“Me?” She looks around, startled.
I nod. “You’re the only one here. Teach me everything Gretchen has taught you so far.”
She hesitates, probably worried about being inadequate to the task. Clearly Gretchen is a solid tutor; otherwise Grace never would have been able to defend against my attack. I’m sure she has some monster-fighting skills as well.
“Okay,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “I can do this.”
I smile. “Of course you can.”
CHAPTER 12
GRETCHEN
Come on!” I pound on the door so hard the glass—and the surrounding windows—rattles. My only answer is an echoing silence and dust falling from the velvet hangings that cover the windows. The times I’ve been here before—once, four years ago, and then again last week—the storefront appeared just as empty as it does now.
Yet both times the door was unlocked. Both times I walked right inside and she was waiting for me. The oracle.
Last night I assumed she had gone home. That she is still gone and the door still locked this afternoon is not acceptable.
“Aaargh!” I pound my right hand harder on the glass, not caring if I shatter the ancient thing, not caring if I spill some magical healing blood that flows through the veins of my right arm. Just so long as I can get inside.
“Way to be discreet,” Nick says, wrapping a hand around my wrist and pulling my arm away from the door. “You want the whole neighborhood to take an interest?”
I glare at him. And then at the few pairs of curious eyes that are watching me assault the door. Whatever. One look in my eyes with a little subliminal suggestion, and they’ll forget they ever saw me. They’ll forget their own names for a while.
“I can take care of them.”
Nick steps into my line of sight, blocking my view of the interested spectators.
“That’s not necessary,” he says, his voice low and adamant.
I yank my wrist out of his grasp. “What would you know about it?”
“I’ve been around the mythological block a time or two,” he says, as if I’ve forgotten. “I know all about what happens when you mess with someone’s mind.”
His dark eyes get a faraway look, and I have a feeling he’s lost in some kind of shadowed memory. Or maybe a dream. I don’t have the time—or patience—to care right now.
“I’m just frustrated,” I admit. I turn and give the bottom of the door a solid kick. “Where could she be? Why isn’t she here?”
Nick snaps out of his memory. “I don’t know,” he says. “Oracles are meant to be tied to a location, to a mystical spot where their powers are strongest. If she has moved on—”
“Then something must have happened,” I finish. She might have been attacked or frightened away. Or, if current trends continue, taken prisoner. Anyone who helps me and my sisters seems to disappear. “We need to get inside.”
Nick nods.
I pull my long-sleeved tee down at one wrist, securing it tight against my arm. I wish I still had my leather jacket. “Shield me,” I say as I turn and lift my elbow. One swift jab to the glass and we’ll be inside before I can say Bring it, beastie.
“Whoa, hold on there, eager beaver.” Nick stops my momentum and tugs me away from the door. “Violence isn’t always the answer.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out something small and shiny. I can’t tell exactly what it is, but he steps up to the door and grabs the handle. “You,” he says with a smirk, “shield me.”
I scowl and then turn to face the sidewalk, keeping him at my back and hiding his actions from the view of the passersby. I hear the faint scrape of metal on metal. A few seconds later, a quiet whine announces his success. I turn around just in time to see the door swing open.
He flashes me a cocky grin. “After you.”
I stomp past him, a little irritated by his arrogance—and by the fact that he has gotten us inside without destruction of property. And that he’s right. It would be much easier to explain an “unlocked” door than shattered glass to a squad of cops.
Inside, the space is as dark and dusty as ever. There is no furniture in the front room, which does its best interpretation of a deserted building.
But I know better.
Pulling out my car keys, I flick on my keychain flashlight and shine the brilliant blue beam around the room. At first, I don’t notice anything unusual. A thick layer of gray-brown dust covers the floor, the curtain rods, and the defunct chandelier hanging at the center of the room. I can see the faint outline of my bootprints from my last visit.
Clearly, this place is not on a regular cleaning schedule.
As my light sweeps over the room, Nick says, “Wait. Look.”
I shine my light where he’s pointing, at a disturbance in the dust. In the doorway to the back room there is a sweep of fainter dust, like something slid or was dragged through. The resettled layer of dust there is almost as thick as the dust covering my old bootprints. Whatever happened there must have been shortly after my last visit.
Leaving Nick in the dark, I run into the back room. My heart plummets. It’s a disaster. There are candles strewn across the floor. The small, scarred table is on its side in the corner, where it probably rolled after being tipped over. One of the wooden chairs lies in a pile of splintered wood, as if it was smashed over something.
“Whoa,” Nick exclaims as he looks in from the doorway.