Ursula is gone. Taken prisoner I don’t know where, and not wanting me to come after her—or so she told Grace when she appeared to her a few days ago.

Nick is a confusion. A liar. He’s something more than I thought, someone more like me than I ever imagined. But can I trust him? How do I know whether I should or not? If I can’t answer that question, then I have to keep him at a distance until I can. And answers aren’t available at the moment.

The oracle isn’t available.

Grace is talking to Sthenno tomorrow.

I guess, for tonight, there’s not much else I can do. Hopefully Sthenno will have some answers for us. Or, if she doesn’t, then the oracle will. Either way, tonight’s a bust.

My arms sag and I realize I’m exhausted. And no wonder. After tackling the manticore in my training room, diving out into the icy bay as the loft exploded, hunting down the two beasts that went after my sisters, and going after Nick, I feel like I’ve been awake for a month.

Slipping Moira into gear, I head toward the safe house Ursula and I set up. It’s in the Tenderloin, maybe the dodgiest part of town—which means there are few prying eyes and even an all-out monster battle would go practically unnoticed. The police won’t even patrol there.

In these early-morning hours, there isn’t another soul on the street. I turn into the dark, debris-strewn alley behind the safe house. After retrieving the extra gear from under the passenger seat and the duffel bag from the trunk, I trudge up the narrow staircase to the second-floor apartment. My boots barely clear each step.

I could sleep for a year. If only I didn’t have school in the morning and an appearance of normalcy to maintain.

Kneeling next to the apartment door, I use a dagger to unscrew the cover from the power outlet in the wall.

I remember the night Ursula and I installed the false outlet. We picked up the yellowed parts at a tiny hardware store in Chinatown and put a couple of cracks in the cover to give it that old, neglected look to go with the rest of the building. If any of the other tenants noticed the oddly placed outlet, they probably thought it dated to the days when the building was a cheap hotel, when someone might have actually vacuumed the hallways every few years.

The happy memory stings a little, and I pull myself back into the present. I reach inside, retrieve the hidden key, and replace the cover.

The door swings open on surprisingly silent hinges, and I find myself facing my new home. Temporary home, I remind myself. As soon as I get Ursula back, we’ll find a new place, a better place. We’ll have to rebuild the arsenal and I don’t know if we can restock the library, but whatever we have to do, we’ll do.

I’ve only been to the safe house the one time before, when we installed the hidden key safe in the hall and Ursula gave me the ten-cent tour. She pointed out the backup weapons vault behind the refrigerator. The antivenom and first aid supplies are under a loose tile in the bathroom. There are clothes for both of us in the bedroom closet, emergency cell phones under the couch cushions, and prepaid credit cards in a ziplock bag taped inside the toilet tank.

Ursula thought of everything. Everything I might need if she disappeared. Maybe she knew this was a possibility. Maybe she knew that one day I might be on my own, that she might get taken or worse. I’m glad she was so prepared, but I’d rather have her here.

The entire place looks like a pay-by-the-hour motel room. Dirty walls, ratty linens, rust and dust everywhere. Not the nicest decor, but the carefully orchestrated kind that wouldn’t raise red flags if the low-rent landlord decided to pop in. On the surface it looks just like any other apartment in the building.

I can’t believe this is my home now. It’s such a world away from the sleek and shiny surfaces in the loft. The loft, where everything was clean and gleaming and where I had everything I needed.

The safe house reminds me too much of Phil and Barb’s. It’s a little too reminiscent of the place—not a home, never a home—I ran away from four years ago. There are no broken floorboards and all the furniture seems to be in working—if filthy—order, but it’s got the same vibe. I can practically picture my ex-parents sitting on the couch, watching the ancient TV and drinking themselves stupid.

There are two important differences between this place and whatever rathole they’re living in right now. One, I don’t have to tiptoe around, terrified that I’ll wake one of them up, draw attention to myself, and bring out their fury. Here, I can throw my duffel bag on the floor, toss my gear pack onto the counter, and slam the door behind me without sending adrenaline pumping into my bloodstream.

And two, if I remember correctly, is right behind the mostly empty bookshelf in the living room. I stomp through the apartment, walk up to the shelf, and grab the dusty white statue of Pan with one hand. Yanking the statue forward, I leap out of the way as the bookshelf swings down. It drops to the floor, landing with a soft thud on the well-worn carpet.

Yes, exactly as I remembered.

Spinning around, I don’t bother to kick off my boots before collapsing back on the Murphy bed. A fluffy gray comforter puffs around me and, although the bedding smells a little stale, it’s clean. It’s comfortable. And it’s just what I need.

Less than a minute later, I’m dead to the world.

CHAPTER 4

GREER

As I stand on my front stoop, staring at the six sets of gouges in our white-and-gold front door, I think it’s reasonable to expect a little near-death-experience reaction. In my mind I see those big, meaty hands snapping my neck or tearing off body parts I’d rather keep. My heart races and I feel survivor’s adrenaline coursing through my body. Is this my life now?