Sweet Legacy

I nearly cry with relief.

“Grace,” I shout as I sprint toward them.

I have never run so fast in all my life.

They turn to face me—Grace and Gretchen and Milo and our mother, and the little monkey—all five, just like in the vision.

Everyone but Gretchen looks confused. She looks furious, probably because I’ve left the protection of the safe house—because I’ve risked danger to everyone, including myself, by leaving the safe house’s shield.

Apollo is the least of my worries at the moment.

“Get down,” I yell. “Hurry—”

Before I finish the words, something catches my attention, just like in the vision. Only in reality, I can pinpoint the disturbance as the flash of a knife blade in sunlight.

Am I already too late?

“No!”

I dive for Grace, desperate to knock her down before the blade reaches her.

What I don’t take into consideration is that by doing so, I put myself into the dagger’s trajectory. At first it feels like a sharp bee sting in the chest, between my collarbone and my rib cage. Then the pain radiates out, overwhelming, and I collapse to the ground.

No! Apollo’s voice roars in my mind.

My last thought is that I’m glad it wasn’t Grace. I’m glad I could do that much for her.

CHAPTER 19 GRETCHEN

Everyone always says that time drops into slow motion in the heat of a crisis. In reality, it all happens in the blink of an eye. One second, Grace is introducing me to our mother. The next, the world erupts in chaos.

Greer gasps, a soft intake of breath.

The knife speeds past my ear—small and shiny and glinting in the sun.

I twist my head to follow its path.

The sound of metal sinking into flesh.

Another gasp from Greer, this one with a harsh gurgle at the end.

Thane shouts something—in Greek—and then takes off, lightning fast, chasing down whoever did this, down the alley and out onto the street beyond. I almost go after him, terror and fury urging me to join him in the hunt. But Grace cries out, and I turn back to watch our sister collapse to the ground, a wide-eyed look on her face—wide-eyed, and vacant.

“Greer!” I dive to my knees at her side, feeling my cargoes tear across the pavement. “Greer!”

The blade sticking out of her chest shines like a gold coin in the sun. I grab her by the shoulders and pull her up, lifting her so I can cradle her in my arms, careful not to touch the knife, not to push it farther into her body.

My arms are shaking, flooded with fear and adrenaline.

Grace drops down next to me, her face eerily pale.

“Is she—?”

“No,” I insist. “No!”

She isn’t. She can’t be. I won’t let her.

My hands are wet and sticky, coated. I don’t look at them because I already know what I’ll see.

“Here,” our mother—Cassandra—says, dropping to my side and wrapping her palm around the hilt of the knife sticking out of my sister’s chest. “Quickly.”

“No!” I shout, grabbing her wrist. “It might be stanching the blood.”

“There is no time,” she replies, placing her other hand over mine. “I’m a trauma nurse and a Sister of the Serpent. I’ve trained for this.”

Sister of the Serpent? What? I can’t make sense of her words.

For a moment, our gray eyes meet. I see confidence and determination in hers, along with the fear. I let her unwrap my hand from her wrist. Turning her attention to Greer, she slowly pulls out the knife. I stare at the flow of blood. It gurgles out of her like a bubbling brook.

I struggle to keep from throwing up.

“Give me your right hand,” our mother says.

I just stare at Greer, shocked and numb. She can’t be gone. She can’t.

“Gretchen!” Cassandra barks.

Jerking up, I look at her.

“Give me your right hand,” she repeats.

With jerky motions, I lift my right hand and hold it out to her. She takes the knife—a small dagger, no more than a four-inch blade, with intricate gold carvings on the hilt—and holds it above my palm.

“This will sting.”

Like I care. All the emotion in my body—all the emotion I ever let myself have—drained away with Greer’s life force. I hear Grace sobbing in the background. I wish I could find release like that, a way to let it out. I wish I didn’t care so much that it feels like the knife landed in my chest.

Sillus is wailing. “No, huntress. No.”

Cassandra presses the blade into the flesh of my palm, but I scarcely feel it. I’m numb. I don’t feel anything.

She tosses the dagger aside and yanks my hand forward, over Greer’s chest. Turning my palm over, she presses it to the wound.

The action yanks me out of my disconnect.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

She doesn’t respond, just watches the spot where my blood and my sister’s mingle. Unmoving, she looks like she’s willing something to happen.

“What are you doing!” I shout, practically screaming in her ear.

I’m losing it, I know I am. But I’ve never lost a sister before. I’ve never lost anyone I cared about. I’ve never even cared about anyone before, and now all of a sudden it’s all happening at once—the caring, the losing. My brain—my heart—can’t take it.

Grace’s sobs get louder.

“Shhh,” Milo soothes

I turn and see him kneeling at Grace’s side, his arms wrapped around her in comfort. As much as I don’t allow myself to care about many things, Grace cares easily and deeply for the people in her life. This must be hurting her even more than it hurts me.

And that magnifies my pain.

Sillus huddles against my side, his little body hiccupping with sobs.

The tears come, flooding my eyes and spilling over. Beneath my palm, I feel . . . nothing. No movement, no breath, no heartbeat. She’s just gone.

I don’t know what Cassandra thought she was doing, but clearly it wasn’t enough.

I look up, and my eyes meet Grace’s. Hers are red and puffy, full of tears.

I’m sorry, I mouth.

Grace shakes her head. She doesn’t blame me—not now, anyway. Maybe she will later, after the raw emotions are gone. But I blame myself. I should have done more. I should have known something like this would happen.

I hang my head. I’ve failed Greer. I’ve failed Grace, too. I was supposed to protect my sisters—I’m stronger than them, and I have more experience with monsters and mythology. I failed, and now Greer is dead.