The Medusa Strain (WIP 2020)

Chapter 4

Blake couldn't stay long since he still had to beat curfew by about thirty minutes, so that left me to stew in my room for awhile while mom and dad made dinner.

Trust me...my own place was far less impressive than most girls my age. I had a cork board tacked on the wall opposite of my twin bed filled with notices, flyers, one or two Death Dance metal posters, and a few unflattering photos of the recent Blitz Ball tournament where the Lake City Sharks and the Galaxy Razors were battling it out for last year's top spot in the playoffs. (We lost the final game by a few points. I cried buckets on that day–lemme tell you.)

But here was a traditional vanity dresser with a small statue of Artemis perched in the center next to a Z-1 Thunderbird, and a most revealing piece of eye candy a girl could appreciate: A laminated picture of the God of War in his prime lounging oh so provocatively on a futon, and covered with an almost transparent sheet strategically placed around his middle.

Ares had always been my personal favorite out of the old gods–for obvious reasons–and I was still enchanted by his rust-colored hair and smoky blue eyes. Not too mention the sexy stubble carpeting his face like a dream come true.

Or fantasy come to life.

Okay. So Richie wasn't the only guy I fancied from time to time. The gods had their pieces of prime real estate I wouldn't mind sinking my mortal teeth into, but last I heard Ares had been a ghost in Block 4, Sector 12 for the past few months–his own curios shop locked up tighter than the rebuilt Library of Alexandria.

I would still haunt the place every couple of weeks, just to see if he was open, but the 'NO TRESPASSING' sign inside one of the display windows–written in the modern language–was a pretty convincing point.

So...no dice on that front. (Not the fact I left him a message on his personal server only last week–hoping he would respond.)

What else...well, I have a couple clothes closets for my things, two shoe racks, a mini-closet full of stuffed animals, but that was pretty much it for me.

I didn't lead that much of an exciting life as a teenager growing up. As you probably guessed, my childhood was much less stellar either.

So I opened my backpack to retrieve my social studies book and laid it out on the reading desk in front of me, pulled out a seat, sat down, and started to do some serious reading.

Three pages into the ninth chapter and there came a knock on the door.

"Honey?" My mom called out to me. "Dinner is ready."

I sighed and pushed the book away from my face.

No joy on the homework front either. I reflected as I got up from my seat and started heading for the door. Opening it, my mom stood there in a pleated dress with a good luck charm necklace around her neck, a pair of opal colored earrings to decorate both sides of her ears, and a Poseidon-inspired headband to hold back her auburn colored hair from falling into her face.

But unlike most moms I knew from life experience, mine didn't wear much makeup.

"Okay mom."

"You can call me Artemis–if you want, honey. I don't stand on ceremony these days."

Great. Forgot about that little detail of my life. My mom was the former Goddess of the Hunt–retired after so many years. Which made my life even more stranger by retrospect.

Dad was one of the lesser gods–an ex-satyr; a distant cousin to Pan–but not directly related.

Can my life get any more weirder as an orphan by design and not by choice?