Sweet Shadows

  With the Gorgons gone, Gretchen and her friend Nick—who apparently knows something about what’s going on—in the abyss, and Greer and me completely clueless since the oracle’s note was a bust, I feel helpless. How am I supposed to figure out how to get Gretchen back? Or break the seal on the door? Or take up the guardianship that is my destiny, that was prophesied when the door was sealed?

  Is there any way for me to figure this out? I don’t even know where to start.

  Well, I’m not giving up. I need to approach this the way I do any other problem. Research, analyze, evaluate.

  Reaching into the bottom drawer of my desk, I pull out the one piece of reference material I have. The book about the Gorgons.

  I’ve read it cover to cover a dozen times since the loft blew up. There is a lot of information about Medusa, about her sisters, about the generations to come after them. Some things, I can tell, have been covered only vaguely, for the protection of the line. For my protection and that of my sisters.

  I wish for the billionth time that I’d had the chance to start digitizing the books in Gretchen’s library before it blew up. Sure, I got to most of the monster binders, and I’m sure that information will be helpful at some point. Especially when I have time to put the info into an app. But right now, I wish I had more than this lone book. More than a single source of information.

  Gretchen has been gone a week and we’re no closer to getting her back. I’m desperate for any possible clues.

  I flip it open to a familiar page, where it talks about the Key Generation.

  Into every generation since have been born three children, three daughters to carry on the guardian legacy.

  When the time to break the seal draws near, a time predestined by the fates upon the moment of closure, the Key Generation will arrive. It will be a generation born in the same moment of the same womb.

  The Key Generation is safe from neither the forces of supposed good nor those of confirmed evil. The children must be protected at any cost, by any measure, separated to prevent their discovery by those who wish to render the scales unbalanced.

  Only when the Key Generation has reached maturity will the three be able to join together to break the seal, thus restoring the natural order. There are those on both sides of this war who would prevent this occurrence by any means available.

  I reread the passage several times, trying to brainstorm new ideas from old information.

  Three girls. Every generation. Same womb. Separated at birth.

  Same womb. Same mother.

  Mother.

  “Dummy,” I blurt. “Why didn’t I think of this earlier?”

  Our biological mother. She must know something. She must. She knew enough to give us up, to separate us. She might know more. If she’s even still alive or still around. Ms. West said they haven’t been in contact for ages, but I might be able to find a digital trail. Even if she’s not findable, there are three girls in every generation. There might be aunts and cousins out there too. Maybe they know something. Maybe they can help.

  At this point, I’m willing to try anything.

  Flipping open my laptop, I power it up and get ready to do some master hacking. I’ve gotten into the adoption records before to find Greer. Surely I can get in again, and into other databases.

  Breaking through the firewall is easy. I’ve been there before. But once I’m inside and looking at our adoption records, things become trickier. Birth mother records are under heavier protection. Her name doesn’t appear in any of our files, and when I try to search for our three names, I only come up with things I’ve already found.

  “Come on.” I tap my fingers lightly on the keys, thinking. “Be smarter than the system. Be logical.”

  Okay, so if there’s no connection between our records and hers, maybe I’ll have to search just for her. I create a search using what information I do know. I’m looking for a female, a mother of triplets, who participated in an adoption sixteen years ago. I also make a guess at her age, thinking she could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five when she had us.

  I click submit and wait while the computer thinks.

  Maybe this is pointless. She might have had her record wiped clean, or those who want me and my sisters to fail might have done it for her. To prevent us from ever finding her.

  I get up and start pacing.

  For sixteen years—or at least as many of them as I can remember—I’ve known I was adopted. I’ve known Mom and Dad were my parents in every way that mattered. And I’ve never felt that desperate urge to find my birth mother. Until now.

  It’s not just the mythological thing either. Thinking about her, imagining her and what her life has been like since she gave us up, has made me curious. I want her help, yes, but I want to know her too.

  Beep-beep.

  I stop and turn to stare at the computer screen. Even from several feet away I can see that there is a result.

  Racing back to my desk, I bang my knee against the wood as I fly back into my chair. There, on the screen, in digital black on white, is a single entry.

  Cassandra Gregory

  I bite my lip to contain my excitement. With a shaking hand, I reach for the mouse. When I click on the name, it takes me to a scanned profile record. The data is limited. Her age and address at the time of adoption. She was twenty-four and lived somewhere in the Mission district.

  I scroll down, past dozens of empty fields. No phone number, no father’s name, no next of kin, no physical description. At the bottom there is a notes field. Two comments are scribbled in that field in two different handwritings. They look like they were written years apart.

  Requests daughters be given following names: Greer, Grace, and Gretchen.

  Contacted agency, requested access to adoption records. Request denied, per California Family Code § 9203.

  After the second note is a date—four years ago—and a phone number. A phone number! It might not be much to go on, but people have been found using less. It’s a place to start, anyway.

  I’ve just sent the profile to my printer when I hear the front-door lock click open.

  My heart pounds. Dad will be at work until late. Mom said she wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. Who could it be? My imagination comes up with all sorts of possibilities, none of them good. All of them monster filled.

  Since the hall outside my room leads straight to the front door, I can’t sneak out and get in a better position. Instead, I press my back up against the wall next to my open door, listening for sounds of the intruder.

  At first, I don’t hear anything. I wonder if I imagined the sound. I was pretty focused on my search. Maybe I—

  Squeak.

  A floorboard in the hall, just outside my bedroom, creaks under the weight of a footstep. My heart punches against my chest.

  I can do this. I’m trained. I can face whatever monster has come to get me.

  I squeeze my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, and then leap out into the hallway as the intruder walks by.

  “Aaaarrrrggh!” I scream as I land on his back, tackling him to the ground.

  Using one of Gretchen’s moves, I shove his face into the carpet, grab one arm, and twist it behind to his back to get leverage.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “Grace?” a deep—familiar—muffled voice asks.

  I jerk back. “Thane?”

  “Yes.” He heaves a heavy breath. “Let me up.”

  “Omigosh.” I release his arm and jump to my feet, quickly rushing to help him. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  He shakes his arm and gives me a wry look.

  For a moment, I just take him in. He’s been gone only a week and a half, but it feels like a lifetime. He looks older. The skin around his left eye is yellow, like a healing bruise. His lower lip is split and—I glance down at his hands—so are his knuckles.

  “Thane, what happened?” I reach out to take one of his hands, but he pulls away. “Were you in
a fight?”

  He rolls his shoulder and doesn’t say anything.

  When he starts to walk past me, like he’s going to his room or the bathroom as if nothing’s happened, I grab his elbow.

  “Leave it, Grace,” he says, shrugging out of my grip.

  Well, doormat Grace might have let him get away with that, but she’s long gone. I reach for him with both hands, wrapping them around his arm and yanking him back to face me.

  He winces in pain and I almost let him go.

  “You said you were going to be gone for two or three days,” I say. “You’ve been gone a week and a half. Do you know how hard it was to keep Mom and Dad from going to Milo’s to find you?”

  He stands there, silent.

  “I lied for you,” I say, getting louder. “I covered for you.”

  I have the urge to punch him.

  “You have no idea,” I say, “what things have been like since you left.”

  My eyes water, and I guess that finally breaks through his tough-guy act, because he shakes off my grip on his arm and pulls me into a hug.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I say, stepping out of the comfort of his hug. “Tell me where you were. Tell me what happened.”

  His stormy gray eyes are full of shadows. “I had to confront something from my past. Something that wouldn’t let go of me.”

  “What? That’s not an answer,” I demand. I reach up and touch his bruised eyebrow. “Who hurt you?”

  “I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not proud of my past.”

  “You’re my brother. I love you. I don’t care about your past, I only care about you.”

  “We all have secrets, Grace,” he says, with a hint of accusation—or maybe that’s me projecting my guilt about the secret I’m hiding. His gaze drops to his hands. “I have to keep mine.”

  I want to push him for more, to find out where he went and what he did. To make him tell me who hurt him so I can hurt them right back. But if I’ve learned anything in the last month, it’s that some secrets are worth keeping. How can I fault him for keeping his secrets when I’m steadfastly keeping mine?

  Maybe that’s something I can make him talk about in the future, but at this moment, I don’t care. He’s home, he’s mostly unharmed. That’s all that matters.

  “I respect that,” I tell him. I lean in for another hug. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

  He whispers, “Me too.”

  “Are you hungry?” I ask. “I bet you’re starved. Let me see what Mom left in the fridge.”

  Before he can answer, I dash into the kitchen. I’ve just found the bowl of leftover vegetarian chili from last night when the doorbell rings.

  “Got it,” Thane says.

  And just like that, everything is back to ordinary. As I pop the bowl in the microwave, I grin. Mom and Dad are going to be so overjoyed that he’s home—even if they didn’t know he went anywhere other than Milo’s house. Life is going to be back to normal before I know it. Now, if we can just get Gretchen home, then everything will be perfect.

  CHAPTER 23

  GREER

  When I ring the doorbell at Grace’s apartment, I don’t imagine anyone but Grace will greet me. I know I should have considered a scenario in which one of the other members of her household opens the door, but when the handle turns and the door swings open, I’m speechless to see a boy standing there.

  His eyes are startling. A dark, stormy gray that sweeps over me like a spring thunderstorm. The look on his face—a face full of sharp lines and chiseled planes—is equally turbulent. Angry even. With his thick brows drawn into a deep scowl, it doesn’t take second sight to know he’s not thrilled to see me.

  Oh dear. This is Grace’s brother. What was his name again?

  If I could go back in time five minutes, I would pull out my phone and call Grace instead of following another resident into the building and taking the elevator to her floor. I would stay on the sidewalk around the corner.

  That’s not an option now, though.

  As lame as I know it is, I say, “Hi. I’m Greer.”

  He looks me up and down, his scowl deepens, and he turns and walks away. I watch his broad shoulders retreat into the apartment. Since he didn’t slam the door in my face, I’m going to assume I’m welcome to follow.

  I follow him to the kitchen door, where I can see Grace punching buttons on the microwave. She turns when he calls her name.

  I brace myself for her reaction.

  Her face drops, and I can practically feel her panic. Not that I blame her. If she’d been spotted at my school the other day, I’d have felt the same way. She recovers quickly though and gives me a little wave. “Hi, Greer.”

  “Grace?” her brother repeats.

  She squares her shoulders, and I admire her bravery as she says, “Thane, this is my long-lost sister Greer. Greer, this is Thane.”

  He looks over his shoulder, the twisting motion pressing the edge of his arm against mine. Everything about him—the grim set of his mouth, the furrowed brow, the stiff stance—clearly indicates he is not happy with my presence.

  I feel awkwardly uncertain. I don’t have siblings—well, I didn’t have, not ones I grew up with. I have no frame of reference for what goes on between brother and sister. I don’t understand the dynamics.

  “Greer,” she says, “can you give us a minute?”

  I nod and retreat to the living room next to the front door. Even though I try hard not to hear, some of their muffled conversation is unavoidable. Words like blood and family and can’t tell ring clear.

  All the words are Grace’s. If her brother is speaking, I can’t hear him.

  As I sit there, trying not to eavesdrop, I can’t get the image of his eyes out of my mind. Dark, gray, hard. Lonely. Longing. The image blurs and shifts, zooms out. Becomes something else.

  I see him standing in the kitchen with Grace. Either this just happened, or it’s happening right now.

  “She’s my blood, Thane,” Grace says. “My biological family.”

  “That’s pretty obvious,” he says. “How long have you known?”

  “Awhile.”

  He scowls.

  “A few weeks,” she says.

  He shakes his head.

  “Thane …”

  “I get it. I’m glad you found each other.”

  Grace hugs him. “Please. You can’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  Thane says, “I know.”

  An echo of his voice says, “I already knew.”

  “Greer?” Grace shakes me, pulling me out of the vision. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks damp. A door down the hall slams shut.

  I try to focus my mind, back in reality. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she says, wiping at the tears beneath her eyes. “He’s happy for me. He’s just … shocked, I guess.”

  She drops down next to me on the couch. For several long moments she’s lost in her thoughts. I want to comfort her, but I don’t think telling her about my vision will help.

  “I—” She sniffs. “I knew I couldn’t keep this a secret forever. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.”

  And this is all my fault. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she blurts, turning to face me with her whole body. “No, it’s fine. I should have told them sooner. As soon as I found out. I was too scared, I guess. It’s better that they know. Well, Thane knows. He won’t tell Mom or Dad unless I ask him to.”

  “Will you tell him everything? Will you tell your parents?”

  “How can I?” She shakes her head. “I’ll have to. Someday. I just—I don’t want them to worry.”

  I nod, but I don’t really understand. If I told my parents about my heritage, my destiny, they would rush me to the nearest therapist. I’d be committed to a psychiatric ward for life. They would never understand. They would never want to understand.

  “It’s okay. It’ll be fine,” Grace says. “So, why did you come ov
er?”

  “Right,” I say, relieved to be back on solid ground. “I think I know how to get to Gretchen.”

  “Really?” she squeals.

  “Well, I know how to figure out how to open the portal anyway.”

  “Okay,” she says, slightly less enthusiastic. “How?”

  I take a breath. “I need to hold the pendant.”

  “Oh no.” Grace jumps to her feet. “No way—you heard what Nick said.”

  I rise to face her. “I know. But I had a”—I search for the appropriate word—“I guess, a vision.”

  Grace gives me a skeptical look.

  “I did,” I say. “Besides, what do we really know about Nick? What do we know about his motives? His background?”

  “Gretchen trusts him.”

  “Yes,” I say, “but even if he’s trustworthy, that doesn’t mean he’s right. That doesn’t mean he knows everything. What other options do we have?”

  “I found a lead,” she says quietly. “To our birth mother. Her name is Cassandra Gregory and I found a phone number from four years ago.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I say, not fully understanding the change in subject.

  “We can find her,” she insists. “She can help us. You don’t have to take this risk.”

  I smile at her concern. “We don’t have time,” I reply. “If the number you found is old, it could take ages to find her again. If we can find her at all. Gregory is not an uncommon surname.”

  “But it’s another option. I don’t want your”—she wipes at tears—“brain to explode or anything.”

  “Grace,” I say, taking her hand and looking her straight in the eyes. I feel as if I have never been more certain in my life. “Trust me.”

  She takes a deep breath, considering. I can read her thoughts in her expression. She’s scared—for me, but also for Gretchen. She wants to do the right thing. She’s just not sure what that is. I know she’ll make the right decision.

  Finally she says, “Okay. It’s in my room. I’ll go get it.”

  “Good.” I sigh a relieved smile. “Then I think we should go to my rec room, to have plenty of space for whatever happens.”

  She nods. “Let me tell Thane I’m going.”