions all through biology, each time a little closer than before. The way his fingers tickled across my palm when he gave me back my pen. The way he managed to cross my path between all my classes since. Something’s not right about his presence, I feel it, and Ursula might know what to do. If only I could reach her.

Deep breath, Gretch. You can handle this.

Quickly pocketing my phone, I turn to face Nick.

Big mistake.

I’m not usually a sucker for a pretty face, but this one . . . Well, let’s just say he’s a little too handsome for my own good, especially now that I can tell his eyes are a midnight shade of blue, the exact color of the water beneath my balcony on a moonlit night. An image fills my head, of the two of us standing together, looking out over the inky bay. In the image, I lean against his side and he wraps a strong arm around my shoulders. The idea is more tempting than it should be.

Where did that come from?

“Who were you calling?” he asks innocently. “Boyfriend?”

I almost snort. My life is beyond too complicated for boy interest, even in boys with midnight-blue eyes. I need to snip this before it goes anywhere, even in my own head.

Throwing on my best huntress glare, I snarl, “What’s it to you?”

Without waiting for a response, I stomp away toward the cafeteria. That should scare him away nicely. Only an idiot would want an angry, aggressive girl who makes it clear that she’s not interested.

What I need right now is a trayful of carbs to get my energy up. All the recent late-night hunts are catching up with me. Too bad the school removed all the vending machines, because a caffeine-and-sugar-filled energy drink would sure come in handy right about—

“I thought cell phones were off limits at school.”

Nick falls into step beside me.

Are you kidding me? What kind of guy follows a girl after the face-flat rejection I just served him? He should be running away to the nearest cheerleader for consolation. With a face like his, he’d have no problem scoring the queen bee.

Not exactly sure how to react to his pursuit, I say, “They are.”

“I get it,” he says with a gut-tugging laugh. “You’re that kind of girl.”

Stopping in my tracks, I know I shouldn’t rise to the bait. But I can’t help demanding, “What kind of girl?”

He steps ahead of me, pushes open the door to the cafeteria, and nods me inside. I move forward because I’m hungry, not because he’s holding the door like a real gentleman. I could care less if he’s got manners.

As I pass by, he whispers, “The kind who ignores the rules.”

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