Grace
Maybe I should have screamed, or kicked my legs, or struggled to keep from getting shoved into the black Mustang. On any other day I probably would have. Maybe this is another manifestation of my insanity, letting some random girl kidnap me from a nightclub without saying a word. But the truth is, I’m curious. I’m totally freaked about the girl who looks like me and the monster she bit on the wrist. Because she obviously saw the fire-breathing lizard too, which leaves limited explanations.
Either she’s another figment of my imagination—though the bruise on my left hip suggests otherwise—or we’re both equally insane—what are the odds of that?—or . . . the monsters are real.
I know which option I’m rooting for.
As she jams the car into gear and squeals out into the street, I study her profile. It’s like looking at a photograph of myself. We are virtually identical; the only differences I can see are cosmetic. Her long dark-blond hair is woven back in a tight French braid. Her face is clear of makeup and there are no earrings in her unpierced lobes. And her jaw is set in a rigid clench, with tension that follows the lines of her throat, around to the back of her neck where—
“You’re hurt,” I blurt.
She flicks me an annoyed glance. “I know.”
“You need to go to a hospital.”
She shifts gears, speeding through a yellow light.
“No hospital can fix this.”
I nod, somehow instinctively understanding what she means. A monster caused that wound. It couldn’t have been the lizard I saw right before she hauled me over her shoulder, because I’d have seen if it had been able to attack her. So it must have been one of the other two.
“Was it the eagle-headed lion?” I ask as we crest a hill and spend a couple of seconds airborne before slamming back onto the street. “Or the feathered snake thing?”
“The griffin and the Ophis pterotus.” Her knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “You saw those too?”
A silent cheer erupts in my brain.
“Actually, I—” As weird as it feels to say out loud, it’s an amazing relief to know I’m not going insane. Or, at least if I am, this girl is going with me. “Yes. And I saw another one last night. At a dim sum parlor.”
She snorts. “The minotaur.”
“Ew, right?” I shove away a mental image of the drooling bull’s head. My attempt at shared grossness gets no response, so I admit, “I thought I was losing my mind.”
The girl swerves the car along some winding street and guns it as we pass the lower slope of a big green park. “Unfor-tunately,” she says, turning at an old Spanish-style gatehouse, “the monsters are all too real.”
I have a second when I wonder if maybe I still am going crazy. I mean, maybe I’m imagining this identical twin I never knew I had. This identical twin I always wished I had—what little girl doesn’t? She could be as much a mental trick as the monsters. An expression of an adopted girl’s wishful thinking.
But then she cuts the wheel hard to the left, sending me slamming against the passenger door, and races toward the end wall of what looks like a giant warehouse building. No way am I making up the throbbing in my shoulder. Or the fact that we’re barreling toward a completely solid wall.
“Watch out!” I scream.
Before I can finish my warning, a hidden garage door glides up in the middle of the wall, and the Mustang flies into the building. She slams on the brakes, sending the car squealing across the concrete. I scream again, convinced we’re going to skid into the corrugated metal interior wall.
We don’t.
The car screeches to a halt with a good ten feet between us and the wall. Heart racing and breathing heavy, I stare wide-eyed at my double.
She doesn’t say a word, just yanks the parking break, shuts off the car, and climbs out. I’ve barely unbuckled my seatbelt with shaking hands when I see her march across the empty space and climb a set of metal spiral stairs in the far corner. As I manage to pull myself out of the car, my legs wiggly as wet noodles, I see her disappearing from the balcony through a rusty metal door.
“Quite the welcome,” I whisper.
Not knowing what else to do, I follow her.
My foot is on the first step when my cell phone rings. I pull it out of my jeans pocket and check the screen.
Thane.
Oh shoot, I totally forgot about him and Milo. Meeting a long-lost twin tends to have that affect, I suppose. I need to come up with a believable explanation—emphasis on the believable bit—for my disappearance. I am so not good at coming up with cover stories, which is probably one of the reasons I’ve never snuck out of the house. I’d have no way to talk myself out of trouble if I got caught.
If I don’t answer his call, though, things will only get worse. He would call Mom and Dad, and they would probably call the police, the fire department, and every hospital in the Bay Area. And that’s if he didn’t see me get hauled out of the club over another girl’s shoulder. Who knows what he saw or what he thinks happened.
Since he’s waited this long to call, I hope that means he thinks I got lost on the way to bathroom or something.
With a deep breath, I punch the answer button. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound un–freaked out. “What’s up?”
“Are you ready to go?”
Whew. He must not have seen me carried away like a sack of apples.
“Am I ready to go?” I ask to buy time.
“It’s not a trick question.”
Cover story, Grace. Come on, you’re a smart girl. You can do this. “Um, I—er, ran into a new friend.”
“New friend?”
“From school.” For the first time, I’m really thankful Thane and I are not at the same school. Otherwise he’d know I haven’t met a single person I could call a friend. “Yeah, she lives nearby and invited me over to watch movies.”
“You left?”
The heavy silence after his question tells me he’s angry. Rightfully so, since I bailed without telling him and can’t exactly share the real reason.
“Sorry,” I say, glancing up at the rusty door. I don’t have time to deal with Thane right now. Not when I have a mysterious, monster-fighting twin upstairs who has answers to my burning questions. “I should have told you first.”
“Grace—”
“Look, I gotta go,” I said, partly because I don’t want to risk answering any more questions, but also because my curiosity is killing me. I need to know what’s up with the monsters and why no one else can see them and who the lookalike girl is and a million other things. Thane will be waiting at home. I can only find my answers upstairs. “I’ll call home to let them know what’s up.”
I hang up before he can argue.
I allow myself a few seconds of rest against the railing before gathering the courage to call Mom. Before gathering the courage to lie to Mom. In the end, the call isn’t as stressful as I feared. I give her the story about running into a friend and going over to watch movies. After assuring her that my friend’s parents would bring me home before midnight, she lets me go without an interrogation. She’s probably thrilled to think I’ve made a friend.
“Little does she know,” I whisper, pocketing my phone and following my double up the stairs.
As I push open the squeaky door, I’m shocked to step into an entirely modern space. All the surfaces are gleaming black and white, polished metal, and shiny glass. The complete opposite of the dull beige exterior and the rusty metal garage area.
“Wow,” I can’t help but say to the expansive room.
It’s such a huge, open space. I sweep my gaze around the room, taking everything in. Directly in front of the door is what looks like a living room, with black leather sofas and armchairs around a metal-and-glass coffee table. Along the right wall is a trio of doors, maybe bedrooms and a bathroom, on either side of a flat panel TV the size of my bed. Across the living room is a glassed-in space lined with full bookshelves and with a giant conference table surrounded by chairs in the center and a computer workstation along one wall.
To my left is another door next to a black granite and stainless-steel kitchen and an equally sleek dining room.
Despite all the slick and shiny covering every surface, the thing that enthralls me is the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows, with sliding glass doors and a balcony beyond. Both the dining room and the library have unobstructed, picture-perfect views.
I make my way past the kitchen toward the balcony. I slide open the doors and step out into the chill air. The view of the Bay and the houses, boats, and other lights twinkling all around is breathtaking. I’m so caught up by the sights before me that I don’t hear my double walk up behind me.
“What’s your name?” she demands.
My heart jump-starts and I whirl around with a gasp, clutching my palm to my chest. “Omigosh, you scared me.”
She lifts her brows.
She’s pulled off the long-sleeved black tee she was wearing at the club and is now in a black tank top. One leg of her cargo pants is rolled up to the knee, and her ankle is wrapped in white gauze. She’s dabbing at the back of her neck with a cotton pad soaked in a blue liquid that smells like mouthwash.
“Grace,” I say, leaning back against the railing. “My name is Grace.”
“Grace what?”
“Whitfield,” I answer. “What’s your name?”
She turns away, walking back inside. I follow her through the living room and into a brightly lit bathroom, a little annoyed that she ignored my question. Twisted around with her back to the mirror, she’s trying to secure a second gauze bandage to the back of her neck.
“Here,” I offer. “Let me help.”
She gives me a skeptical look but doesn’t argue when I brush her hand aside and hold the bandage to her wound. As I tear off a piece of first aid tape, she mumbles, “Gretchen.”
“Gretchen?” I echo, securing a second piece of tape.
“Sharpe,” she says, almost reluctantly.
I release the bandage, and it seems like it’s going to stay in place. I step back and around to face Gretchen. With a smile, I say, “All patched up.”
She mutters a quiet “Thanks,” and then turns to put away the first aid supplies.
I would offer to help, but I have a feeling she’s not interested.
“So, Gretchen,” I say instead. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
She closes up the first aid box, slides it under the sink, and then leans back against the counter. It’s hard not to squirm as she scrutinizes me with eyes the same silvery gray as my own.
“That depends,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “How much do you know?”
I laugh. A big giant guffaw just bursts out, I can’t help it. It’s a slightly hysterical reaction to an extremely ridiculous question. “How much do I know?” I ask, still laughing. “I know that yesterday I started seeing monsters from Greek mythology come to life, and you look like my twin.”
She looks at me, like she’s waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, she asks, “That’s all?”
“To the syllable.”
“And before yesterday you never saw a monster?” She uncrosses her arms and tucks her hands into the back pockets of her black cargo pants.
“Not once.”
“What happened yesterday?” she asks.
“I told you,” I say, getting a little frustrated that she’s doing all of the asking and none of the answering. “I saw the minotaur in the dim sum parlor. And then I—”
“No, before that.” She shifts her weight to the other foot. “What was different about yesterday? What’s changed in your life recently?”
Well, there’s only been one really big change.
“We moved to San Francisco,” I say, using up the last of my patience. “Yesterday was my first day at the new school.”
“That explains it,” Gretchen says, as if now everything should be clear. “Monsters don’t get far from the city.”
Without another word she walks out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there like an idiot, facing my own reflection. That explains it? That doesn’t explain anything.
“Grrr,” I growl at the mirror.
I let myself get kidnapped by a stranger and then lied to my family about it. I at least deserve some answers in exchange. Obviously, she’s not going to give them to me. I have to go after them.
I stomp out of the bathroom.
“Look,” I say, finding her in the kitchen. “I want to know what’s going on. You obviously know a lot more than I do.”
“It would be hard not to,” Gretchen says, pulling an energy drink out of the giant silver fridge. “Want one?”
“No. I want answers.”
“Fine,” she says with a sigh. She pulls the tab on the energy drink and throws back half the can before continuing. “Here’s what I know. I’m a descendant of the Gorgon Medusa, and—”
“Medusa?” I gasp. I don’t have to think hard to remember that character from mythology. “The snake-haired monster who turned people to stone with her eyes?”
“Same one.” She finishes off her energy drink and tosses the can into a recycling bin. “That’s not the real story, though.”
She acts like that’s the end of it, like that’s all the info I’m going to get. I jab my hands onto my hips and give her my best scowl.
Finally, she sighs and says, “Medusa was a guardian, not a monster. Along with her two immortal sisters, she kept monsters from terrorizing the human world.”
My arms drop. The human world. The earth tilts a little beneath my feet. Why do I feel like, from this moment on, that’s going to have a slightly different meaning?
“And the eyes-to-stone thing?” I force the question out around my shock.
“Pure myth.” Gretchen starts to rub her neck and then winces with pain. “Her eyes had the power to hypnotize—temporarily. Totally harmless.”
“Wow, that’s—”
If it weren’t for everything I’ve seen in the last twenty-four hours, I would think she’s lying. I shake my head, realizing that everything I thought I knew—about myth, about Medusa, about whether monsters might really exist—is wrong.
“How—” I begin again. I have to swallow before I can finish. “How did that happen?” I ask. “How did the real story get so twisted?”
“Ursula, my mentor, says it began with Athena’s jealousy.” Gretchen shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “She thought Medusa seduced Poseidon, and she wanted revenge.”
More mythology lessons resurface. “That’s why she helped Perseus kill Medusa, right?”
Gretchen nods, and I feel a little surge of pride.
“Ever since her assassination it’s been up to her descendants to keep the monster population in check,” she explains. “Something I’ve been doing for the past four years.”
Four years? That’s a long time, a quarter of my life. I wonder if it’s been a quarter of her life too. As much as I might want to believe she’s my long-lost sister, just because we look alike and see the same monsters doesn’t necessarily make it true.
But I have to ask.
“And do you think . . . ?” I can’t bring myself to finish the question.
In truth, I’m not sure what I want the answer to be. There are pros and cons either way. If it’s yes, then I’m some kind of mythological monster hunter, destined to fight the disgusting creatures I’ve been seeing for two days. If it’s no, then Gretchen isn’t my twin and that empty spot in my heart stays wretchedly empty.
“That you’re one too?” she finishes for me. “I guess it’s possible.”
As I look at the girl who might be my sister, I realize the cons don’t matter. Blood matters. Family matters.
“I’m adopted,” I blurt, suddenly wanting everything to be true. Needing it to be true, needing Gretchen to be my real flesh and blood, even knowing what that means. As much as I love Mom and Dad and Thane, we don’t share any genes. It’s not the same. “I don’t know anything about my birth parents.”
Gretchen hesitates, freezing like a statue. I try to tune in, to sense some kind of twin connection. But she’s like a brick wall. Finally, after a long exhale, she says, “I was adopted too.”
There’s something in her tone, in her use of the past tense about her adoption, that makes me think that she wasn’t quite as lucky as I have been. I wouldn’t trade my mom and dad for anyone. I know things could be so much worse, that other kids wind up in awful homes all the time.
My heart goes out to her.
“Are you sixteen?” I ask, knowing this is the only way to be anything close to certain right now. It’s a very Parent Trap moment, only without the summer camp and the prank war. When she nods, I say, “My birthday is July thirtieth.”
I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping.
It feels like a lifetime before she says, “Mine too.”
My mind reels. Literally reels. I’ve always wondered about my birth parents, imagining what they might look like or what kind of people they are. Where did I get my silver eyes and my crooked pinky fingers? I used to spend hours at the mirror, studying every little detail and wondering where it came from. The identity of my birth parents has never been something I desperately needed to know, though. Mom and Dad are my parents in every way that counts. Maybe by the time I turn eighteen and can get access to my records, I’ll be ready to investigate.
But now, finding out that not only am I a descendant of some mythological guardian, but I also have a sister. A twin sister. It’s a little—
“I think I need to sit down,” I say, feeling a little bit lightheaded.
Gretchen pushes away from the counter. “Let’s go to the library. You can sit and I’ll try calling Ursula.” She leads the way into the room lined on three walls with books and binders. “There is some serious weird going on lately, and she might know why.”
She yanks open the sliding glass balcony door, and I suck in a breath of salty night air as I drop into a chair at the conference table.
“Weird how?” I ask.
“Like three monsters showing up in one night.” She drops into the desk chair and spins around once.
“That doesn’t usually happen?”
“No,” Gretchen pulls out her phone and starts dialing. “There is supposed to be a one-beastie-per-night rule in place.”
That’s a relief. Or it would be if it were still true.
“What about during the day?” I want to ask as many questions as possible while she’s answering. Who knows how long this opportunity will last.
“They don’t come out when the sun is up.” She dials the phone and holds it to her ear. “They’re nocturnal, I guess.”
With Gretchen’s attention fully on her phone call, I turn mine to the room around me. I instantly forget the crazy news that just moments ago threatened to overwhelm me, the news that I have a sister and a heritage and, apparently, a destiny. Instead, I am hypnotized by row after row of books.
I’m not really such a bookworm—my academic specialty veers more toward the digital—but I appreciate the amount of data and research contained in these volumes. It lures me out of the chair and toward the shelves.
My fingers trail respectfully over their spines as I scan the titles. There’s an entire case of books on martial arts and fighting techniques. Another two full of books on mythology and ancient Greece. The rest are titles on a variety of minor subjects, like computers and technology and geology and cartography. What those have to do with monster fighting I’m not sure, but they must be useful.
I’m a little gaga over all the books, but it’s the final case that captures my attention. Its shelves are full of white three-ring binders. Not so unusual, I suppose, but the spine labels promise something very unusual inside: MINOTAURS. HYDRAS. SERPENT HYBRIDS. CHIMERAS. LAELAPSES. UNIDENTIFIED SPECIES.
With a quick glance at Gretchen, who has left her chair and is staring out over the Bay, I pull the one labeled MINOTAURS off the shelf and flip through. There are sections on history and myths, traits and characteristics, preferences, sociology, physiology, and battle tactics. There are myths and legends about the minotaurs. A table of reported sightings. A detailed anatomical drawing, with a big red circle around the back of the neck.
“Come on, Ursula!”
Gretchen’s boots squeak on the sparkly white tile as she starts pacing back and forth, dialing and redialing her phone. With no luck, judging from the curse that punctuates the end of each attempt. With a final curse, she throws the phone onto the table in the middle of the room.
I slide the minotaur binder back into place. After a quick estimate, I conservatively calculate that there must be over two hundred binders. Two hundred different kinds of monsters, with valuable hunting information trapped inside the pages. The whole collection should really be digitized. Maybe even made into a smartphone app so Gretchen can get the info she needs anywhere, anytime. That could be a lifesaver sometime.
“Where is Ursula?” Gretchen snaps. “It’s not like her to disappear for days at a time without letting me know.”
She sounds really worried, and she doesn’t seem like the worrying sort.
“How long has she been gone?” I ask.
Gretchen spears me with a look, and I’m pretty sure she forgot I was here. Or maybe thinks I’m to blame for the weirdness going around and her missing mentor. I hope it’s the first, because I spotted what I thought was a knife handle sticking out of her boot when she carried me out of the club. I confirmed it when her pant leg was rolled up earlier. I bet she knows how to use it too.
Finally, reluctantly, she says, “A few days. Maybe a week.”
“Does she leave often?”
“Yes,” Gretchen answers. “But she usually sends me an email or a text so I know she’s okay.”
“She could be somewhere with no signal,” I suggest.
“Yeah, maybe,” Gretchen agrees.
I think she’s humoring me.
For what feels like an hour Gretchen stares blankly at the table and I stare blankly at Gretchen. Like I’m staring in the mirror. I mean, it’s a little freaky. Our faces are identical. And even without an adoption record or a DNA test, I know without a doubt she’s my sister. My twin. I can feel it in the same way I feel Thane when he sneaks up behind me. I just know.
“So . . . ,” I finally say to break the silence. “What do we do now?”
“How should I know?” Gretchen barks.
I jump back a little at her harsh tone.
“Everything’s going sideways at the moment. Ursula’s missing, monsters are breaking the rules”—she spears me with a glance—“you show up in the middle of it all.”
Even though I didn’t do anything but move to a new town, I feel a little guilty. Gretchen obviously thinks these changes might have something to do with me, and how do I know that they don’t?
“I’m sorry, okay?” she says before I can apologize, still sounding agitated but a little more calm.
I give her a little slack. “No problem,” I say. “You’re worried about your mentor. I understand.”
It’s a lot to take in all at once. Multiple monsters, missing mentor, long-lost twin. No wonder she’s a little snappish.
She runs a hand over her hair, swiping her bangs back across her braid.
“Look, I think the best thing you can do,” she says, her tone final and far more mature than our sixteen years should have made her, “is to go back to your world. Forget about this one. Go back to your life. You’ll be safer there.”
What? “I—”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No, Gretchen,” I argue. “I don’t want to—”
She stomps out of the room without another word. I don’t want to follow her. I want to stay here, to talk and get to know her and ask more questions. Does she sneeze in threes too? Does she hate cherries and love avocados? What’s her worst subject in school? I can’t just walk away from all of this. I can’t just walk away from her.
If we’re twins, like I have to believe we are, then her heritage is also mine. Her duty to hunt monsters is also mine. Is it fair to let her continue to carry that responsibility all on her own?
But as much as I want to embrace this new part of myself, I’m a little scared. I can see that her lifestyle is dangerous. I mean, she took down three mythological monsters by herself tonight. They probably don’t go down without a serious fight. She got injured on her ankle and her neck, and I bet that’s nothing compared to other injuries she’s had. It’s dangerous and probably potentially deadly.
Maybe Gretchen is right. Maybe I should go back to my safe world, with parents and a brother who love me very much and would be devastated if I got eaten by a chimera. If I stay and try to help, I might even get Gretchen hurt in the process.
My heart sinks at the thought of going back to my ordinary life and pretending this night never happened, but it might be for the best. For both of us.
Quietly, I follow Gretchen down to the car. As I drop into the passenger seat and she revs the engine, I can’t help feeling like a total coward. That somewhere, wherever she is, our birth mother is ashamed. Buildings blur by my window as I wipe a tear from my eye. But I don’t say a word.
Coward it is.