“Why not?” she asks. “I mean, they have to know you’d find out eventually. I’ve known since forever. My mom and dad never tried to pretend—”
“My parents,” I interrupt, giving the easiest explanation, “are too busy.”
“Too busy? To talk to their own daughter?”
She sounds aghast, and I suppose to an outside observer our relationship might be a bit unusual. But she has no idea the kind of pressure they’re under. They have not only our livelihoods and lifestyle to support, but also the jobs and livelihoods of thousands upon thousands of employees. Their positions are not as simple as bringing home a hefty paycheck. They feel enormous pressure because so many people are relying upon them to make their companies succeed.
Do I wish we could spend more time together? That I could talk with them about homework and boyfriends and the pressures I feel at school? Of course. But I understand.
In some ways, they face the same kind of pressure I feel to take up my duty as a descendant of Medusa. Countless people are relying on me and I cannot let them down.
For some reason, I feel the urge to explain the situation to Grace.
“They’re just—” My phone beeps, saving me from trying to justify my parents’ busy lives to Grace. I pull it out of my purse and see a message from Gretchen.
Going to be late. Start without me.
I show the message to Grace, who frowns. “Start without her? What does that mean?”
“I suspect she wants us to start training,” I say.
Grace gives me a surprisingly sarcastic look. “But how?” she asks. “I’ve only had a few sessions with her. I barely got through defensive techniques. I know hardly anything about offensive tactics.”
“Is that all the training entails?” I ask. “Defensive and offensive combat techniques?”
“Well, pretty much.” She makes a face. “At least as far as I know.”
I shrug. “Then we’ve nothing to worry about. I have eight years of tae kwon do training. I’m a fourth-level black belt.”
“A black belt?” Grace’s eyes widen and she looks like she wants to fall over in shock. “Are you kidding me? You acted so, so … helpless when we were fighting those monsters.”
“Not helpless,” I explain. “Out of my element. I can split a two-inch-thick block of wood with the palm of my hand, but I have obviously never trained in manticore-fighting tactics.”
She stares at me as if I’ve told her the Loch Ness monster is alive and well and living in San Francisco Bay. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be such a shock, considering the sea dracaena Grace and I saw climb out of the water the other night.
“You’re a black belt?” she repeats. “For real?”
“Of course.”
“But you seem so …” She waves her hand up and down at me. “Fragile.”
I purse my lips. “I prefer elegant.”
“Fine, elegant,” she throws back with an eye roll. “You look like a stiff wind could take you down. Like you’d shatter into a million pieces if a monster got too close. And those shoes …”
I glance down at my heels. They are the height of fashion and, after years of wearing nothing less, I’m as comfortable in them as Grace probably is in tennis shoes.
“You shouldn’t judge a girl by her exterior,” I say, although I know I am occasionally—often—guilty of doing the same. Even when it comes to my sisters. “Besides, tae kwon do is a barefoot endeavor. My shoes come off easily enough.”
“Show me something,” she says, as if she still doesn’t believe me.
“A demonstration?”
She nods. All right, that’s a challenge I’m happy to accept.
I step out of my shoes and set them next to my purse. I move to face Grace, a few feet in front of her, and stand in ready position.
“Block me,” I say.
“What—?”
Before she can finish, I execute a swift jab with my right hand, landing it softly against her neck. Regrouping into ready position, I explain, “Stop me.”
Grace spreads her feet—clearly Gretchen has taught her the benefit of a solid stance—and makes her hands into fists. This time, when I come at her with my left, she swings a forearm up to block my strike.
“Nice,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re giving me tae kwon do lessons. I thought for sure I had you beat when it came to combat.”
“Had me beat?” I swing my right foot around in a roundhouse, pleased when she casually blocks it with her left arm. “This is not a competition, Grace.”
“I know that.” She blocks a series of punches and kicks without really concentrating. Either Gretchen taught her well or her instincts are strong. I suspect the answer is a bit of both. “I just … I thought I was ahead of the curve.”
“I’m sure you are in something,” I assure her. “Just not this.”
She shouldn’t feel bad about her training level. In fact, for someone so inexperienced, her moves are quite advanced. This explains how she defeated the harpy.
I go at her harder, testing her defensive reactions. She deflects most of them, but as I increase my speed and start delivering more advanced moves, she starts to lose control. Backing away rather than fail under my onslaught, she waves her hands up in surrender.
“See,” she complains. “I can’t even defend myself properly.”
“You defended yourself excellently,” I say, settling back into ready position. “Far better than I expected from you, with such limited training. Besides, there are times when retreat is the better defense.”
“Oh.” Her posture softens. “I guess you’re right.”
I know we are both picturing the other night, when the monsters sought us out at our homes. Probably the one place we each let our guard down. Fighting wasn’t an option. Grace fled by autoporting to Gretchen’s loft. I fled by speeding through red lights and ignoring one-way street signs.
My heart raced harder in those moments, in my sprint from the front door to the garage, in the desperate chase from my home to the loft, than it ever had in my life. Training in martial arts is one thing, but an actual fight-for-your-life battle is another. If I am being brutally honest with myself, I was terrified. At night I’m haunted by nightmares where the giant grabs me before I can run, where the bear claws through Grace’s throat before she can autoport away, and where we don’t get there in time to save Gretchen from the manticore. Every time I fall asleep, I wake up in a cold sweat.
I’ve been telling myself the fear was exhilarating, that I’ve never felt so very alive, and so very proud of my abilities. I try to reassure myself that I reacted quickly and decisively and those reactions saved my life. As Grace’s saved hers. But my hands still shake and the nightmares still come.
Fear is not a familiar emotion. In my normal life, I insist that fear is for the weak willed. I am not afraid to tackle any social situation, academic project, or other challenge that comes my way.
In this new, unfamiliar world, I find myself fighting to hide my fear, to keep up the cool, calm, collected facade I’ve perfected over the years. Because the thing that scares me most of all is the thought that I won’t be able to hold it all together.
I refuse to allow that to happen. Stiffening my spine, I push the fear aside and focus on the moment. On the training. On Grace. If she can face these fears, so can I.
“We’ve proven that I have human-fighting technique,” I say, “and that you have had excellent defense training.” I take a deep breath and say, “Now I’d like you to give me some real training in monster hunting.”
“Me?” She looks around, startled.
I nod. “You’re the only one here. Teach me everything Gretchen has taught you so far.”
She hesitates, probably worried about being inadequate to the task. Clearly Gretchen is a solid tutor; otherwise Grace never would have been able to defend against my attack. I’m sure she has some monster-fighting skills as well.
“Okay,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “I can do this.”
I smile. “Of course you can.”
CHAPTER 12
GRETCHEN
Come on!” I pound on the door so hard the glass—and the surrounding windows—rattles. My only answer is an echoing silence and dust falling from the velvet hangings that cover the windows. The times I’ve been here before—once, four years ago, and then again last week—the storefront appeared just as empty as it does now.
Yet both times the door was unlocked. Both times I walked right inside and she was waiting for me. The oracle.
Last night I assumed she had gone home. That she is still gone and the door still locked this afternoon is not acceptable.
“Aaargh!” I pound my right hand harder on the glass, not caring if I shatter the ancient thing, not caring if I spill some magical healing blood that flows through the veins of my right arm. Just so long as I can get inside.
“Way to be discreet,” Nick says, wrapping a hand around my wrist and pulling my arm away from the door. “You want the whole neighborhood to take an interest?”
I glare at him. And then at the few pairs of curious eyes that are watching me assault the door. Whatever. One look in my eyes with a little subliminal suggestion, and they’ll forget they ever saw me. They’ll forget their own names for a while.
“I can take care of them.”
Nick steps into my line of sight, blocking my view of the interested spectators.
“That’s not necessary,” he says, his voice low and adamant.
I yank my wrist out of his grasp. “What would you know about it?”
“I’ve been around the mythological block a time or two,” he says, as if I’ve forgotten. “I know all about what happens when you mess with someone’s mind.”
His dark eyes get a faraway look, and I have a feeling he’s lost in some kind of shadowed memory. Or maybe a dream. I don’t have the time—or patience—to care right now.
“I’m just frustrated,” I admit. I turn and give the bottom of the door a solid kick. “Where could she be? Why isn’t she here?”
Nick snaps out of his memory. “I don’t know,” he says. “Oracles are meant to be tied to a location, to a mystical spot where their powers are strongest. If she has moved on—”
“Then something must have happened,” I finish. She might have been attacked or frightened away. Or, if current trends continue, taken prisoner. Anyone who helps me and my sisters seems to disappear. “We need to get inside.”
Nick nods.
I pull my long-sleeved tee down at one wrist, securing it tight against my arm. I wish I still had my leather jacket. “Shield me,” I say as I turn and lift my elbow. One swift jab to the glass and we’ll be inside before I can say Bring it, beastie.
“Whoa, hold on there, eager beaver.” Nick stops my momentum and tugs me away from the door. “Violence isn’t always the answer.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out something small and shiny. I can’t tell exactly what it is, but he steps up to the door and grabs the handle. “You,” he says with a smirk, “shield me.”
I scowl and then turn to face the sidewalk, keeping him at my back and hiding his actions from the view of the passersby. I hear the faint scrape of metal on metal. A few seconds later, a quiet whine announces his success. I turn around just in time to see the door swing open.
He flashes me a cocky grin. “After you.”
I stomp past him, a little irritated by his arrogance—and by the fact that he has gotten us inside without destruction of property. And that he’s right. It would be much easier to explain an “unlocked” door than shattered glass to a squad of cops.
Inside, the space is as dark and dusty as ever. There is no furniture in the front room, which does its best interpretation of a deserted building.
But I know better.
Pulling out my car keys, I flick on my keychain flashlight and shine the brilliant blue beam around the room. At first, I don’t notice anything unusual. A thick layer of gray-brown dust covers the floor, the curtain rods, and the defunct chandelier hanging at the center of the room. I can see the faint outline of my bootprints from my last visit.
Clearly, this place is not on a regular cleaning schedule.
As my light sweeps over the room, Nick says, “Wait. Look.”
I shine my light where he’s pointing, at a disturbance in the dust. In the doorway to the back room there is a sweep of fainter dust, like something slid or was dragged through. The resettled layer of dust there is almost as thick as the dust covering my old bootprints. Whatever happened there must have been shortly after my last visit.
Leaving Nick in the dark, I run into the back room. My heart plummets. It’s a disaster. There are candles strewn across the floor. The small, scarred table is on its side in the corner, where it probably rolled after being tipped over. One of the wooden chairs lies in a pile of splintered wood, as if it was smashed over something.
“Whoa,” Nick exclaims as he looks in from the doorway.
“I don’t—” I shake my head and scan the room. “There isn’t any blood. She’s probably—”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he says, stepping into the room and to my side. “Oracles generally are. She probably saw it coming and was gone before this even happened.”
“What about the drag marks?” I demand, pointing at the tracks in the dust. “It sure looks like she was here when they showed up.”
“Not necessarily.” He turns to study the marks. “I can name a dozen creatures that might leave those marks with heavy tails or dragging limbs.”
I take a deep breath and hope that he’s right, that the oracle left before the creatures showed up. True, I barely know the woman. I’ve only spoken with her on two occasions, and neither time was exactly a social visit. But she guided me toward my destiny, helped me see the major turning point in my life when I went from worthless daughter to powerful descendant. I can never repay that gift.
“We need to find her,” I say.
“Gretchen,” Nick says, sounding disgustingly hesitant. “She could be … anywhere.”
“Then we’ll search anywhere. Everywhere.” I picture the matching layers of dust in my bootprints and the drag mark in the other room. “Whatever happened to her might be because of me. Because I visited her here.”
“You don’t know that.”
I stalk over to the table and pull it upright. “I owe her my help.”
Nick doesn’t say a word, but he moves to help me pull the table into the middle of the room.
“Besides,” I say, bending down to pick up some candles, “we need her. She’s the only one left who can help us find the Gorgons.”
To his credit, Nick just nods. He must sense how important this is to me—or how important her help is to us. While I gather candles from the floor, he returns the chairs to the table.
I’m setting the candles on the shelves when he picks up the broken chair.
“Hey, Gretch,” he says, sounding odd, “look at this.”
Shoving my armful of candles onto a nearby shelf, I hurry to his side. He holds out the seat of the chair, facedown.
I take the seat and study the bottom. There in the middle, held in place by pieces of masking tape that look decades old, is a square of yellowed paper that looks older still. I peel the paper off and set the seat on the table. As I unfold the square, the aged paper crackles like it might break in pieces.
“What does it say?” Nick asks.
The paper is covered in strange symbols. Just like the sign on the door written in ancient Greek.
I hold the paper toward him. “Can you read Greek?”
“Not a word.”
“Great,” I mutter.
I’ll have to find a translator. The note might have nothing to do with my situation. It looks as if it’s been there since before I was even born. But just in case, I fold the paper and stuff it into my back pocket. Maybe there’s another clue??
?one in a language I can understand—somewhere in the room.
“Search the rest of this room.” I walk toward a door leading into another room. “I’m going to check back here.”
The other room turns out to be a hall that leads to a back door and a back alley. There’s a door off to the right that opens onto a tiny bathroom. A brand-new bar of soap sits next to the faucet on the pedestal sink. There is a dark red hand towel on a small bar next to it and an antique-looking mirror, cloudy and oxidized, hanging above.
Nothing out of the ordinary for a bathroom.
As I turn to head into the hall, I flip off the light and a strange glint on the mirror catches my eye. I turn back and, leaving the light off, I shine my flashlight across the surface of the mirror. In the sideways light, an otherwise invisible message appears.
FIND THE LOST.
“Seriously?” The woman does not know how to leave a comprehensible clue. As if she could say anything more vague. There are so many lost things right now: the Gorgons, the oracle, my sanity.
But the clue does give me hope that there is something more for me to find here in the bathroom.
I turn the light back on and check around the base of the sink and in and around the toilet tank. Nothing. I stand on the toilet seat and use one of my daggers to unscrew the vent cover in the ceiling. All I find there is a century’s worth of dust and grime.
I wipe my hand off on my cargos and replace the vent cover.
As I hop down, I study the room critically. Analytically. Something’s not right, doesn’t fit, and I can’t quite put my finger on it....
I scan the tiny space, my eyes drawn again and again to the bar of soap. Why?
“It’s new.” I think it through out loud. “It’s new and clean and completely out of place in this filthy room.”
It must be another clue.
There isn’t a handy pipe wrench hanging around, so I drop to my knees in front of the sink, grab the U-shaped pipe underneath with both hands, and twist hard in opposite directions. The pieces give. When the connectors are unthreaded, I pull the pipe out and examine it. Black gunk. So thick I can’t see how water gets through.