Sweet Shadows (5 page)

The oracle isn’t available.

Grace is talking to Sthenno tomorrow.

I guess, for tonight, there’s not much else I can do. Hopefully Sthenno will have some answers for us. Or, if she doesn’t, then the oracle will. Either way, tonight’s a bust.

My arms sag and I realize I’m exhausted. And no wonder. After tackling the manticore in my training room, diving out into the icy bay as the loft exploded, hunting down the two beasts that went after my sisters, and going after Nick, I feel like I’ve been awake for a month.

Slipping Moira into gear, I head toward the safe house Ursula and I set up. It’s in the Tenderloin, maybe the dodgiest part of town—which means there are few prying eyes and even an all-out monster battle would go practically unnoticed. The police won’t even patrol there.

In these early-morning hours, there isn’t another soul on the street. I turn into the dark, debris-strewn alley behind the safe house. After retrieving the extra gear from under the passenger seat and the duffel bag from the trunk, I trudge up the narrow staircase to the second-floor apartment. My boots barely clear each step.

I could sleep for a year. If only I didn’t have school in the morning and an appearance of normalcy to maintain.

Kneeling next to the apartment door, I use a dagger to unscrew the cover from the power outlet in the wall.

I remember the night Ursula and I installed the false outlet. We picked up the yellowed parts at a tiny hardware store in Chinatown and put a couple of cracks in the cover to give it that old, neglected look to go with the rest of the building. If any of the other tenants noticed the oddly placed outlet, they probably thought it dated to the days when the building was a cheap hotel, when someone might have actually vacuumed the hallways every few years.

The happy memory stings a little, and I pull myself back into the present. I reach inside, retrieve the hidden key, and replace the cover.

The door swings open on surprisingly silent hinges, and I find myself facing my new home.
Temporary home,
I remind myself. As soon as I get Ursula back, we’ll find a new place, a better place. We’ll have to rebuild the arsenal and I don’t know if we can restock the library, but whatever we have to do, we’ll do.

I’ve only been to the safe house the one time before, when we installed the hidden key safe in the hall and Ursula gave me the ten-cent tour. She pointed out the backup weapons vault behind the refrigerator. The antivenom and first aid supplies are under a loose tile in the bathroom. There are clothes for both of us in the bedroom closet, emergency cell phones under the couch cushions, and prepaid credit cards in a ziplock bag taped inside the toilet tank.

Ursula thought of everything. Everything I might need if she disappeared. Maybe she knew this was a possibility. Maybe she knew that one day I might be on my own, that she might get taken or worse. I’m glad she was so prepared, but I’d rather have her here.

The entire place looks like a pay-by-the-hour motel room. Dirty walls, ratty linens, rust and dust everywhere. Not the nicest decor, but the carefully orchestrated kind that wouldn’t raise red flags if the low-rent landlord decided to pop in. On the surface it looks just like any other apartment in the building.

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.

A
s 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 inches.

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.