Sweet Shadows (16 page)

I give my sisters a brief description of the oracle, of her dark robes, wrinkled face, and hunkered body. Hopefully enough to make her stand out against a crowd. And they agree to text a photo if they think they’ve found her.

Minutes later, we emerge from the gym. Grace and Greer head for Greer’s Porsche to make a circuit of the city along its outer edges. Nick and I take Moira back to the storefront. By the time night falls, we’ve found nothing. Exhausted, I drive Nick back to his apartment and then head for the safe house. I hope my sisters have had better luck.

Y
ou’re driving too fast!” I squeal as Greer speeds through the same intersection for the third time. “We’re not going to find the oracle if you get arrested for reckless driving.”

Greer throws me a warning look. “It’s called offensive driving.”

“It’s something offensive,” I mutter under my breath, and when she asks what I said, I reply, “Nothing. Haven’t we been down this street before?”

“Yes,” she growls. “But I had to cut back through here to get across Mission.”

This is our third straight afternoon of searching, and as the sun dips down into the west, it looks like Friday is going to be just as fruitless as Wednesday and Thursday were. It’s no surprise that Greer is getting testy. Driving back and forth along the streets of San Francisco isn’t exactly all fun and games. It’s also panhandlers and homeless people and kids playing soccer in the street. I’ve stopped counting how many times her car has been hit by something. Soccer ball, dragon kite, and an overeager taxi.

Right now Greer’s hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles are snow white.

“Maybe we should take a break,” I suggest. “Stop for a coffee or something.”

Instead of answering, Greer jags the car hard to the left, U-turns in the middle of the street, and speeds back the way we came. Before I can ask her what she’s doing, the Porsche is pulling into a tiny parking spot and Greer is climbing out of the car.

I guess that’s a yes.

I follow her down the sidewalk and into a store with a bright pink-and-orange sign that reads
JUST GELATO
.

“Better than coffee,” she mumbles as she walks up to the counter. “A double scoop of hazelnut and espresso, please.”

The girl behind the counter nods and starts scooping two big balls of gelato from the freezer display. I’ve never had gelato, but it looks kind of like ice cream. And I do love ice cream.

“I’m buying,” Greer says. “What do you want?”

I study the case for a minute, trying to decide if I want something sweet and yummy, like strawberry or cotton candy, or rich and sophisticated, like Greer’s choice. In the end I can’t resist the allure of cotton candy
anything
.

The gelato girl hands me my cup, and while Greer pays, I take a seat at a table in the front window. It’s a tiny table, small and round with delicate black scrolls for legs. There’s barely enough room for two. It reminds me of something from a European café. Well, what I
imagine
a European café would look like. I bet Greer has firsthand experience.

When she sits down across from me, though, I don’t ask her about Europe or cafés or even gelatos. She’s a little—a lot—intimidating. Especially with that stormy scowl in place. Even though she’s my sister, I still feel like she’s far above my reach. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make me look stupid, so I remain silent.

“This is precisely what I needed,” she exclaims as she swallows her first bite of gelato. “Sugar, cream, and caffeine. Perfect.”

I smile and take another bite of my cotton candy. No caffeine, of course, but it’s beyond amazingly good. I could eat an entire tub.

As we sit there, silently eating our frozen treats, my mind wanders. I wonder what it would be like to be Greer, to be raised with so many extra advantages. I’ve never wanted for anything—nothing truly necessary, anyway—but the kind of money she comes from boggles my mind.

There is a cost, I’m sure. From what I’ve gathered, she doesn’t have a very close relationship with her parents. Or much of a relationship at all. As much as she acts as if the topic is off-limits, I’m curious.

“What are your parents like?”

She looks startled for a moment, pausing to lick her spoon before answering. “They’re …” She sounds like she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “Very successful.”

“I know that. But what are they like as people? As parents.”

She shrugs and I think she’s about to shut down. To pull the shutters and keep me out of her personal life. We might be sisters, but that doesn’t mean we’re family.

Then, to my surprise, she says, “Absent.”

She takes a big bite of gelato. I don’t try to force the conversation by saying or asking anything more. I leave her the option of continuing.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says, as if I’m passing judgment. “They’re great people. Truly great. Smart, dedicated, and they give back a lot.”

“But …,” I prod.

She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Sometimes I wish they were a little less driven and a little more … around.”

“It must have been hard,” I say, “growing up with parents who were rarely home.”

“I shouldn’t complain,” she says with a small smile. “I’ve had every advantage. The best nannies, the best schools, the best everything. I could have been far worse off.”

We fall silent and I think we’re both imagining Gretchen’s childhood. She doesn’t talk about her adoptive parents. Ever. But from the few hints she’s let slip, I gather they are pretty rotten excuses for human beings. Abusive addicts. I gaze out the window. It breaks my heart to think of her growing up in that environment. I may not have had all the economic advantages that Greer has, but I have parents who love me, who care for and provide for me. Gretchen definitely got the short end of the stick.

“Does it frighten you?”

I look up, startled by Greer’s question. “What?”

“Our destiny,” she says. “This guardianship we’re supposed to take up. Does it ever scare you?”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “Of course it does.”

She looks at me, studying me. Her elegantly waxed eyebrows pinch into a scowl.

“Any time I let myself stop to think about it for too long,” I say, “I’m terrified.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t show it.”

“Maybe I’m like you in that way,” I say with a smile. But I don’t think she wants a flip answer. “Every time I start to get scared, I think about our ancestors. About Medusa and how she gave her life for this destiny. About all the generations of ancestors after her who worked and sacrificed to keep our line alive.”

“And that helps?” she asks with disbelief.

“A little,” I say. “When I think of everything that’s been done to make sure the three of us would be right here, right now … Well, it makes the thought of walking away unthinkable.”

Greer nods, as if my answer helps, and goes back to her gelato.

I think we just bonded. To keep from beaming at her—that might undo our progress—I turn and study the world outside.

Across the street, I notice a familiar-looking boy standing outside a Mexican restaurant. He’s of average height with brown hair that’s golden at the ends, like he spends a lot of time in the sun.

“Oh, hey, isn’t that your—” I catch myself when I see who he’s standing with, and how they’re standing together. A girl.
Close
together.

But it’s too late. Greer turns and looks.

Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s not the boy I saw her with at Fisherman’s Wharf. Maybe it’s not her—

She slams her bowl down on the table. “That scumbag.”

Nope, not wrong.

She’s out the door before her spoon, bounced free from the bowl, slaps to the floor. I start to follow after her, to be her support. But then the thought of her boyfriend seeing me, her identical triplet, stops me short. That could only make the situation worse. I watch, helpless through the glass, as she crosses the street to confront him.

K
yle has his back to the street corner, so he isn’t aware of my approach. The girl he’s wrapping his arms around, however, has a full-on view.

She must sense my fury, because she says something quietly to Kyle and pulls out of his embrace. I’m already not having the best day ever. If she’s smart, she’ll back far, far away.

As I close the distance between us, Kyle turns around. I catch just the hint of shock before he recovers. His mouth spreads into a vast surfer-dude grin and he says, “Babe!”

My palm connects with his cheek before the drawled-out word is done. He lifts a hand to his stinging cheek.

“Babe, I can explain.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. Babe.” How many times in the last year have I asked—ordered, begged—him not to call me that? Countless. But has he listened or learned or even
cared
that it bothers me? No.

“Look, Greer,” he says, dropping the surfer-dude affect, “this isn’t what it—”

“Looks like?” I interrupt. “Then what exactly is it? Is she some long-lost cousin? Or a helpless girl you met on the street who can’t stand without help?”

“Greer—”

“Or
maybe
this is
exactly
what it looks like.” I spear the girl, who is cowering behind Kyle like a frightened kitten, with a fierce glare. My voice honey sweet, I ask her, “Is this a date?”

Her eyes widen, like she’s been hoping to be left out of this confrontation. No such luck. She nudges Kyle from behind.

“Listen, Greer,” he says, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk about this?”

“Is this a date?” I repeat, trying to sound more reasonable myself.

My entire life as I know it might be spiraling out of control, but I can still keep my emotions in check. I can control
them
, if nothing else.

Kyle glances over his shoulder as if he’s hoping the girl has disappeared—nope, his hoochie chick is still there—and then back at me with sad eyes. As if I might sympathize. He doesn’t have to say anything. I know the answer—and not because of my special mental powers, either. A girl just knows.

“I cannot believe I wasted my time on you,” I say. “I’m so much more than you deserve.”

A look crosses his face, a combination of shame and anger. I’ve wounded his pride and now he wants to win it back. Not by apologizing, I’m sure. There is something hateful on his tongue and I don’t need to stick around to listen. I’m not sure I could handle it at the moment.

I spin on my heels and storm away, ruining my perfect exit by stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk. Kyle calls after me and I have to fight the urge to lift my hand and show him a crude gesture. But no, I won’t let him make me stoop to his low-class level. I stalk to the end of the block and around the corner with my head held high. My dignity intact.

But the moment I’m out of sight, my facade shatters. I duck into the nearest alcove and lean my back against the brick wall, not caring what the rough surface will do to my silk top. I cover my face with my hands and it all just comes out.

The emotion surprises me. I thought I had kept my feelings for Kyle superficial. I knew I liked him, but I never really let it go deeper than that. Ours was more of a business relationship—popular girl with bright future plus popular boy with (potentially) equally bright future. A perfect match.

Or so I thought.

Clearly my attachment ran deeper than I let myself believe. I never thought Kyle could make me cry.

When I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders, I jerk back, afraid it’s Kyle coming after me and seeing me in this state. My head knocks against the brick.

“Ow,” I exclaim.

The sympathetic look on Grace’s face only makes me sob harder.

“He’s a jerk,” she says.

Her arms wrap around me and I let her hug me tight. I don’t usually break down—as in
never
—but it’s like all the stresses and new pressures of the past couple of weeks have built up and Kyle’s betrayal is just the final straw. Everything burst, and now it’s leaking out onto Grace’s tee.

For some reason, her support calms me. I let myself be comforted in a way I never have before. My parents don’t hug. Kyle’s hugs always seemed to have ulterior motives. Grace only wants me to feel better, only wants to ease my pain. And it works.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sniffing. “I’m not usually such a mess.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she insists. “Some boys are a waste of breath and bone.”

“It’s not just Kyle,” I whisper against her shoulder. Though that is more of it than I’d like to admit. “It’s everything. It’s school and my parents and our destiny. I’m trying so hard to be the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect monster huntress. I’m not sure I can do it all.”

Grace leans back and lifts my chin up. With her silver eyes staring straight into mine, she says, “No one is asking you to be perfect.”