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.”

Chapter 15

Greer

I’m telling you, Veronica, an ice sculpture would be tacky on a colossal scale.”

“But Greer,” the edging-on-whiny voice of my Immaculate Heart Alumnae Tea co-chair pleads, “can you imagine our school mascot in beautiful crystalline ice, wings spread wide over the buffet? It would positively be a miracle.”

“Until it melts.” I absently rearrange the sample place settings I’ve laid out on the formal dining table. The gold flatware looks cheap next to the aqua china but goes beautifully with the violet-trimmed porcelain. Perfect. “Then we have a big puddle of dragon all over the hors d’oeuvres and petit fours. Less miracle, more disaster.”

“We can keep the air-conditioning cranked,” she suggests, not willing to let her horrid idea go. “If the temperature stays below—”

“The guests will all freeze.” I’m bored with this debate. Especially since the main reason Veronica’s so married to this idea is that her boyfriend—her poor, starving, tortured artist boyfriend—has recently taken up ice sculpting to pay the bills. I am not about to let the wealthy, powerful, and influential alumnae of Immaculate Heart shiver through afternoon tea so Veronica can indulge her latest fascination with some lowlife guy. Time to end this discussion. “We are not having an ice sculpture.”

“But—”

“Final decision.” The doorbell rings, giving me the perfect excuse to hang up—not that I need one. “The petit four samples have arrived. Must go.”

Before she can get in one more plea, I end the call and set my phone on the foyer table. That girl seriously needs to find another way to get her parents’ attention. Slumming it with that sad, talentless excuse for an artist is only going to turn into a tragic after-school special.

I reconciled myself long ago to the fact that my parents aren’t the demonstrative, caring, supportive type. They’re too busy running Fortune 100 companies and making sure they stay on all the right social lists. In a good week, I see them a couple of mornings before school. In a less good week, not at all.

I could wallow in self-pity, indulging in destructive and unproductive behavior, hoping they’ll start paying more attention if my behavior gets bad enough. Or . . . I could act like an adult, accept that no one is going to coddle me in this world, and forge my life into what I expect it to be.