Sweet Shadows

I purse my lips to keep from grinning like a fool—Mother would be appalled at my near display of emotion. I knew she would be fine. I knew it.

Gretchen climbs out of the car, coughing.

Grace rushes forward. “Are you okay?”

She wraps Gretchen in a tight hug. I look away, trying to keep the tears of fear and relief and emotional release from spilling out.

My attention drifts to my car, catching on the set of ugly dents on my otherwise perfect hood. They’re a reminder of the first near-death experience I encountered tonight—a six-armed giant who showed up at my front door—that feels so long ago now.

So much for avoiding emotional reaction.

“Yeah—” Gretchen is seized by a spasm of wheezing coughs. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sound fine,” I say sarcastically, earning a glare from both sisters.

Gretchen walks around to her trunk, pops it open, and starts digging around inside. She pulls out a duffel bag, slams the trunk shut, and sets the bag on top.

Feeling more in control of myself, I walk up to my car and run a hand over the dents—thankfully there don’t appear to be any scratches in the metallic clear-coat paint. There are so many ways the evening could have ended badly. Even if my car is a little the worse for wear, I’m relieved that we’re all safe and whole. Tonight could have easily wound up a tragedy—if I hadn’t managed to outrun and then outdrive that giant, if Grace hadn’t autoported away from that monstrous bear in time, if she and I hadn’t gotten to Gretchen’s loft at just the right moment to help her fight the manticore, or if Gretchen hadn’t dragged us out an instant before the explosion.

“Wait a minute,” I say, my analytical mind returning to working order. Something must have compelled Gretchen to throw us out into the bay. Something more concrete than my sense of dread. I think back to those moments, trying to remember exactly what happened. My mind was clouded by the nausea, but I remember a ringing sound. “You got a phone call,” I say, turning to Gretchen. “Someone warned you about the explosion, didn’t they?”

I watch as her shoulders stiffen. She pauses in digging through the duffel bag just long enough for me to know she heard me. Then she simply says, “Yes,” and starts pulling things out.

“Yes?” I echo. As if that’s an adequate answer.

A pair of combat boots hits the trunk with a thump.

“Do you know who called?” Grace asks, shivering harder now.

“Yes.”

I ask the obvious question. “Who?”

Anger rolls off Gretchen in hot waves. Yes, she knows who made the call. She’s going to find out what else that person knows. And she’s not going to tell us any more about it. Not acceptable.

“Did your mystery caller give any specifics about the explosion?” I ask. “Was it a bomb or a gas leak or—”

“No,” Gretchen interrupts. “He only said to get out.”

Her silver eyes cloud over, and I’m immediately glad I’m not on the receiving end of her shadowed looks. I have no doubt the caller will regret ever meeting her before the night is through.

Gretchen reaches back into the duffel, pulls out a dry tee, and tosses it at Grace.

Despite her obvious shyness, Grace pulls off her icy wet shirt and pulls on a dry one from Gretchen’s stash. The black knit sticks to her still-damp bra, but the moisture won’t show on the dark fabric. Though the wet denim of her jeans probably feels like lead dragging her down, it’s probably insulating as well. She still shivers, but less violently.

“Who?” I repeat.

Gretchen glances at me, maybe surprised at my persistence. “Someone who knows more than he’s let on.” When I start to ask more, she says, “I’ll take care of it. He’s my responsibility.”

There’s an undercurrent of something—guilt maybe—and I let it go. We’re all in shock. Right here, right now is not the time to push her for more.

“Now what?” I ask.

“Now,” Gretchen says, finding another top and throwing it my direction, “you two go home and I go find the jerk. I’ll get the whole story from him. For once. If I have to beat his pretty face to a pulp, I’ll find out what’s going on.”

I quickly change into the dry tank. I don’t miss her reference to his pretty face. He’s not just a random acquaintance. I have a feeling there’s more to their relationship than she’d ever let me and Grace know.

Gretchen finally digs a pair of dry cargos out of the bag and, without hesitation, drops her drenched ones to the ground. She steps into the dry pants—not caring that her underwear is still soaked—yanks them up, and quickly zips and buttons them with jerky, angry movements. She pulls her wet tank off, leaving just her white sports bra.

She’s raring to go.

It’s all well and good that she wants to go pound some information out of the pretty face who called to warn us, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are big angry beasts waiting at home for me and Grace.

“What about the monsters?” I ask. “There’s a six-armed giant tearing through my house. And a massive bear in the alley behind Grace’s apartment.”

Grace blushes. I’m not sure whether it’s because she’d forgotten about the bear or because she’s embarrassed to need Gretchen to help her get rid of it. Either way, Grace and I are not capable of taking on the vile creatures on our own.