Grace
Our next unit in English class is on mythology. Like I haven’t had enough myth showing up in my life lately. As Mrs. Deckler starts handing out unit outlines halfway through class on Friday, I can’t help a giddy giggle at the thought that I am myth now.
I accept the papers from the girl in front of me, take one, and pass the rest behind me.
“Something funny, Miss Whitfield?” Mrs. Deckler asks.
I bite my lips and shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“While you read over the unit plan,” she says to the class, “I’m going to set up a quick introductory PowerPoint to prepare you for Monday’s lesson.”
I scan the topics—everything from Homer to Edith Hamilton to some contemporary fiction about teens descended from gods.
“As you can see from the list,” Mrs. Deckler says as she walks to the light switch, “we will be studying, in depth, the heroes, gods, and monsters of ancient Greece.”
I bite my lips again to keep from laughing. Between Gretchen’s training, the creatures I see on the street almost every day, and studying the binder contents as I digitize them, I think I’ll be the definite authority in the class when it comes to mythological monsters.
Not that I’ll be able to admit why.
“I think you’ll find that Aristotle was a nice introduction.” She gives the room a big grin before flipping out the lights. “But now we’re getting to the good stuff.”
As the PowerPoint begins, my mind kind of drifts. I think about the monsters I’ve seen and the training Gretchen and I have been working on. I wonder if any of the monsters I’ve studied, seen, and fought will be part of the unit.
“You will learn about hideous creatures.”
I look up as the slide changes.
“Like the Minotaur.”
There, on the screen, big as life, is an extremely accurate drawing of a minotaur. So exact, I can almost smell the rotten odor of—
I feel something slide against my upper lip. From the inside.
“Shoot,” I whisper.
But since my fangs just decided to make an appearance, it sounds more like Ssssoot.
I slap my hand over my mouth and jump out of my seat.
“Problem, Miss Whitfield?”
This isn’t the first time my fangs have dropped on their own. Ever since Gretchen first got my fangs to engage, they keep popping down at really awkward times. Like when Thane snuck up on me while I was brushing my teeth. Or when the Rottweiler down the hall escaped his leash and I barely slammed the apartment door shut in time. But this is the first time at school, and I never know how long they’re going to hang out.
I rush to the front of the classroom.
“Misssesss Deckler,” I say from behind my palm, “I need to—”
She takes in my horrified look and the hand over my mouth and draws her own conclusions. “Go,” she insists. “Don’t worry about a bathroom pass.”
Thank goodness. I nod and race out of class, heading for the girls’ room.
I’m almost there when someone calls my name. I spin around to see Ms. West hurrying toward me. My hand is still clamped over my mouth, so I just wave.
“Why are you outside of class?” she demands. “Do you have a pass?”
“No,” I say from behind my hand. I try to focus on using words that won’t lisp because of the fangs. “Girl twouble.”
Shoot.
“I understand.” Her eyes widen. “Don’t let me keep you.”
I nod and turn to dash into the bathroom. From outside, she calls out, “Please see a nurse if you are unwell.”
Gosh, I appreciate the concern. Doesn’t she have other students to bug?
Inside the bathroom, I check to make sure it’s empty before leaning on a sink to inspect my fangs in the mirror. The bluish glow of the lights above make them shine like pearls. Anyone walking in on me right now would think I’m some kind of vampire wannabe. A freak of a whole different kind.
I guess they do look like vampire fangs, extended canines that narrow down to a sharp—an extremely sharp—point.
“Come on,” I tell my reflection. “Retract already.”
Gretchen says it will take time for me to learn to fully control them. Now would be a really useful moment. I don’t really look like the vampy goth type, so it would be hard to explain why I’m wearing fake fangs.
As if they understand my plea, my fangs slowly slide back up into regular humanlike position. I watch as my canines return to normal. As I return to normal.
“Whew.”
I’m not sure what I would do if they stayed put. Hide in the bathroom all day? Mom would get a call when I missed class, and that would be even harder to explain.
Thankfully, I don’t have to face that today. I turn the faucet handle and am splashing a little cold water on my face when I hear the door swing open.
“Did you vomit?”
I turn toward the sound of the voice I am unfortunately learning to recognize. Miranda. Just what I need.
“No,” I reply calmly. “I didn’t vomit.”
Her eyes scan me from head to toe.
“You look like you did.” She makes a disgusted face. “Then again, you usually do.”
She starts for a stall. I know I should walk out, should leave it alone, be the bigger person and all that. But some desperate part of me can’t help asking, “Did I do something to offend you?”
She turns to face me. “You mean other than being alive?”
“Yeah,” I say, despite the warning bell in my stomach. “Other than that.”
She looks me over again, and I can feel myself squirming under the attention. When her blue eyes return to my face, she says, “Nope, that’s enough.”
She turns and heads into the stall, slamming the door shut behind her. I feel my fangs drop back into view.
“If only.”
I wonder what my venom would do to a human. With my luck it would only make Miranda more unbearable.
I head into the last stall, quickly shut and lock the door, and lift my feet off the floor. While I’m glad my fangs have decided that Miranda is a worthwhile threat—she could rival a minotaur any day—if I don’t get them under control soon, if I have to keep hiding in the bathroom to avoid anyone noticing, my grades are going to suffer. And I don’t think there’s a believable explanation on the planet that could convince my parents of why that’s happened.
The last thing I want is for them to decide we made a mistake and move us back to Orangevale. As much as I don’t like Miranda and wish I could either stand up to her or avoid her altogether, I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Gretchen. Now that I’ve found my sister, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her.
“Focus,” Gretchen shouts, moving somewhere behind me.
I can’t see anything through the scarf tied around my head as a makeshift blindfold. She taps a hand against the left side of my waist.
“That’s another kill,” she grumbles. “If you don’t learn to focus on your surroundings, you’ll never survive a night fight. Feline hybrids especially have excellent night vision.”
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to mention that we’re in a major metropolitan city. There are flashing signs and glowing streetlights everywhere. I’ll never face a monster in complete darkness. At this point, though, my comment will only earn me some push-ups, which Gretchen is oh-so-happy to demand.
I close my eyes behind the scarf. Pointless, I know, but somehow the physical act of dropping my eyelids tells my brain to switch to the other senses. I listen and feel and even smell—taste is proving to be the only sense that’s not exactly an asset in a fight. Actually, the thought of chomping down on a minotaur head or a scorpion tail seems like exactly the scenario in which I’d like my sense of taste to fail altogether. I know I’m going to have to bite one back to the abyss eventually, but I’m not really eager for the first time.
Shoving thoughts of monster bites from my mind, I pinpoint all my attention on Gretchen. She’s been silent, which means she’s been moving. No longer behind me.
I feel a gentle breeze on my right cheek. I tilt my head that way—
Just as Gretchen delivers a gentle punch to my stomach.
“Dead again,” she complains. “You don’t stand a chance in Hades of surviving a blind attack. You’re going to make a nice meal for a sphinx if you don’t focus.”
That was an awfully wordy taunt for Gretchen. During training, she usually rivals Thane in the silent-communication department. This must be a distraction technique. I squeeze my eyes harder and catch a whiff of her eucalyptus shampoo. A soft squeak behind me.
I drop to a squat, spinning as I go.
I hear Gretchen’s soft grunt as her punch connects with air, sending her arm swinging with unchecked momentum. While her center of gravity is thrown off, I reach out, wrap both hands around her waist, and flip onto my back, using my legs to send Gretchen flying over me as I roll.
“Oooft!” She hits the training mat with a nice thud.
I rip off my blindfold, jumping to my feet to survey my success. “Woohoo!” I shout, twisting around in a happy dance. “I did it!”
“Yeah,” Gretchen says, trying to sound all gruff and mean. I can tell she’s proud. “But only because I tried to telegraph my moves. I was getting tired of your failure.”
“Whatever,” I say. Not even Gretchen’s grumbling can dampen my success. “I totally did it.”
I extend my hand to help her up. Not that she needs it—I’ve seen her kick up from her back to a squat without using her hands. I’m surprised when she places her hand in mine and lets me pull her to her feet.
“It’s not much,” she says, reaching back to tug her tank into place, “but it’s something.”
I can’t help but beam. Gretchen’s not exactly free and easy with the compliments, so even this reluctant, minor one feels like a major success.
“What’s next?” I ask, giddy to continue my training.
She sniffs the air.
“What? Do you smell a monster?” I ask. “What kind?”
Despite the disaster that was my last run-in with a monster, I’m kind of eager to go out on a hunt with Gretchen again. I’m ready to test out my training. It’s been only four days, but surely I’ve acquired some useful fighting skills. Besides, with Gretchen at my side, no beast can get the jump on me.
I try sniffing the air the way she does, searching for the scent of a creature that doesn’t belong in our realm. I don’t smell a thing.
“Nope,” she says with a wry smile. “I stink like sweat. Time to hit the shower.”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Maybe I am a little overeager to go on another hunt. I feel like such a colossal idiot sometimes.
She hesitates, like she’s thinking about reassuring me or making me feel better. Then, without a word, she walks out of the training room, heading for her bedroom and the giant glassed-in shower with three walls of massaging jets.
“Don’t worry,” I call out after she’s out of hearing. “I’ll amuse myself for a while. No problem.”
I take a look around the training room, a massive gymnasium with padded mats covering half the floor and flat industrial carpet underneath. On the walls are a variety of traditional weapons. Long staffs, nunchucks, throwing stars, daggers, swords, foils, and tons of others I couldn’t name if you asked me. Gretchen won’t let me touch them yet. She says I need to master hand-to-hand combat, to learn to defend myself with nothing but my hands and feet, which are usually all I’ll have.
There are a couple of those wall-mounted ladders you have to climb in gym class sometimes and a long knotted rope hanging down from the ceiling. I can see weight machines and balance balls and even a balance beam, and I’m sure there is plenty more equipment I can’t see.
As a non-jock-type person, this is not the kind of stuff that interests me. Well, at least not beyond what it means for my training.
If I’ve realized anything in the last week since I discovered my heritage and my duty, it’s that I am totally ready to embrace this unknown part of my life. The only problem is that, besides Gretchen’s training and what I’ve been able to get her to tell me, I don’t really know anything about that side of me.
When I feel lost at school, I head to the nearest computer and pull up as much info about the subject as I can find.
“What I need to do,” I mutter, “is research.”
The only problem is that everything available on the internet about my ancient mythological ancestor is rewritten history. The results of Athena’s full-scale smear campaign. Not exactly helpful.
But I know one place where I can find the research I need. “Gretchen’s library.”
Quickly slipping out of the training room, I head for the book-filled library. On the way I grab my backpack. The first thing I do is pull out the six binders I took home to digitize yesterday and trade them for new ones. I’ve managed to scan in more than two dozen, converting them into digital format. At this rate, I’ll have the whole collection of monster files computerized in a few weeks. There are so many, it feels pretty daunting, but it needs to be done. Paper files provide such limited access. And they’re vulnerable.
Besides, when I use the document scanner Mom bought last spring—I finally convinced her to go paperless—the pages are scanned in no time. I can probably get another two dozen done this weekend.
I shove the half dozen new binders into my bag.
“Now,” I say to the walls of books, “where should I begin?”
At least the collection seems to be organized by subject matter rather than author or title. That would be madness to search through, especially without a catalog of some kind, which Gretchen assures me does not exist.
“When I’m done with the binders,” I say, wandering past the laden shelves, “that’ll be my next project.”
My eyes skim titles, looking for something that strikes my mood. Monsters and mythology? No thanks. Martial arts training techniques? Not right now. Medusa and the Gorgons?
I stop at the section of books about my ancient ancestor and her immortal sisters. This is more like it. There are four full shelves of books, everything from collections of myths to anatomy to—
“Bingo.” I tug a book off the shelf. “The Truth About Medusa and Her Sisters: Guardians of the Door.”
This sounds like exactly what I need. Not more about the propaganda that turned Medusa—in the public’s mind—from a protectress into a monster. Libraries and websites are full of the lies that steal Medusa’s noble glory and make her a much-feared beast instead. This looks like a more factual account of her story.
I drop into one of the comfy armchairs and open the book. There is no copyright page, which means that it was either privately published or printed before the first copyright laws. There isn’t an author’s name, either. The book is attributed to “an anonymous descendant of the great Gorgon Medusa.” I suck in a breath. One of my ancestors wrote this book.
I trace my fingers reverently over the worn cover, wondering how many generations back this book dates. A few? A dozen? More?
I flip to the table of contents, curious about what topics the book might contain. As I scan the list, I see a lot of chapters I should probably read. Someday. Right now, though, I’m looking for one particular topic. Autoporting.
Since escaping from cobra lady, I haven’t been able to repeat my disappearing act. It’s a power that could definitely come in handy, so I’d like some hints on how to make it happen.
My eyes skim over the early chapters. History, mostly, detailing Medusa’s life from her birth to her death at the hands of the supposed hero—aka Athena’s pawn—Perseus. There are a couple of chapters on the Gorgons’ roles as guardians and their powers. I’m about to turn to the chapter on their powers when the title of the last chapter catches my eye.
“‘Descendants of the Mortal Gorgon.’”
Forgetting about autoporting, I flip quickly to the first page of that chapter and begin reading.
Although most of the world believes the only offspring of Medusa were the great winged horse Pegasus and the golden-bladed giant Chrysaor, both born from the blood of her decapitated head—
How disgusting and horrifying and—I remind myself that this is my ancient ancestor I’m reading about—sad. To have your head chopped off and creatures born from your blood? That’s awful.
I take a deep breath and plunge forward.
Medusa also had a human lover, a husband who has since been erased from myth and history. His disappearance was yet another strand in the web of deceit woven by Athena to justify her rage and jealousy at the Gorgon’s supposed bid for Poseidon’s love. But the lie that obliterated Medusa’s husband from all written record provided another, unforeseen service: it protected the progeny of their union with a veil of secrecy. Their children, who would carry on the legacy of the Gorgon sisters, passing the magic of Medusa’s blood down through the generations, disappeared from record.
At first decried as sacrilege, Athena’s fabrications about the evil, murderous monster who turned men to stone eventually became widespread, accepted fact. But if their existence was widely known, the mortal Gorgon’s offspring would become the targets of self-proclaimed heroes, assassins, and anyone fearful of Medusa’s true legacy and Athena’s rage.
“What a scary time that must have been,” I muse. “I wonder how many of my ancestors and their friends and family had to risk their lives to keep the Medusa legacy intact.”
I’m in awe of the sacrifice. Their preserving the line made it possible for me and Gretchen to be here today. We owe a big thank-you to whoever made that happen.
I read on, desperate to know more about my legacy, hoping to learn something about my autoporting incident.
The next sentence nearly knocks me off my feet. I have to reread it three times and then read it once out loud to make sure I’m not imagining things.
Into every generation since have been born three children, three daughters to carry on the guardian legacy.
Three children? Three daughters? Every generation?
This can’t be. Can it?
No way.
Tucking the book under my arm, I sprint to the computer and leap into the desk chair. It only takes a few clicks and taps to do a quick search for adoption records. There are tons of sites designed to reunite mothers and their children. I’ve seen all of them before, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I need to find my official adoption records. I know I won’t find that on any of those sites. The documents I need are protected, shielded by strict privacy laws. I need to get inside the Child Welfare Services website—into their internal database of completely top-secret and sealed records.
I wouldn’t call myself a hacker. Most of my coding skills are used for purely legal purposes. But I’ve finessed my way into a server or two. And now is definitely not the time to get squeamish about legality. I might have sorta accidentally peeked at my record before, but that was just the individual record of my adoption by my parents. I never thought of searching for any siblings.
Now that I know what I’m looking for, my entire brain focuses in on figuring out how to get what I need.
By the time I hear Gretchen’s shower turn off, I’ve broken through their firewall, cracked their surprisingly weak encryption, and am entering the keyword search to find our record. When my record pulls up, it contains all the details I’ve seen before about my adoption, but nothing about where I came from. Or who I came with.
Next I try searching my name and Gretchen’s together. Maybe if our mom named us— “Holy goalie.”
“What?”
I jump at the sound of Gretchen’s voice. I’m sure my face looks white as a ghost as I spin around in the desk chair to look at her. She’s rubbing a towel over her hair and doesn’t notice my utter shock.
“I pulled up our adoption records,” I explain.
My hands are shaking and I have to take the Medusa book out from under my arm and set it on the desk so I don’t drop it. Adrenaline fills my bloodstream.
I’ve never felt so completely thrilled and excited and terrified all at once. Not even when I saw that minotaur walk into the dim sum parlor. Not even when I saw Gretchen at Synergy.
“Yeah,” she says, flipping her hair forward to dry the back. “And?”
How can she be so blasé about this?
Gretchen doesn’t talk about her adopted parents. Ever. She just says that she ran away when she was twelve and never looked back. Which, I suppose, tells me everything I need to know.
But this has nothing to do with them.
This is going to knock her to the floor.
“Gretchen,” I say, my mouth spreading into a shaky smile, “we’re not twins.”
“We’re not?” she asks, lifting her head and paying attention for the first time.
If I weren’t freaking out, I might take a moment to gloat, because she looks a little disappointed, sad, even, at the suggestion that we’re not sisters. But there’s no time for gloating. This news can’t wait another second.
“No.” I slowly shake my head, still full of disbelief. “We’re triplets.”