Cat's Claw by Amber Benson Page B

my little sister sitting in one of those delicious-looking ergonomic chairs in front of her computer, click-clacking away at the keyboard.
    I was on the wedge of aluminum that only resembled a chair.
    Without missing a beat, she turned her head in my direction and rolled her eyes.
    “Whatever, Cal.”
    “I mean,” I said, shifting my weight as I tried to make myself more comfortable on the aluminum wedge, “if you’re busy, I don’t want to bother you, or anything.”
    Her fingers still flying over the keyboard, she shook her head. “Don’t be a dweeb. I’m almost done and then I promise to give you my full, undivided attention.”
    “Oh, goodie,” I mumbled sarcastically.
    She gave me a sardonic smile, followed by about twenty seconds’ worth of fluttering eyelashes, then she went back to her work.
    Suddenly, I felt something cool and slobbery licking the top of my right hand. Startled, I yanked my arm away with such force that I nearly fell off the wedge chair and onto the linoleum.
    “Goddamn it!” I yelped as I looked down to find our hellhound puppy, Runt, happily wagging her tail at me. “Don’t do that, Runt! You nearly gave me a heart attack . . . Jeez.”
    The beautiful, black hellhound pup sat back on her haunches and cocked her head at me. I could tell exactly what she was thinking: Calliope Reaper-Jones needs to take a chill pill—and she was so not wrong.
    “Sorry, Runt. It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” I said as I reached out to scratch behind her soft, furry ears. She inclined her head forward so that I could get a better purchase on her neck and amp up my scratching. I took that as a sign that she had accepted my apology and didn’t hold my being all jerk-y against me.
    I looked down into her bright pink eyes and felt an overwhelming sense of love for the beautiful, midnight-colored puppy that had saved my life on more than one occasion. She was an amazing companion and friend, and I really, really, really looked forward to the time when she would develop the ability to talk. Then we could actually have a real conversation, instead of me constantly having to intuit what she was thinking.
    I know that normally dogs don’t ever develop that kind of ability, but since she was the daughter of Cerberus, the Guardian of the North Gate of Hell—and he could talk like no one’s business—I got the distinct impression that Runt was gonna have a heck of a lot to say when her vocal cords finally started working properly.
    “Uhm, about Runt,” Clio said, interrupting my thoughts.
    I looked up and saw that she had shut down the computer and was now giving me her “full, undivided attention.” I gave my seventeen-year-old baby sister a long, clinical look, noting that she had finally decided to grow out her hair . . . a fact that gave me considerable pause.
    Clio had been sporting a shaved head ever since her very cute twentysomething substitute biology teacher had made inappropriate overtures in the dating direction at the beginning of the school year, but now, instead of the baldpate I was used to, about two inches of fluffy black hair stood in its place. I knew that if she was starting to embrace her hotness again, then there had to be a reason for it . . . and that reason could only be of the male persuasion.
    Whoever the guy was, I kind of felt sorry for him. If Clio had decided to stop hiding her beauty, then the poor guy was a goner. Seriously, my sister was probably the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my entire life—and that included Kate Moss and Christy Turlington—which only gave credence to the rumor that our mother was part Siren.
    Only someone with Siren blood could be that amazing looking, as far as I was concerned. My mother was vehement that she was entirely 100 percent human, but I likened that to the old saying: The lady doth protest too much. With her pitch-black hair and doe eyes, Clio could send any man to his doom on the rocks of love without even batting