Sweet Shadows (24 page)

Today, however, I’m distracted. I’m doodling—something I never do—and the pattern of hypnotic swirls that appears on my sheet of notebook paper kind of draws me in. Calls to me. As I stare, the rest of the room gradually fades away, and the swirls start spinning. Around and around, until I think I might get nauseous from the motion.

Then, suddenly, the swirling stops. My vision blurs for a moment and, in a flash of light, an image appears. Crystal clear, like the object is right here in front of me where, moments ago, there were only doodles on paper.

The pendant.

Hanging before my eyes, turning gently in a counterclockwise direction, is the oracle’s pendant. The pendant of Apollo.

The one Nick said I shouldn’t touch.

But everything about this image in front of me begs me to touch the pendant. It’s like a craving. I need to touch the pendant more than I need chocolate, deep tissue massage, and another pair of Louboutins. That’s
need
.

Maybe Nick was wrong. Maybe I’m
supposed
to touch it. Or, even if I’m not, maybe it’s the clue the oracle left. The note is a false clue, or a clue to something else.

The pendant is the key.

When I reach for it, the image dissolves like fog in the afternoon sun.

My teacher is standing over me, concern creasing his brow.

“Miss Morgenthal,” he says, “are you unwell?”

“What?” I feel a little disoriented, like an alien ship has dropped me off in the classroom. Then I remember where I am, where I’m supposed to be. “Oh, sorry.” But right now I need to be somewhere else. I press a hand to my head. “I think I have a migraine coming on.”

He nods—he’s always been very caring and understanding (or maybe respectful of the family name)—and says, “Why don’t you go ahead and go? We’re only five minutes from the bell. You can beat the rush.”

I nod gratefully.

I quickly gather up my things and try to maintain a pained look as I rush out of the classroom. As soon as I hit the hallway, I break into a run. I know my heels echo down the long corridor, but I don’t care. I need to get to Grace immediately.

She has the pendant. She has the key to getting Gretchen back. She’s had it all along—we just didn’t know it yet. Now that we do, I feel a sense of urgency. We need to get Gretchen now. Today. Before something awful happens to her.

“Miss Greer?”

I’m almost out the front door when I hear my name being called. I turn and see Harold—the spider-monster custodian—walking toward me. I take a deep breath, focusing my vision on the wall behind him so I don’t have to watch his eight legs tap-tap-tap across the floor.

“Yes, Harold?” I say with a cheery smile.

He shakes his furry head.

I force myself to stand still until he’s inches away. He leans in as close as his wide stance will let him and says, “It’s okay, Miss Greer. I know you can see me. I know who you are.”

This is ridiculous. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Others say you work to help us,” he says. “You and your sisters will break the seal. Guard the door.”

I imagine a loud
snap
as mythology meets real life.

“Harold, I—” Oh, really. What’s the point? “Yes,” I reluctantly admit. “We are.”

His smile—at least I think it’s a smile—is … joyous.

For a moment I think he wants to hug me, but either he realizes he’s got spider legs or he notices how I stiffen and lean away, because he pulls back.

“Dangers are rising,” he says. “The armies are building, training. You must take care.”

This is perhaps the most surreal conversation I’ve ever had. “Um, thank you.” I think.

“If you need help”—he leans close again, his voice urgent—“ever, anytime, you tell me. I will get word out and help will come.”

I can’t believe I’m about to say this to a giant spider talking and mopping, but I find myself replying, “I appreciate that, Harold.”

Then, as if this isn’t odd enough, I lift one hand and pat him on his furry black body.

As I’m climbing into my car a few minutes later, I’m still shaking my head. Clearly, the two halves of my life are colliding. And I’m not sure how to stop the inevitable.

T
he apartment is way too empty when I get home. Dad is at work, as usual lately. Mom has left a note saying she’s going to the home improvement store and will be home around dinnertime. Thane is still gone.

I miss Gretchen. She is such a presence, being around her is like being in a full house.

I head to my room and plop into my desk chair.

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.

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.

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.