“I was worried you might not show up,” he says.
After I disappeared from the nightclub when Gretchen found me, and totally spaced on our date yesterday, it’s no wonder he thinks I’m unreliable. I’m not normally, but he doesn’t know that.
“I’m not a flake,” I insist. “Life’s been more complicated than usual lately. I really, really wanted to go out with you.”
“Wanted?”
“Want!” I practically shout. Then, more softly, “I want to go out with you.”
“How about this weekend?” he suggests. “Saturday is crazy, but maybe we could catch a movie or something on Sunday.”
“Sunday,” I say, racking my brain for any conflicts—any prescheduled conflicts—and coming up with none. “Should be perfect.”
“I’ll give you a call,” he says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, toward where the team is running warm-ups at the far end of the field. “I’d better get over there. How long can you stay?”
“Not long,” I say with a sad face.
“Okay.” He lifts a hand to my chin and says, “Then I’m glad I got to see you.”
I grin. “Me too.”
With a wink, he turns and jogs off to join the rest of his team.
I grab my backpack off the ground and move toward the gate that opens onto the street. I can watch for a few minutes before I need to leave for Greer’s school.
I’m smiling as the team does drills—seeing how many times they can bounce soccer balls on their knees, feet, and heads before dropping them—when the smell hits me. It’s so strong it practically knocks me to the ground. Only a strong grip on my stomach keeps me from spewing my veggie burrito lunch.
I glance out the gate just as the monster walks by. A woman—at least on the top—with the lower body of a bird. Great black-and-brown wings spread out behind her, the tips sweeping the sidewalk as she moves. At the ends of her feet, razor-sharp talons scrape on the concrete, leaving a path of scratches in her wake.
I recognize her from the monster binders. A harpy.
I must have gasped or gagged or in some way indicated my reaction to her hideous form, because she stops just outside the open gate, twists her head awkwardly to the side—like a dinosaur or something—and looks me in the eyes.
She doesn’t say anything at first, and over and over in my head I tell myself to act natural. Pretend she looks entirely human. Don’t let her know you—
She sweeps one of her wings wide, and I can’t fight my instinct to duck.
A sick grin spreads across her black-rimmed mouth, revealing razor-sharp teeth to match her talons.
“Pretty huntress,” she coos.
I back away, shaking my head and holding my hands out in front of me, as if I can ward her off with just a gesture.
Yes, I’m a huntress. Yes, it’s my duty to keep the human realm clear of her kind. But I’m caught off-guard. I’m alone. And I’m all too aware of the soccer team half a field away.
“Please,” I whisper, pleading for I don’t know what.
When she starts advancing, I know a fight is unavoidable. I have to get to a more private location. I can’t take on a harpy in front of two dozen teen boys. In front of Milo.
Him thinking I’m a flake is one thing, but I can’t let him see this. To him it would look as though I was fighting with some random woman. That would be bad enough. The truth would be even worse. He’d never understand.
She’s between me and the gate, so there’s no way I can get to the street. There is a building at the far end of the field, probably for extra equipment and stuff, but that’s right where the team is practicing. Besides, I don’t think I’d ever make it in time.
My only chance is to move behind the near end of the bleachers. They’re not open underneath, but if I move all the way to the back, I think we’ll be hidden enough for the team not to notice.
After checking on the boys—who are thankfully running backward up the field, facing away from me—I dash for the bleachers. I can hear the harpy screeching and swooping behind me.
With a deep, fortifying—and shaky—breath, I turn to face her. She’s closing fast.
In that instant I realize I have no idea what to do. Besides knowing that I have to bite her somewhere—I vaguely remember the drawing in the binder highlighting the spot where the wing meets the back (oh how I wish I’d had time to develop the smart phone app from the scanned data)—I don’t really have a clue how to take on a bird-woman with a twelve-foot wingspan. Her talons could be poisonous, her teeth are certainly dangerous, and any number of awful things might happen between the time I bite her and when she pops back into the abyss.
Panic sets in and I can’t hear anything above the pounding of blood in my ears. How am I even supposed to get close enough to bite?
Too late now. She blocks the way out to the field. The end of the bleachers’ wall is too high, and the exterior retaining wall is even higher. I’m completely trapped.
“Oh, shoot,” I mutter.
I’ve maneuvered myself into a corner.
My back up against the wall—literally—I close my eyes even as my fangs drop. I have only one chance here, only one way out.
I picture myself disappearing, vanishing from this spot on the wall, and reappearing behind the harpy. I focus all my energy on autoporting myself to safety, to a tactical advantage.
I open my eyes and see the harpy still bearing down. I can feel her hot, vile breath on my cheek. She reaches out with human arms, fingers grasping.