But as we get to my car and Nick opens the driver’s door for me, I can’t quash the tiny little spark that ignites in my chest. I can’t help remembering that, if it weren’t possible to have relationships while being a guardian, my sisters and I wouldn’t even be here. Medusa made it work.
Maybe—maybe—I could too.
One thing is certain, though. As Nick buckles in and I put Moira in gear, I know there is something different about this boy. Something that makes me want to believe. Even when my every instinct warns that it can’t be this easy. Something inside me wants to try. As I pull out into the night, I smile. Beside me I sense Nick smile too.
CHAPTER 10
GRACE
The bleachers overlooking Milo’s soccer field are built into a hill. It’s such a beautiful sunny day that part of me wants to skip the bleachers altogether, find a spot on the grassy slope, and absorb some nature.
That’s one thing I miss in San Francisco. There is so much glass and concrete, I feel kind of disconnected from nature. Sure, there are trees and flowers on practically every street, and water is never hard to find, but turf is mostly reserved for the parks and the very rare backyards.
I’m early. I’ve got at least fifteen minutes before the team shows up for practice. Besides, how could it hurt to lie down on the grass for a little bit?
Using my backpack as a pillow, I find a spot between the base of the bleachers and the field and settle in to soak up the sun above and the earth below. With my eyes closed, I can almost believe I’m back in Orangevale, lying in our backyard.
I don’t regret moving to the city. If we hadn’t, I never would have met my sisters or learned about our destiny, our legacy. I wouldn’t have met Milo, either. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t things I miss. Right now, in this moment, I feel like I have the best of both worlds.
I drift away.
Then, suddenly, I’m not on the grass anymore. I’m flying. Searching for something. For someone.
“Sthenno!” I try to shout, but no sound comes out. “Euryale! Where are you?”
I’m becoming desperate, soaring through fog and clouds, looking everywhere. Then I stop moving. I’m still swimming in the air, but I’m frozen in place. Panicked, I stroke harder.
Then, out of nowhere, a storm kicks up. I start rocking through the clouds like a boat caught in rough seas. Shaking, shaking, sha—
My eyes pop open.
Gasping, I blurt, “Milo?”
“Hey,” he says, his lips curving into a wide smile. “You okay? Looked like you were having a rough dream.”
That’s an understatement.
“No, no,” I say, pushing myself up, careful not to knock my head into his. I’m gasping a little, trying to catch my breath as if I’ve just run a race. He has no idea. “I’m fine. Just”—I gesture around at the green field—“enjoying the grass.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling deeper, humoring me. “You looked like you were having a nice peaceful nightmare.”
“I—” I almost don’t let go of the lie. There’s a part of me that wants to maintain that image of normalcy when everything in my life—dreams included, apparently—is full-on abnormal. But I’ve had to do enough lying and keep enough secrets and tell enough half-truths lately. The more I hide my life in the shadows, the more likely I am to get trapped there. I can’t tell Milo the whole truth, obviously, but I don’t have to lie about this.
I take a deep breath, force myself to relax, and ask, “Ever have one of those dreams where you’re flying, but then all of a sudden you can’t fly anymore?”
He holds out a hand to help pull me to my feet. “All the time.”
He doesn’t release my hand once I’m standing. We’re only inches apart and I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
“I was worried you might not show up,” he says.
After I disappeared from the nightclub when Gretchen found me, and totally spaced on our date yesterday, it’s no wonder he thinks I’m unreliable. I’m not normally, but he doesn’t know that.
“I’m not a flake,” I insist. “Life’s been more complicated than usual lately. I really, really wanted to go out with you.”
“Wanted?”
“Want!” I practically shout. Then, more softly, “I want to go out with you.”
“How about this weekend?” he suggests. “Saturday is crazy, but maybe we could catch a movie or something on Sunday.”
“Sunday,” I say, racking my brain for any conflicts—any prescheduled conflicts—and coming up with none. “Should be perfect.”
“I’ll give you a call,” he says. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, toward where the team is running warm-ups at the far end of the field. “I’d better get over there. How long can you stay?”
“Not long,” I say with a sad face.
“Okay.” He lifts a hand to my chin and says, “Then I’m glad I got to see you.”
I grin. “Me too.”
With a wink, he turns and jogs off to join the rest of his team.
I grab my backpack off the ground and move toward the gate that opens onto the street. I can watch for a few minutes before I need to leave for Greer’s school.
I’m smiling as the team does drills—seeing how many times they can bounce soccer balls on their knees, feet, and heads before dropping them—when the smell hits me. It’s so strong it practically knocks me to the ground. Only a strong grip on my stomach keeps me from spewing my veggie burrito lunch.
I glance out the gate just as the monster walks by. A woman—at least on the top—with the lower body of a bird. Great black-and-brown wings spread out behind her, the tips sweeping the sidewalk as she moves. At the ends of her feet, razor-sharp talons scrape on the concrete, leaving a path of scratches in her wake.
I recognize her from the monster binders. A harpy.
I must have gasped or gagged or in some way indicated my reaction to her hideous form, because she stops just outside the open gate, twists her head awkwardly to the side—like a dinosaur or something—and looks me in the eyes.
She doesn’t say anything at first, and over and over in my head I tell myself to act natural. Pretend she looks entirely human. Don’t let her know you—
She sweeps one of her wings wide, and I can’t fight my instinct to duck.
A sick grin spreads across her black-rimmed mouth, revealing razor-sharp teeth to match her talons.
“Pretty huntress,” she coos.
I back away, shaking my head and holding my hands out in front of me, as if I can ward her off with just a gesture.
Yes, I’m a huntress. Yes, it’s my duty to keep the human realm clear of her kind. But I’m caught off-guard. I’m alone. And I’m all too aware of the soccer team half a field away.
“Please,” I whisper, pleading for I don’t know what.
When she starts advancing, I know a fight is unavoidable. I have to get to a more private location. I can’t take on a harpy in front of two dozen teen boys. In front of Milo.
Him thinking I’m a flake is one thing, but I can’t let him see this. To him it would look as though I was fighting with some random woman. That would be bad enough. The truth would be even worse. He’d never understand.
She’s between me and the gate, so there’s no way I can get to the street. There is a building at the far end of the field, probably for extra equipment and stuff, but that’s right where the team is practicing. Besides, I don’t think I’d ever make it in time.
My only chance is to move behind the near end of the bleachers. They’re not open underneath, but if I move all the way to the back, I think we’ll be hidden enough for the team not to notice.
After checking on the boys—who are thankfully running backward up the field, facing away from me—I dash for the bleachers. I can hear the harpy screeching and swooping behind me.
With a deep, fortifying—and shaky—breath, I turn to face her. She’s closing fast.
In that instant I realize I have no idea what to
do. Besides knowing that I have to bite her somewhere—I vaguely remember the drawing in the binder highlighting the spot where the wing meets the back (oh how I wish I’d had time to develop the smart phone app from the scanned data)—I don’t really have a clue how to take on a bird-woman with a twelve-foot wingspan. Her talons could be poisonous, her teeth are certainly dangerous, and any number of awful things might happen between the time I bite her and when she pops back into the abyss.
Panic sets in and I can’t hear anything above the pounding of blood in my ears. How am I even supposed to get close enough to bite?
Too late now. She blocks the way out to the field. The end of the bleachers’ wall is too high, and the exterior retaining wall is even higher. I’m completely trapped.
“Oh, shoot,” I mutter.
I’ve maneuvered myself into a corner.
My back up against the wall—literally—I close my eyes even as my fangs drop. I have only one chance here, only one way out.
I picture myself disappearing, vanishing from this spot on the wall, and reappearing behind the harpy. I focus all my energy on autoporting myself to safety, to a tactical advantage.
I open my eyes and see the harpy still bearing down. I can feel her hot, vile breath on my cheek. She reaches out with human arms, fingers grasping.
Squeezing my eyes shut again, I let my fear take over. I can barely breathe. I feel her fingertips reaching for my neck. Then …
I hear a startled gasp.
My eyes flash open and I’m looking at the harpy’s winged back. I give a mental shout—don’t want to give away my new position—and, as she starts to turn around looking for me, I leap forward onto her back.
I know I have to act fast. One scratch of those talons or teeth and I’ll be in for a world of hurt, especially since, as Gretchen says, the antivenom supply at the safe house is limited.
Grabbing a fistful of feathers with each hand, I pull myself up the bird-woman’s back. She spins and backs into the wall. I hold on tight, even with the wind knocked out of me, and when she pulls away from the wall, I drag myself into position.
Hoping I remember the picture right, I stab my fangs into the wing joint. For a second I think I’ve got it wrong—with a mouthful of feathers to show for it—but then, a heartbeat later, the harpy evaporates.
I crash to the ground and my just-recovered breath gets knocked out again.
I’m lying there, facedown in the grass, struggling to get my breathing back to normal, when Milo appears around the corner.
“Grace!” He rushes forward, rolls me onto my back, and runs his gaze over my body. “Are you okay? We heard screaming.”
That would be the now-dispatched harpy.
“What?” he asks.
Please don’t let me have said that out loud. Especially not with half the soccer team standing there watching.
“I think that was me,” I say, hoping it sounds convincing.
Milo’s hands follow his gaze, checking all my limbs to make sure they’re not broken or missing or something.
“I’m fine,” I insist, although my voice is weak and breathy. “Really, I just …” I search around for some plausible—and not crazy monster-related—excuse for the screaming and my lost breath. The bleachers loom above me. “I fell,” I finally say. “Off the bleachers.”
“You fell?” He turns to look up at the bleachers; the nearest section is at least ten feet up. “What were you doing up there?”
“I—I didn’t fall from there.” I push myself to a sitting position. I wave generally at a lower section of the bleacher wall. “I rolled when I hit the ground.”
“You need to go to a hospital.” Milo’s pale green eyes are clouded with worry. “Someone call—”
“No!” I don’t need to go to the hospital. I can’t go.
I never want to use hypno powers on Milo or anyone I care about, but right now it’s my only choice.
I look him straight in the eyes and say, carefully and concisely, “I’m fine. Really.” I focus all my energy on conveying my message. “I’m not hurt.”
He looks at me, his expression serious, for a few more seconds. Then, finally, his expression blanks and he says, “You’re not hurt.”
I smile while I scream on the inside. I wish I didn’t have to do this. Then I turn and tell the rest of the team they should go back to practice.
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.
CHAPTER 11
GREER
As 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 t
ightening 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.
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