Sweet Shadows

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 tightening 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.

“Why not?” she asks. “I mean, they have to know you’d find out eventually. I’ve known since forever. My mom and dad never tried to pretend—”

“My parents,” I interrupt, giving the easiest explanation, “are too busy.”

“Too busy? To talk to their own daughter?”

She sounds aghast, and I suppose to an outside observer our relationship might be a bit unusual. But she has no idea the kind of pressure they’re under. They have not only our livelihoods and lifestyle to support, but also the jobs and livelihoods of thousands upon thousands of employees. Their positions are not as simple as bringing home a hefty paycheck. They feel enormous pressure because so many people are relying upon them to make their companies succeed.

Do I wish we could spend more time together? That I could talk with them about homework and boyfriends and the pressures I feel at school? Of course. But I understand.

In some ways, they face the same kind of pressure I feel to take up my duty as a descendant of Medusa. Countless people are relying on me and I cannot let them down.

For some reason, I feel the urge to explain the situation to Grace.

“They’re just—” My phone beeps, saving me from trying to justify my parents’ busy lives to Grace. I pull it out of my purse and see a message from Gretchen.

Going to be late. Start without me.

I show the message to Grace, who frowns. “Start without her? What does that mean?”

“I suspect she wants us to start training,” I say.

Grace gives me a surprisingly sarcastic look. “But how?” she asks. “I’ve only had a few sessions with her. I barely got through defensive techniques. I know hardly anything about offensive tactics.”

“Is that all the training entails?” I ask. “Defensive and offensive combat techniques?”

“Well, pretty much.” She makes a face. “At least as far as I know.”

I shrug. “Then we’ve nothing to worry about. I have eight years of tae kwon do training. I’m a fourth-level black belt.”

“A black belt?” Grace’s eyes widen and she looks like she wants to fall over in shock. “Are you kidding me? You acted so, so … helpless when we were fighting those monsters.”