Sweet Shadows (13 page)

As they wander back down the field, Milo helps me to my feet again. “I’d better get back to practice. I’ll call you Sunday.”

“Perfect,” I agree. “I’ll answer your call.”

He turns away to leave, but I reach out for his hand. When he turns back, his eyes full of questions—either because of the hypno trick or because I stopped him—I reach up on my tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” I say.

He smiles, confused.

“For”—I shrug—“caring.”

He grins, and then leans down to give me a matching kiss on the cheek.

As he turns and heads back to practice, I lift my hand to my cheek. Fight a harpy, get a kiss. A girl could get used to that deal.

A
s the halls of Immaculate Heart empty of overachieving students heading home after their extracurricular activities, I make my way from the Student Council conference room to the gym. Athletics aren’t exactly top priority at my school. We have few sports teams, and most of them practice at the community college athletic center two blocks away. Our gym is nearly ancient. It’s barely suitable for basic physical fitness classes.

I push open the doors and hide my revulsion at the stench of decades of gym classes. Even the semiannual industrial cleaning can’t completely wipe out eau de sweat and dirty socks. I can only hope that the cleaners I’ve hired to prepare the space for the alumnae tea can work a miracle.

Still, if you appreciate classic architecture, the gym is a thing of beauty. The vintage wooden parquet floors date back to the fifties. A principal in the 1980s wanted to rip it up and replace it with state-of-the-art linoleum or something, but the alumnae stood strong and finally the principal backed down. By the end of the year she was looking for another job and the gorgeous floor had been refinished and declared a historic part of the school.

Even the bleachers are vintage. Aged wood, pine I suppose, that fold back against the wall when not in use.

Since the nearest assembly is weeks away, today the bleachers are pushed out of the way, forming twin walls of worn, warm-hued pine on either side of the room.

For a moment, I allow myself to picture what it will look like for the alumnae tea a week from Saturday.

Despite my regular arguments with my cochair, Veronica—whose taste in decor is no better than her taste in starving-artist boyfriends—I know the effect will be breathtaking. Dozens of round tables with white tablecloths hanging to the floor. Place settings and centerpieces in shades of white, gold, and purple—our school colors. Giant swags of fabric draping across the ceiling, shining with the glow of thousands of fairy lights behind them.

The center attraction will be a beautiful dragon topiary, ivy and honeysuckle covering a fine wire frame, crafted by a master floral artist. That too will be filled with fairy lights, so the school mascot will appear to glow from within. I can almost smell the honeysuckle.

Almost.

“Gross,” Grace says as she pushes through the door. “Do all gyms smell the same?”

I turn away from my daydream. “Probably.”

She drops her backpack by the door and then rushes toward me in the middle of the room.

“Guess what!”

I stare at her for a moment, alarmed by the speed at which she is approaching. But she skids to a stop and I reply, “What?”

“I just autoported,” she squeals. “On purpose!”

“Really?” That’s quite impressive, since she’s only recently learned she has this power. I have yet to gain the slightest control over my second sight. I think the tightening in my chest might be jealousy—a foreign sensation. “Did you autoport here?”

Her face falls. “No.”

I thought that was the obvious follow-up question. It wasn’t my intention to make her feel bad. Before I can explain, she continues.

“I was about to get eaten by a harpy and—”

“A harpy?” If my semester of college-level mythology serves me right—and I’m certain it does—harpies are evil creatures sent to do Zeus’s dark bidding. “That must have been dangerous.”

“Yeah,” she says with a grin. “She had me cornered and then,
poof
, I was behind her. Got my bite in good.”

“Wow, that’s …” I’m not sure how to respond. She seems very excited, but it’s also frightening. Should she be taking on such a dangerous creature alone? Gretchen does it all the time, I know, but Grace and I are different. We’re … untrained. I suppose that only makes her victory all the more remarkable, so I say, “Great.”

My encouragement seems to make her happy, because she nods and turns to look around the room. I’m surprised at how good it makes me feel to make her happy.

“I thought I was running late,” she says, looking around the gym. “Where’s Gretchen?”

“Not here yet.”

We stand in an awkward silence.

I can hold intelligent conversations with heads of state, billionaire CEOs, and the occasional celebrity who’s in town to film a movie or television show. But at the moment I can’t even make small talk with my sister. What is the matter with me?

“So,” Grace says, breaking—or rather, interrupting—the tension, “have you told your parents?”

“Excuse me?” I blink a few times. “Told them what? That I’m a descendant of Medusa?”

“No. That you, you know …” She lifts her eyebrows. “That you know you’re adopted.”

I jerk back.

“Of course not.”

The idea of having that conversation with my parents is not a pleasant one. Dad would feel sorry for me, sorry that I found out. Mother would tell me to grow up and deal with it, to be grateful for the opportunities they have given me. It certainly wouldn’t improve our relationships.

“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.”