Sweet Shadows
Authors: Tera Lynn Childs
EDICATION
For Kirsty, my first fan
ONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
G
REER
A
s I stare across Gretchen’s dining table at Grace, who is flipping through a binder about some ridiculously hideous monster straight out of mythology, I still can’t really fathom that there are two girls right here in this loft who look exactly like me. Same long, dark-blond hair—although mine glistens with pricey highlights—and silver-gray eyes that have always been my most unique characteristic. Not anymore.
Same height, weight, and shape. Same size. After the fight with the giant beast that was attacking Gretchen—a manticore, she called it—not even my keen fashion sense sets me apart. My clothes were positively disgusting, and the only thing keeping me from throwing them in the nearest incinerator is the designer label. Well, that and the fact that they’re kind of a badge of honor from my second real monster fight—evidence of a success more hard-won than my string of straight A’s and student government positions.
Anyway, my expensive clothes are in a trash bag by the door and I’m wearing a pair of Gretchen’s gray cargos and a white tank top. One good thing about being triplets, I suppose, is that we can share clothes. Barring extreme instances like this, however, I can’t imagine ever wanting to borrow anything from either of their closets. Eco-geek and military chick aren’t really my style.
“Look at his feet,” Grace says, sliding the open binder toward me and pointing at a drawing of a fairly normal-looking creature with backward-facing feet. It needs a good orthopedic surgeon.
“Gross,” I say, because it is and because I think it’s the kind of response she wants. Grace is thrilled to have found her sisters and can’t wait for us to become best friends. I’m not quite as enthusiastic. I already have an established life and boyfriend and circle of friends. But knowing there’s this secret side of my life is kind of exhilarating. And scary.
“You should see the panotii,” she says, her face contorting into a disgusted wince. “They have ears the size of their bodies.”
“Have you memorized all the binders?” I ask.
“No.” Her gaze drops and I can see her cheeks flush pink. She’s embarrassed by her dedication. “I’ve digitized most of them, though, and the funnier images stand out.”
She shouldn’t be ashamed to be a hard worker. She should be proud of her achievements. Instead, she seems more like the kind of girl who dismisses them. Afraid of appearing …
more
than others.
I’m about to tell her she should embrace her achievements, that her success should inspire others, not embarrass them. But before I can open my mouth, a violent wave of nausea assaults my stomach.
It’s so strong I lurch to my feet, certain I’m about to heave all over the shiny glass table.
As soon as I’m upright, the sensation moves, spreads to the rest of my body. I’m shocked, frozen by an overwhelming sense of dread, weighted to the floor by the most horrible fear I’ve ever felt.
From the edge of my vision I sense Gretchen walking into the room.
“What’s wrong?” Grace asks, and I can hear the worry in her voice.
“I—” I brace my hands on the table as my legs threaten to give out beneath me. “I don’t know. It’s just, all of a sudden, I got this really awful feeling.”
My sisters exchange a look.
“What kind of feeling?” Gretchen asks.
I turn to her, needing her strength in this moment. “Like something bad is about to happen.”
I’ve barely finished the sentence when Gretchen’s phone rings. She turns and runs for it and I focus on inhaling deeply, hoping that some meditative breathing will quell this incomprehensible sensation.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In—
Suddenly, Gretchen is sprinting toward us, arms wide and shouting, “Run!”
I’m still frozen, unable to process what exactly is happening, overwhelmed by the feelings assaulting me.
As Gretchen runs by, she snags my arm with one of hers. She grabs Grace with the other, pushing us toward the open door.
I feel my body take over, my feet moving to follow my sisters onto the balcony. I’m already climbing the railing when Gretchen grabs me under the arm and flings me up, over, and out.
As I fall into the water below, the debilitating feeling vanishes, and by the time I hit the freezing bay, my wits have returned. I brace myself to hit the surface.
The shock of the cold disorients me, inciting panic at being propelled under the waves, and I force myself to calm down.
Swim,
I tell myself. Thankfully Gretchen tossed me at such an angle that I haven’t gone down so much as out. Within seconds I’m on the surface and paddling back toward my sisters.
I see Grace’s head pop up first, just a few feet to my right. Thank goodness. Scanning the area for Gretchen, I feel my entire body flood with relief as she bursts into view.
They’re okay. We’re okay.
Treading water against the weight of wet clothes, I lean my head back as uncontrolled tears of shock and relief sting my eyes. That’s when I see the flames. Gretchen’s loft, the very space we were just standing in—joking in—is engulfed in flames and smoke.
Her home. It’s just … gone.
“This is bad,” I say.
Grace says, “Somebody tried to kill us.”
“You think?” Gretchen snaps.
Grace doesn’t deserve that, but I suppose this is a pretty extraordinary situation. Gretchen could use a lot of slack right now. We all could.
“All those books,” Grace says, shaking her head. “Thank goodness I got most of the binders done, but all those resources …”
She trails off, probably mourning the lost library. Maybe that’s her coping mechanism, focusing on that tangible loss instead of the reality of how close we came to dying just now.
Gretchen, on the other hand, isn’t bothering to cope. Even from several feet away, in the eerie glow of the fire, I can see the fury on her face.
I glance from her to the burning shell of the loft in disbelief. What just happened? Can that have been an accident? What about that phone call?
The chill of the frigid bay finally penetrates my fear-and adrenaline-flooded body. My muscles start spasming. I can ask questions later. If we don’t get out soon, we’ll go hypothermic. And after everything that’s happened I don’t exactly relish the idea of a trip to the emergency room to top it off.
“We need to get out of the water,” I say, my jaw tightening against the chill. When neither of them moves, I add, “Now!”
Startled from their thoughts—Grace from mourning the loss of all those books, Gretchen from her boiling anger at our near deaths—they turn toward shore and start paddling.
With shivering limbs, I swim after them. The activity works the fear out of my system and clears my mind. I push aside all the thoughts fighting to consume me until there is only one remaining: the feeling of dread I had up in the loft. Was that a freak coincidence? Or was it a premonition? And if it was, what good is a warning like that if it petrifies me in place?
San Francisco has a reputation for winterlike temperatures even in the summertime. Never have I been as thoroughly frozen to the core as I feel right now. Standing on the pier with my borrowed clothes clinging to me, soaked with icy water, I can’t stop the wave after wave of shivering chills that sweep over me.
My teeth are chattering as I say, “We need to get warm.”
“We need to get out of here,” Grace says, shaking just as hard as I am. “Someone will have called the fire department. And it’s not like we can really explain....”
She waves her hand in a circle and, as vague as the gesture is, I understand precisely what she means. From what Gretchen has said, very little of her life is legitimately documented. She doesn’t want anyone poking around, asking questions about the loft and who lives—lived—there, let alone the burning arsenal inside.
And none of us needs anyone asking about the triplets who nearly got blown up. Parents would be called, which would lead to even more questions. The kind I’m not prepared to answer yet.
“I agree,” I say. “My car is right over—”
“I don’t think the fire has reached the garage yet,” Gretchen says.
She’s looking at the building that was, until an explosion tore apart the upper level ten minutes ago, her home. Like she wants to go inside.
“You’re not serious,” I say. “You can’t go in there.”
Fine, so the flames are still in the upper level at the far end of the building. The smoke is pouring out from every opening, every crack. And where there’s smoke …
Gretchen spears me with a serious look. “I need that car,” she says. “I need what’s inside that car.”
Then, before I can argue the point—by telling her that it’s complete lunacy to run into a burning building that just
blew up
—she sprints toward a side door that presumably leads into the garage.
She’s insane. We’ve already almost died tonight—twice—and now she’s racing back into danger.
Grace starts to go after her, but I grab her, stopping her from following our sister into the inferno. One sister with a death wish is enough.
“Let me go!” she shouts, trying to twist out of my grasp. “We can’t let her go in alone!”
I understand the sentiment, but I hold Grace tighter. She’s not thinking clearly right now. I don’t want to risk losing her too.
“Do I really have to explain why rushing into a burning building is a bad idea?”