The other three messages are from Grace.

Coffee with Sthenno at the Grindery in Union Square.

Then, when I didn’t respond, she sent another.

Did you get my text? Meeting after school. Call me.

Finally, a text from just a few minutes ago.

At the coffee shop. Coming?

I close my eyes and count to ten. Last night, when I agreed to join up with the three mythketeers, it was with the understanding that the monster-hunting side of my life would have to balance with the responsibilities of the normal side.

Less than twenty-four hours later and already my two halves are in conflict. I have a Mock Government meeting right now and then the contractor appointment.

Last night was terrible, and I know I have responsibilities in that world. But I have to compartmentalize. I have to keep the two halves separate or I’m liable to go insane. It’s a careful balance.

My phone beeps again.

Greer?

I sigh. I realize I don’t have much of a choice. As much as I want to ignore the world of monsters and mythology, to bury my head in the sand and pretend my sisters never found me, I can’t. I’m too principled for that. Mock Government pales in comparison to saving the world from mythological monsters, obviously. And I can reschedule with the contractor.

Sometimes being responsible is a challenge.

I shoot Grace a quick message.

Just got your texts. On my way now.

I scroll through my contacts, searching for Fog City Builders as I start toward the front entrance instead of the Mock Government classroom. I should tell Mrs. Franklin I can’t make it, but there’s no time.

“Are you on your way to MG?” Rory asks as she steps into my path.

Annalise says, “Cute shoes. Are they new?”

I try not to roll my eyes. This is the third time she’s asked me the same question about the same shoes. I choose to ignore it.

“I have to miss the meeting,” I say, finally finding the phone number I’m looking for. “I forgot about a preexisting appointment.”

The looks on their faces say it all. In the years they have known me, I have never had to miss a meeting. I have never forgotten about an appointment or even scheduled a conflict by accident. I just don’t.

“Are you okay?” Rory asks.

“Yeah,” Annalise says. “You’re not sick, are you?”

She actually takes half a step back.

I don’t have time for their dramatics. I’m already late for the meeting with my sisters that I didn’t even know about until moments ago. If I don’t hit traffic, I can be there in ten minutes. Less if I ignore the speed limit—which I will, because I hate being late.

“I’m fine,” I say, punching the number for the contractors as I walk around my friends. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I can practically feel their open-jawed stares as I disappear down the hall. Great, I spend one day as a part of a greater destiny, and already the rest of my life is suffering the consequences. I refuse to completely sacrifice normalcy for this guardian legacy. I will just have to fight harder for balance in the future.

“My name is Greer Morgenthal,” I say when a receptionist answers the phone at Fog City Builders, “and I need to reschedule my afternoon consultation.”

At this time of day it’s virtually impossible to find a parking spot around Union Square. Unless, of course, your father is CEO of a company on the upper floors of the Gold Rush Building. I emerge from the parking garage less than a block away from the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet my sisters and our immortal ancestor Sthenno.

Okay, I have to admit, the idea is a little thrilling. As my irritation settled during the drive over, my curiosity grew. It’s one thing to imagine I’m a descendant of a mythological being. That’s a very distant and abstract kind of connection, like the one people who are descended from a Mayflower passenger or a Civil War general feel with their ancestors. But I’m about to meet an actual immortal, a being who can’t die, who’s been alive for thousands of years. Kind of makes my short life feel rather insignificant.

I can only imagine the things Sthenno must have seen—so many events both great and tragic. I wonder what she thinks of our current world, whether it measures up to or surpasses previous generations. I like to think we have a lot of great things going for us—medicine, technology, globalization—but maybe every era thinks most highly of itself.

I cross the street, careful to avoid cracks and potholes in my high-heeled peep toes.

Grace is sitting at one of the three tables set out on the sidewalk that give the cramped coffee shop some extra seating space. She waves at me, an enthusiastic smile on her face. I realize that I have a similar grin on my face and quickly school my features into a calm facade. Mother always says an external display of emotion is the sign of a weak mind. Which is probably why I’ve gotten so good at hiding mine over the years.

“You’re the first one here,” Grace cheers as I get close enough to hear her.

That’s remarkable, considering I was the last one to know about the meeting. Perhaps not all that surprising though. Gretchen doesn’t strike me as the most time-conscious person, and after countless millennia I suppose you could hardly expect Sthenno to take the matter of a few minutes too seriously.

“Here,” Grace says, waving me into the other chair. “We can pull two more over when Gretchen and Ms. West get here.”

“Ms. West?” I ask.

“My counselor,” she explains. “I mean, Sthenno. She is also my school counselor.”