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Hydras have a distinctive odor. It’s somewhere between the acid tang of burning hair and a boat full of rotting fish. You can smell them from miles away.
Well, you can’t. But I can.
Some beasties smell mildly unpleasant; others could peel paint. Hydras definitely fall into the latter category.
As I steer my car—Moira, named for the fickle fates as a constant reminder to take charge of mine—into a spot across from a dilapidated seafood shack, the stench is practically overwhelming. Moira’s upholstery is going to stink for a week. I pencil in taking her to the car wash on my mental to-do list, right after replacing my favorite cargo pants, which got shredded in my last fight, but before polishing the bladed weapons in the armory.
I twist the key out of the ignition and do a quick gear check: Kevlar wrist cuffs in place, smoke bombs in left cargo pocket, zip ties in the right, and my handy-dandy, military-grade, metal detector–defying, twin APS daggers snug in their sheaths and hidden inside my steel-toe Doc Martens. Nothing like a well-stocked pair of black cargoes to make me feel girly.
The hydra shouldn’t be much trouble—balancing nine heads on a massive serpent body throws off their center of gravity so they’re not exactly graceful—but it never hurts to be prepared.
Even if I ever get caught off guard, I’ve got a backup monster-fighting kit stowed under Moira’s driver’s seat and another in my backpack.
Though the gear makes things easier, all I really need to take a beastie out is the pair of retracted canines that will fang down at the first sign of trouble. They’re my built-in secret weapon. A defense legacy passed down from my ancient ancestor.
“Seriously,” I mutter as I climb out onto the sidewalk. “Can’t they give it a rest for a while? Maybe take an extended vacation somewhere cold and icy.”
This is the fourth time in the last week that the aroma of dark and nasty has pulled me out for the hunt.
One more visitor from the abyss this week and I’ll leave the gear at home and work out my annoyance with my fists. Hand-to-hand combat won’t send a monster back to its prison-realm home, but it’ll make me feel a hell of a lot better. Who says keeping the human world monster-free can’t be good therapy at the same time?
I palm the remote for Moira’s keyless entry and am about to lock her sleek, black doors when I realize I’ve forgotten one element of my monster-fighting gear that is critical, at least when I’m hunting in human-heavy territory.
“Slick, Gretchen,” I tell myself. “Real slick.”
You’d think after four years—a quarter of my life—this would be second nature.
Moments later, I’m crossing the street, my sporty mirrored sunglasses shielding my eyes. Not from the sun, of course. It’s not like hydras yearn for daylight. No, they’d rather drag me out in the middle of the night, when dives like this are the only thing open.
Darn inconsiderate when school starts tomorrow.
I walk up to the weathered wooden shack, peer through the dirt- and grime-crusted window, and scan the late-night diners. All distinctly human.
If my eyes weren’t practically tearing at the stench, I’d think the hydra wasn’t here.
Then I catch sight of the narrow staircase off to the right of the bar, leading to an upstairs dining room. Well, at least that will make cornering it easier.
As I push open the door, the combination of putrid eau de hydra and decades of fried-fish-filet residue is enough to make me nearly lose my heat-and-eat lasagna all over the sandy floor.
But I don’t have time for nausea. There’s a bloodthirsty monster prowling for a meal, and if I don’t stop it, no one will. I’m the only one who can see it.
“Anyone see a slithering nine-headed serpent pass this way?”
I snicker. I would love to see the reaction if I actually asked the question loud enough for anyone to hear.
Then again, this is San Francisco. They might not react at all.
Bypassing the drowsy bartender, I head for the staircase. Monsters generally prefer dark corners and back alleys—and, apparently, second-floor dining areas—which makes them occasionally harder to find but easier to attack. They’ll take any less-populated area that’s available, though, which is fine by me. The fewer witnesses to our fights, the better. The safer. The human world doesn’t need to know monsters walk among them. As long as I do my job right, they never will.
I’m up the stairs, three at a time, in five seconds flat. The instant I step out onto the second floor, I see it, cozying up to a trampy redhead doing her best impersonation of a low-class prostitute. Monsters have the worst taste in women.
I scan the room, checking for potential threats and exits. Besides the stairs behind me, there’s an emergency exit at the back. If I position myself behind the redhead, I’ll be able to intercept on either path.
As for threats, there’s a pair of mounted swordfish displayed on the wall and some framed pictures of deep-sea fishing boats that might hurt if used as projectiles. Nothing really to worry about.
Thankfully, the dining area is sparsely populated. Other than the hydra and its prey there is only a trio of drunken businessmen at the far end. Judging from their raucous volume and the disheveled state of their ties, odds are they’re probably pretty much oblivious to anything but the next round. If I do this right, they won’t notice a thing.
Straightening my back, I march over to the unlucky couple and tap the girl on the shoulder, making sure I’m centered between the stairs and the door.