A/N: This is a The 39 Clues/PJatO Crossover.

The setting in this chapter is in The 39 Clues world.

The Greek Gods does not exist there but the Cahills exist in any world.

I do not own anything you have seen or read in real life. That's all!

Chapter 1: Books and Drama

Dull, grey and dreary. The afternoon rain reflected my mood. But my mother's magnificent voice drowned the "tip-tap" sounds on my bedroom window, reading aloud the book I bought on a day just like this, raining. That was the day where all my troubles started, where my story starts.

I spotted the book in a tiny corner of the book shop, which is beside our apartment. When I took out the book, I gazed upon its design. The book cover was red with golden sides and corners; in the front was a frame with things coming out of it like a fairy, a lizard, showers of gold, a key and some hands; also in the background there was a castle. I never saw anything like it. It was the first book of a trilogy, my mother said though she didn't seem too happy I took it out its dusty shelf.

Odd. That was the only word in my head.

My mother and I were like twins, hypothetically speaking, we think alike. We both like the same music, the same food, the same TV shows. Heck, we go out in public with the same outfit: A grey hooded jacket with faded jeans, our signature style. Most importantly, we love books. When my eye lands on an unknown book that I "feel" has good story, wallet at hand, my mother rushes to the counter in a heartbeat. But now she hesitated, it was clear in her brown eyes when she first glanced on its crimson cover. I wonder what kind of grudge she has against this book, she rarely has one. I studied her but her face showed no emotion to me, which again I stamped odd, because my mother was an open book. She never hid a secret from me. Now, I'm doubtful about that belief.

"Mom, what's the title of this book?" I asked without looking her way. If wondering why I am asking this ridiculous question, I can't read English. A better term for this is dyslexic. Then why do I like books? It's because my mother reads them to me.

"It's called Inkheart, Gabby," she said while pinching my cheek. I smiled a bit and frowned once more. My mother calls me 'Gabby' when I can't have something. I hugged the book tightly.

"Mom, could I buy it?" I pleaded, "Please, you rarely buy books. I always have to borrow them from the library. Can't I just have this one? I never saw it before. It must be very old, judging by the looks of it. Oh please, could I buy?" I gave one of my famous puppy-eyed looks. It always worked on my relatives when I ask them presents during their visits. But she's resisting, just giving me a blank face.

And then she gave me a warm smile, still eyeing the book. "Alright, but that book is coming out of your allowance."

"That's okay. I don't eat at school anyway," I muttered under my breath.

"What did you say, Gab?"

"Nothing," I said warily, forgetting her mother has supersonic ears like bats. She glanced at her wristwatch.

"Here," she said, rummaging through her handbag. She took out 50 dollars and the spare key to our apartment.

"Use this to buy the book. I'm meeting some people at Starbucks, and then we'll talk about something important in the apartment later. Okay?" She kissed me and left me with a pink lipstick mark in my forehead, rusty key and unsupervised cash. My mom is awesome.

As I watched her walk out the door, I wondered what we are going to talk about. Was it about the book? Or the people she's going to meet? Or is it about the moldy lasagna with rats she found under her bed last week, for no apparent reason what so ever point to me? I'm betting on third choice. She's been complaining about it since the rats invaded her shower cap.

Oh well, I thought, guess should buy the book now.

The counter was, for the populace with high vocabulary: crass, for the public with regular vocabulary: disgusting, for the people with low vocabulary: gross, and for the dweebs with under developed heads: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww! There was colored gum on the side of the cashier. The oldest gum was the dirty blue one with a dead spider and a lizard's leg and the newest one was the wet purple one with taco-smell saliva. Don't ask how I know. The cashier table was filled with junk food and candy wrappers. And the monster that made the mess was sleeping with the garbage.

It was a teenage girl with auburn hair. That's all I could describe her because she was sleeping face down. I was tempted not to wake her up but I had to buy the book. I was running through my mental list of how to wake people up. A) Shake her shoulder and say 'Hello, anyone alive?', B) Scream on the top of my lungs or, C) Whack her with my soon-to-be new book. As much as I want to do the last two options, I need to be polite, for my mother's sake.

"Hello," I whispered, shaking her shoulder, "anyone alive?" She moved, but sadly did not work. Without thinking, I do that a lot except for Math and Arts; I slammed the book on the table with full force. She jumped out her seat. Literally. And fell backward in surprise. I stifled a laugh.

Keep your chin up, I said mentally, she's coming up.

The dazed teen clawed her way up the table, while spreading her trash in the process. Now I got a better look at her. Her face was filled with piercings and a dragon tattoo circled around her neck like a choker. She smelled like smoke and beer. Her age, I guessed, was 18 to 20. She was the type of person who doesn't go to school, living her life in a bar, and sleeping in her part time job. Even though I'm a twelve year old, almost thirteen, and I spend my time in doing literature, I got cable and Internet and influences from school. Then the teen spoke:

"What time is it?"

"Uh . . . it's . . . ," I looked at my wrist watch, "10 am. Why?"

"I've been sleeping here for, what? Like, five hours?" she asked me with a drunk look.

"Um, I think so?"

"Okay," she said stretching her arms and rubbing her back. Then she looked at me again. "Why are you still here? Beat it, kid! My shift ends in 10 minutes!"

I felt uncomfortable at that moment but shook it off and showed her Inkheart.

"I want to buy this," I said. But she did not say anything, just frowning at me. Then she leaned forward from behind the counter towards me, inches away from my face.

"Where are your parents then, girly? Or are you a little orphan who stole cash just to buy something to read," the girl said in a mocking tone, leaning a little closer, "if she can read?"

Those words made me crack my patience. "Listen," I said, with a bit of anger in my tone, "my mom is just in Starbucks meeting some people. She told me I could buy this book without her. So could I get it now so we could get this over with."

"Wait a minute. I'm not finished with you yet. I have one last question."

"Shoot," I shouted.

She poked my nose in each syllable of that irritating sentence. "Where is your dad?"

I woke up in the floor of the book shop because of the weird buzzing in my ear. I saw the books and shelves were scattered on the floor. What happened here?, I thought. Then I remembered the tattooed teen who asked about my father. I felt my anger swell up inside, but it was timid. Wonder why. I checked my surroundings but my eyesight hasn't cleared up. I heard something behind me. I turned around and saw the cashier girl was unconscious on the counter. She was covered in blood.

O.M.G.

I needed help to help her, fast. But the bookshop was strangely dark. The doors were shut, the curtains covered the windows and the whole place was filled with shadows. I couldn't see much at all. My hand landed on a thick object.

My book.

It was covered with blood, too. I picked it up and wiped it with my hoodie. It was no good. The cover was ruined. And then I mentally face palmed, because the book was covered in plastic. I tucked my book (plastic still on) with one hand and stood up with the other. I went over to the injured person and checked if she had a pulse. But to my dismay, she was long gone.

I started to sob. Who could have done such a thing? I looked into her eyes, they're dark brown like mine. I was too scared to look at them more so I closed both of her eyelids.

I heard a siren from the outside. The police is here and I'm in so much trouble. If I go out in the open, I'll get arrested for maybe murder. But I didn't do anything, did I?

"Open up. This the police. Surrender."

Ya, right, officer dude. I went out the back door and break into a run. Someone spotted me because I heard someone say "There he goes." I wanted to yell "I'm not a he, I'm a she!" but I was to busy running for my freedom.

I went to alleys. My mother always told me to stay out of the alleys because there was some 'bad people' inside. I never really cared. I could here gunshots from behind me and by some miracle they keep missing.

Then an arm grab me. I was going to punch the person who owned the arm when his other hand flew to my mouth and dragged me into a dark corner. The person smelled like he wears those fancy perfumes.

"Shh. They will pass. I know who you are, Gabrielle. We have to hurry and go to your home before any one else spotted us," he whispered. He had a British accent

I don't know who he is, but I would take chances with him rather than the cops. I saw them pass us, hidden in the shadows. After they left, he dragged me again running to the street of my apartment. Now I saw him clearly. He has jet black hair and light brown skin. He put hood on when we came out of the alley. I followed his example.

"Thanks for saving me back there," I panted. "What's your name, assassin?"

He turned. Now I saw his whole face. He has a goofy smile and his jade green eyes are twinkling with excitement.

"Mike. Mike Cahill."

And rain tumble down, over our crowns.

A/N: Please review. I need critics.