Sweet Venom

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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.

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