Free Sweet Venom by Tera Lynn Childs

have to spend all day with the hormonal sheep at school, I’d rather avoid them in the off-hours. But this seems to be a favorite freakazoid haunt lately. I’m practically a resident.
    Nightclubs give me the snooze in general, and Synergy is more nondescript than most. It’s on a side street in the industrial section of Potrero Hill—which might as well mean completely sketchy after dark —and from the outside it looks like any other warehouse building. The big, thuggy-looking guy at the door and the occasional line along the sidewalk are the only clues to the raging party inside.
    Leaving Moira double-parked behind a Hummer in the empty lot next door, I do my mental gear check as I stifle a yawn. Hunting three nights in a row is tough, especially on back-to-back-to-back weeknights. I feel like I might never catch up on sleep again.
    My boots crunch on the gritty sidewalk as I head for the front door. I hand my ID to the bouncer. He’s six four, about two eighty, with a buzz cut and bug eyes that indicate one too many steroid cocktails. A dead ringer for the Gegenees giant I took out a few weeks ago, only without the two extra pairs of arms. Even though I’ve been here a lot lately, he scrutinizes my driver’s license like he’s trying to read Plato in the original Ancient Greek.
    â€œGretchen Sharpe?” He eyes the photo, then me, and then the photo again.
    This one is my actual ID. Synergy is all ages, which means my sixteen-year-old self is perfectly legal. On occasions when I have to track into an alcohol-serving, twenty-one-and-up club, I’ve got a collection of fakes to get me in the door, with my hypno powers as a convenient backup.
    Bug boy takes his job a little too seriously. If I were in search of underage drinking opportunities, I wouldn’t be here. They don’t even serve alcohol.
    â€œThat’s me, Jocko,” I say, giving him my best I’m-not-trying-to-do-anything-even-remotely-illegal smile. He probably wouldn’t appreciate my I’m-just-trying-to-get-rid-of-the-deadly-monster-you-let-inside smirk.
    After cross-checking my license and my face a few more times, he hands back my ID and says, “Ten dollars. Pay inside.”
    I breeze past him and push open the door. The nauseating rotten-garbage scent of the griffin is worse than the overused fog machine. It’s so strong, I can’t immediately pinpoint the source. Guess I’ll have to rely on other senses this time.
    After handing my cover charge over to the cashier, I step into the giant black box that is Synergy. The space is wall-to-wall people, most of them under twenty-one. It’s a sea of bumping and grinding, penned in on one side by the virgin-beverage-serving bar and on the other by a raised stage that is a favorite of PVC-pants-and-eyeliner-wearing boys who like boys. And the occasional girl who likes boys who like boys, despite their obvious lack of interest in what she has to offer.
    Tonight there’s a DJ set up at one end of the stage, shouting out dance instructions and tweaking the bass on the unidentifiable music pounding through the speakers. Permanent eardrum damage in the making.
    With the added filter of my sunglasses I mostly make out shapes and outlines. The lights hanging from the ceiling grid turn the throbbing masses into a sea of yellow, teal, and hot pink. A normal girl would be nauseous. I’ve never claimed to be normal. Putrid eau de griffin and the revolting color combination are everyday hazards of the job.
    â€œIf I were a bloodthirsty half-lion, half-eagle, where would I be?” I muse.
    Being a few inches taller would definitely be a benefit at this point. I need line of sight, which means I need a better vantage point. Higher ground.
    Shoving through the labyrinth of bodies, I make my way to the elevated stage. I place one hand on the front edge and vault myself up onto the platform. From my new perch I can see the entire room. I