Sweet Shadows Read online

  I can’t believe this is my home now. It’s such a world away from the sleek and shiny surfaces in the loft. The loft, where everything was clean and gleaming and where I had everything I needed.

  The safe house reminds me too much of Phil and Barb’s. It’s a little too reminiscent of the place—not a home, never a home—I ran away from four years ago. There are no broken floorboards and all the furniture seems to be in working—if filthy—order, but it’s got the same vibe. I can practically picture my ex-parents sitting on the couch, watching the ancient TV and drinking themselves stupid.

  There are two important differences between this place and whatever rathole they’re living in right now. One, I don’t have to tiptoe around, terrified that I’ll wake one of them up, draw attention to myself, and bring out their fury. Here, I can throw my duffel bag on the floor, toss my gear pack onto the counter, and slam the door behind me without sending adrenaline pumping into my bloodstream.

  And two, if I remember correctly, is right behind the mostly empty bookshelf in the living room. I stomp through the apartment, walk up to the shelf, and grab the dusty white statue of Pan with one hand. Yanking the statue forward, I leap out of the way as the bookshelf swings down. It drops to the floor, landing with a soft thud on the well-worn carpet.

  Yes, exactly as I remembered.

  Spinning around, I don’t bother to kick off my boots before collapsing back on the Murphy bed. A fluffy gray comforter puffs around me and, although the bedding smells a little stale, it’s clean. It’s comfortable. And it’s just what I need.

  Less than a minute later, I’m dead to the world.

  CHAPTER 4

  GREER

  As I stand on my front stoop, staring at the six sets of gouges in our white-and-gold front door, I think it’s reasonable to expect a little near-death-experience reaction. In my mind I see those big, meaty hands snapping my neck or tearing off body parts I’d rather keep. My heart races and I feel survivor’s adrenaline coursing through my body. Is this my life now?

  “Greer?”

  Kyle appears in the open front door with worry etched on his handsome face. I completely blanked. When we talked on the phone a few short hours ago, I invited him over for a makeup date after my unexpected departure from dinner at Ahab’s the other night. A sea dracaena climbing out of the bay is a valid excuse, I suppose, but not one I can share with Kyle.

  I told him to come over and bring strawberries. Then a six-armed giant showed up at my door. Not surprising that I forgot all about my boyfriend’s visit.

  “Kyle,” I say with a forced smile, “I totally forgot about our—”

  “What the freak happened?” he shouts.

  Before I can answer, he pulls me into a tight hug and squeezes me against his chest. This is an unusual display of emotion from him. I wrap my arms awkwardly around his waist and pat his back.

  “I was so worried,” he says next to my ear. “I got here and saw the messed-up door and then the disaster inside and—”

  “Disaster?” Oh no.

  “Yeah, the whole place is turned upside down,” he says, leaning back. “The thieves must have gone through everything.”

  “Thieves?”

  I open my mouth to explain. But what can I say? I can’t tell Kyle it was a Gegenees giant, not a team of thieves. I can just imagine the look on his face. Cool, calm, collected Greer has finally gone over the edge. Too much repressed emotion—it had to burst through sometime. Always knew she was destined for the psych ward. No, the truth is unbelievable. Kyle’s answer is so much easier.

  Burglary is common enough in Pacific Heights. Some of the city’s wealthiest residents live here, making it a prime target for high-end thefts.

  Our security system is top-of-the-line, designed to protect all the priceless antiques and artworks my parents have collected over the years. From the Colonial china cabinet to the Picasso sketch in the library, we have a collection that would make any thief drool.

  I’ll be lucky if nothing was stolen in the time the door has remained open since I fled the giant. Maybe it’s not such a lie after all.

  “Really?” I reply, trying to sound shocked. “Thieves?”

  “I don’t know if anything’s missing.” He reaches up and presses his palm against my cheek. “I thought they took you. You said you were going to be home, and when I got here—”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I know I have to stop him when I see the emotion in his eyes. I know Kyle likes me, says he loves me, even. But I’ve never realized how much he actually cares.

  “I wasn’t here,” I lie. Anything to soothe the worry from his face. “I had to make an emergency shopping run.”

  He smiles, a knowing kind of smile that says he knows how much I love shopping. His eyes scan me and then he frowns.

  “In your bare feet?”

  Sugar. I glance down, as if I expect shoes to magically appear. I was barefoot when I fled the giant, and didn’t seek out footwear in Gretchen’s loft—combat boots aren’t really my style. And then there was the explosion and, well, I’ve been traipsing across San Francisco in my bare feet.

  “Would you believe I’ve taken up barefoot running?” I ask with a laugh. When he frowns harder I say, “No, I didn’t think so.”

  “Greer, what’s going on?”

  “I, um—” Oh great. I never stammer. I need to think of a reasonable explanation quickly. “I left them in the car, silly,” I tease. “My feet are killing me.”

  That last part isn’t a lie, either. But if Kyle thought my calling him silly was out of character, he doesn’t show it.

  “Did you come out through the house?” he asks with a frown. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “No, I—” Deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible, I say, “I was frightened. I saw the front door as I drove by and was afraid to go inside. I came around on the sidewalk.”

  He seems to accept that answer as believable.

  “We need to call the cops,” he says, sounding more like a future senator than ever. “They’ll want to file reports, record the damage. Stuff like that. The insurance company will want documentation.”

  Sugar, sugar. I don’t want the police involved. I don’t want things messier than they already are. What other choice do I have, though? There is no way I can offer my parents a believable explanation for the damage. Our front door will need to be replaced, it will take our full staff days to restore the interior to rights, and there’s the not insignificant matter of my dented hood.

  As much as I don’t relish the idea of lying to law enforcement and filing a false police report, I can’t think of a better option.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Let me go grab the house phone and I’ll make the call.”

  By the time the police leave with enough fake details to fill a report about the supposed thieves, I’m exhausted and all I want to do is fall into a steaming hot bath with a chamomile fizzy bomb. Kyle walks up and puts his arms around me. I let my head drop onto his shoulder, glad to have someone to hold me up.

  I feel a twinge of guilt about Gretchen, who took down both monsters and then went home to an empty house—an empty safe house that isn’t even her home—and who doesn’t have anyone to lean on.

  Kyle’s hands slide smoothly over my back and I close my eyes. This is just what I need. A warm, reassuring hug. Maybe a little massage. The feeling that everything will be—

  His hands slip lower, cupping my bottom. He whispers in my ear, “I thought we’d never be alone.”

  My eyes flash open. Is he joking? I pull back to look at his face and find no trace of humor there.

  He squeezes me close.

  “Kyle,” I warn, “I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Come on, babe,” he complains. “I thought we were going to spend some quality time tonight.”

  I press my palms against his shoulders and push as I step back out of his embrace. The sudden distance between us is more than the kind that can be measured in inche
s.

  A biting comment is right on the tip of my tongue, but I force myself to take a calming breath first. I take inventory of my emotions. I expect to feel angry or insulted or even offended. Instead, I feel … disappointed.

  Kyle and I have been going out for almost a year. By now, shouldn’t he care more about my well-being than about getting a little action? Especially after the day I’ve had? Even if he doesn’t know the whole truth, he knows I’ve been through a traumatic event. And just when I’d started believing he truly cares about me.

  “I’m tired,” I say dispassionately. “I need to go to bed.”

  And in that moment I feel my connection to Kyle fade away. All this time and effort I’ve put into him, and it adds up to nothing.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell him.

  He gives me a sad, puppy-dog look and I almost want to tell him it’s okay, that he can stay and we can cuddle on the couch. But I don’t think he wants to cuddle, and I know I don’t want anything more than that.

  Then he throws me that lopsided surfer-dude smile and says, “Sure thing, babe.”

  Before I can even open my mouth to say good night or give him a piece of my mind for calling me babe—again—he’s walking out the front door.

  “Good night,” I say with a bit of a bite.

  He just waves over his shoulder and disappears into the night.

  All I want to do is climb upstairs to my bathroom, run a tub full of steaming water, and soak this night away. But when I close the damaged door and turn back into the house, I see the destruction left in the wake of the giant and I know I can’t leave it such a mess. Mother would be furious.

  I take a deep breath, shake off my exhaustion, and begin straightening up. I start in the foyer, righting the small nineteenth-century table that is on its side across the room and re-placing it beneath the big gilded mirror. I adjust the mirror so it’s hanging square once more. There is a crack in the lower right corner and I smile at the thought of the giant having seven years of bad luck. That unluckiness probably started tonight when Gretchen found him and sent him home.

  I move on to the dining room, resetting chairs and re-tying drapes. Then to the living room, where the shredded couch cushions need more than just a straightening. I’m taking a bag full of stuffing to the trash chute when I hear a car pull into the garage downstairs.

  My heart thuds and my palms turn clammy. I like to think of myself as a strong young woman, prepared to face most anything with calm and poise. Anything, that is, except my mother.

  I fight the instinct to run, to escape to my room and pretend it’s all a bad dream. That would only make things worse.

  Footsteps on the back stairs echo closer and then the door is swinging open.

  Mother steps into the kitchen, looking like a queen. Her icy blond hair is swept into a crisp chignon, her deep purple business suit is still perfectly pressed after a full day of wear, with bold but tasteful jewels around her neck and wrist. No one would mistake her for anything less than she is: perfect.

  “Why is the garage open?” she demands. “Are you trying to invite thieves into our home?”

  “No, Mother,” I say automatically. I brace myself for the lie I have to tell. “There was a break-in. I was just—”

  “What did they take?” She sets her satchel on the counter and strides into the house to inspect.

  Dad steps into the kitchen, worry creasing his distinguished, graying brow. “Are you okay, Greer?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I reply.

  He steps close, lifts a hand, and rests it on my shoulder. For a second I think he wants to hug me. And in this moment I would let him.

  But then Mother returns. “What was taken?”

  “As far as I can tell,” I say, hiding the quiver in my voice, “nothing.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

  I resist the urge to shrug. “I did a cursory inventory when the police were here, for their report, and I couldn’t find anything specific missing.”

  She studies me, trying to gauge whether I’m telling the truth, whether she needs to interrogate me about the situation, whether I’m guilty of some minor transgression that requires punishment.

  I can’t take the pressure, not after tonight. For the first time in my life, I lift my gaze and look her directly in the eye—not slightly to the left, so it appears that I’m meeting her gaze while avoiding her usual lecture on the importance of eye contact. Staring straight into her suspicious eyes, I say, slowly and carefully, “Nothing was taken. The police think it was vandals.”

  When Grace told me about our hypnotic powers, I thought she was being ridiculous. I also thought I would never have reason to use them, even if they were real. I have no trouble getting people to do what I want. Everyone but my mother. So I have to try.

  When I see her eyes lose focus and she repeats, “Nothing taken. Vandals.” I feel a giddy bubble rise up inside me.

  It worked. It really worked.

  Dad, oblivious to what has just happened, walks up to her and rests a hand against her lower back. “It sounds as if Greer has everything under control, Helen.” He throws me a sympathetic smile. “We’ve all had long days. I’ll have Natasha call the housekeepers in the morning, and the house will be back to normal when we return home tomorrow night.”

  “Of course.” I smile, trying to appear positive when I know I will have to be the one to talk to Natasha because Dad will be at the office before dawn. I will take care of it, as I always do.

  Mother just looks at him, her face still oddly blank, and she lets Dad lead her to the stairs up to their second-floor bedroom. As he guides her into the stairway, he looks back at me and we share a knowing smile. If he notices Mother’s unusual malleability, her slightly odd behavior, he doesn’t comment.

  I nod good night to Dad and wait until I hear their bedroom door shut before I release the tense energy coiled up inside me.

  My bath is calling me, but I have to face the rest of the cleanup first. Yes, I will make sure the housekeepers come tomorrow, but the better things look when Mother comes down in the morning, the better things will be for everyone in the household.

  As I move throughout the first floor, smoothing rugs and straightening portraits of ancestors who no longer belong to me, I can’t keep the tremor from my hands. Even if my hypno powers helped give me the confidence, I just told my mother and the police bald-faced lies. My boyfriend is proving to be too callous and selfish for my taste. And tonight I escaped death by six-armed giant, manticore, and explosion. My life is changing faster that I can keep up with, and for the first time in my life, I’m not 100-percent certain I can handle it.

  There are little cracks forming in my controlled facade, and I’m afraid it will take more than a hot bath and a good night’s sleep to repair them.

  For tonight, though, they’ll have to suffice.

  CHAPTER 5

  GRACE

  Despite my crazy late night, I’m waiting outside Ms. West’s office first thing the next morning. Actually, I left home so early, I got to school before the front doors were open. The custodian let me in when he saw me sitting on the front steps, and then the secretary let me into the office so I could wait for Ms. West on the bench outside her door.

  One reason for my eagerness is that I want to talk to Ms. West and find out for certain if she’s the Gorgon Sthenno. I’m pretty sure—as sure as I can be—but it pays to be cautious. Especially after last night. I have to be a little strategic.

  But the other reason is that I wanted to get out of the house before Mom and Dad were up. I knew Mom said Dad and I should talk this morning about my irresponsible behavior, but I couldn’t face the prospect. I couldn’t sit there and listen to them explain how disappointed they are in me and how I know better and how they thought they could trust me. It breaks my heart that I can’t tell them the real reason I disappeared last night. It breaks my heart that this new part of me, this shadow life with triplet si
sters and a mythological legacy, might be causing a crack in the relationship I have with my parents. It kills me, but I don’t have another choice. Telling them is not an option. I have to keep my shadows to myself.

  “Grace?” Ms. West asks as she arrives at her door. “Is something wrong?”

  She looks the same as always: tall, elegant, poised. Wearing a crisp suit in a soft shade of gray and heels that would make Greer proud. Hair in a tight, low ponytail. Simple gold jewelry. Same generically welcoming look on her face.

  Even though she hasn’t changed since yesterday, the way I’m looking at her has. I see the little details I missed before. The sense of strength emanating from every inch of her body. The ancient design of her earrings. And, most of all, the wisdom in her soft blue eyes. The wisdom of someone far older—by millennia—than the thirty-something image she presents.

  How did I miss these signs before? Or am I just seeing them now because I want to?

  I can’t take the risk that I’m wrong, that I’ve guessed wrong. My sisters and I have too much at stake. So instead of asking, Hey, aren’t you an immortal Gorgon? I say, “Yeah. I need to talk to you about my English class.”

  She smiles blandly and says, “Of course.”

  As she unlocks the door to her office, I mentally play through what I want to say. By the time she has settled into the chair behind her austere desk, and I’m in one of the facing chairs, I’m still trying to figure out how to begin.

  The picture on the wall behind her draws my attention. The pristine white sand, the brilliant turquoise waters. There’s something intensely familiar about it.

  In an instant, I know what I have to say.

  “That’s a beautiful picture,” I say, sitting on the edge of my chair. I drop my gaze to meet her eye to eye. “Is it the Aegean?”

  At first she doesn’t react. I sense a slight shift in her, maybe a narrowing of her eyes at the corners or an imperceptible straightening of her spine.

  She blinks once. “It is.”

  The right side of her mouth quirks up a fraction of an inch.