Page 18 of Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

  And be­ca­use of my lo­ve for him, I won't push the is­sue right now.

  "We can talk abo­ut this so­me ot­her ti­me," I say. Re­la­xing in his arms, I snug­gle my he­ad aga­inst his neck. "Right now I'm too busy trus­ting you to think abo­ut anyt­hing el­se."

  I fe­el the rumb­le of his la­ugh aga­inst my chest.

  I know he is de­ad se­ri­o­us abo­ut pro­tec­ting me, abo­ut ke­eping me from pa­in. I al­so know that I can't let this go fo­re­ver. I'm not so dumb that I don't re­ali­ze what a crazy im­pos­si­bi­lity this lo­op­ho­le thing is. If the­re is a chan­ce, tho­ugh-even the te­eny, ti­ni­est, slim­mest chan­ce in his­tory-for any of us to get back our lost pa­rents, then I ha­ve to pur­sue that chan­ce.

  For now, I'll hang back and let him and Ni­co­le ta­ke the le­ad, hel­ping when I can. But I'll fol­low this thro­ugh to the end.

  Ho­we­ver long it ta­kes.

  Chapter 10

  __________________________________________________________________________

  COR­POP­RO­TEC­TI­ON

  SO­UR­CE: HES­TIA

  The abi­lity to pro­tect one­self from harm, whet­her se­en or un­se­en. In so­me he­mat­he­os, this may ma­ni­fest as the abi­lity to sen­se im­pen­ding dan­ger. Ot­hers may be ca­pab­le of def­lec­ting a di­rect physi­cal thre­at. Ef­fec­ti­ve­ness di­mi­nis­hed by men­tal dist­rac­ti­on.

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pat­ro­las

  ___________________________________________________________________________

  TANSY IS WA­ITING at the cross-co­untry star­ting block when Grif­fin and I walk up the next mor­ning. She's we­aring a tank top, su­pers­hort run­ning shorts, and a pa­ir of sne­akers that lo­ok ol­der than me. She's al­so we­aring a he­ad­band and matc­hing wrist­bands in a very eigh­ti­es whi­te with blue stri­pes. Ob­li­vi­o­us to our ap­pro­ach, she's busy stretc­hing. But not nor­mal stretc­hing-su­per/exag­ge­ra­ted stretc­hing, li­ke a car­to­on or so­met­hing.

  "Is that her?" Grif­fin whis­pers.

  "Uhhuh," I whis­per back. With a shrug, I add, "She wants to be a run­ner."

  "She, um…" He swal­lows hard. "Cer­ta­inly has the out­fit down."

  "Don't la­ugh."

  "I wo­uldn't. Be­si­des," he says, "if she starts tra­ining with us, she's gon­na ne­ed tho­se swe­at bands."

  With a gra­te­ful smi­le, I ta­ke his hand and slip my fin­gers thro­ugh his.

  Tansy fi­nal­ly no­ti­ces us ap­pro­ac­hing.

  "Hi, Pho­ebe," she calls out, wa­ving ex­ci­tedly. "Grif­fin, right?"

  "Ye­ah," he says, nod­ding. "I he­ar you want to be a run­ner."

  Her gre­en eyes flick to me and back to him. With a bre­ath­less, dre­amy vo­ice, she says. "Mo­re than anyt­hing."

  I re­mem­ber that kind of des­pe­ra­te wan­ting. If my dad had as­ked me the sa­me qu­es­ti­on eight ye­ars ago, I wo­uld ha­ve rep­li­ed in exactly the sa­me way. For may­be a lit­tle bit of the sa­me re­ason. Mo­re than anyt­hing-mo­re than lo­ve of the sport or de­si­re to win or the rush of en­dorp­hins- I wan­ted to be clo­se to him. To be li­ke him.

  "Let's get star­ted, then," I say, slip­ping off my ho­oded swe­ats­hirt and han­ging it on the drin­king fo­un­ta­in. "Sin­ce this is yo­ur first tra­ining ses­si­on, I think we sho­uld start out easy. Don't want to kill you on yo­ur first day." To Grif­fin, I sug­gest, "Why don't we ta­ke the yel­low co­ur­se."

  "Ma­kes sen­se." He shrugs out of his zip-up swe­ats­hirt and hangs it over mi­ne. That's the shor­test co­ur­se," he exp­la­ins to Tansy. "That way if you get worn out, we can stop af­ter one lap."

  "I won't get worn out," she in­sists. "We don't ne­ed to do the baby co­ur­se." She lo­oks per­so­nal­ly of­fen­ded that we wo­uld even sug­gest she co­uldn't ke­ep up.

  I re­mem­ber fe­eling li­ke that, li­ke I had so­met­hing to pro­ve. Li­ke I didn't ne­ed pe­op­le cut­ting me slack be­ca­use I co­uld ke­ep up on my own, thank you very much. Just last ye­ar I felt li­ke that, ac­tu­al­ly.

  Still, we've ne­ver se­en her run. To be on the sa­fe si­de we sho­uld at le­ast test the wa­ters be­fo­re we push her to the li­mit. That's how inj­uri­es hap­pen.

  "How abo­ut this?" I sug­gest, go­ing for a mid­dle gro­und that will sa­ve her pri­de and ma­ke su­re we don't push her too hard, too fast. "We'll ta­ke one lap on the yel­low co­ur­se and then we'll do in­ter­val tra­ining aro­und the sta­di­um."

  "So­unds per­fect to me," Grif­fin says, jog­ging in pla­ce to warm up his musc­les. "I re­ad an ar­tic­le abo­ut in­ter­val tra­ining last ye­ar. The al­ter­na­ti­on of sprin­ting and jog­ging bu­ilds up car­di­ovas­cu­lar ef­fi­ci­ency and ove­rall sta­mi­na fas­ter than run­ning alo­ne."

  Tansy lo­oks skep­ti­cal, li­ke we're trying to pull one over on her. I am, in a way, but she do­esn't ne­ces­sa­rily know that.

  Fi­nal­ly, af­ter eye­ing me and che­wing on her lip, she nods. "Okay."

  I sha­ke out my arms and legs, chec­king to ma­ke su­re they're still warm and lo­ose from when I'd stretc­hed ear­li­er. Everyt­hing fe­els in wor­king or­der, so I le­ad us to the star­ting li­ne.

  "Not that you will," I say to Tansy, "but if yo­ur musc­les start bur­ning or you can't catch yo­ur bre­ath eno­ugh to spe­ak, then pull up. Sta­mi­na is easy to fix. Inj­uri­es are not."

  "Fi­ne., she says, jam­ming her hands on her hips.

  I can tell we're on the ver­ge of wit­nes­sing a huff.

  "Then let's go," Grif­fin says. "I'll ta­ke the le­ad; Tansy, you'll run mid­dle, and Pho­ebe will bring up the re­ar. She's used to that," he te­ases.

  "You'd bet­ter run," I say, lun­ging for him.

  Be­fo­re I can smack him on the sho­ul­der, he pus­hes in­to a run and starts fol­lo­wing the lit­tle yel­low flags mar­king our co­ur­se.

  Tansy fol­lows him, easily matc­hing his gent­le pa­ce. I re­mem­ber to start the stop­watch and then fall in be­hind her, kno­wing Grif­fin pla­ced me he­re so I co­uld watch her form and her con­di­ti­on.

  He starts off at a jog, cle­arly not wan­ting to push Tansy be­yond her abi­lity. Wit­ho­ut ha­ving dis­cus­sed a plan of at­tack, I know he's go­ing to ke­ep nud­ging up the pa­ce un­til I let him know she's re­ac­hed her pe­ak. But half­way thro­ugh the one-and-a-qu­ar­ter-mi­le co­ur­se, he's at top tra­ining spe­ed, and Tansy is still in per­fect sha­pe. Her form is a lit­tle ro­ugh-her arms flap aro­und a lit­tle too much and she lets her hips sway ins­te­ad of ke­eping them in li­ne-but she hasn't mis­sed a step. She do­esn't se­em to be we­aring out.

  We hit a stra­ight stretch and Grif­lin turns to glan­ce back over his sho­ul­der. Our eyes me­et. He lifts his brows, si­lently as­king me what I think. I shrug and lift mi­ne back, in­di­ca­ting that everyt­hing se­ems go­od to me. Then he's fa­cing front aga­in and ma­in­ta­ins his pa­ce.

  As we ro­und the fi­nal bend of the co­ur­se and the fi­nish li­ne co­mes in­to vi­ew, Grif­fin says. "We're al­most the­re."

  "Let's do anot­her lap," Tansy says, not so­un­ding at all out of bre­ath.

  "Pho­ebe?"

  "Ye­ah," I say, su­itably imp­res­sed by Tansy's en­du­ran­ce and wil­ling­ness to work hard. Fe­eling con­fi­dent, I sug­gest, "Why don't we switch to the blue co­ur­se?"

  "You su­re?" he asks.

  The blue co­ur­se is the lon­gest, me­asu­ring in at eight mi­les. It al­so has a two-mi­le-long sec­ti­on that bo­asts a thirty-deg­ree inc­li­ne. I've run it a few ti­mes, but al­ways on fresh legs.

  So­met­hing tells me that not only has Tansy run the blue co­ur­se be­fo­re, but that she's pro­bably run back-to-back laps.

  Just to ma­ke su­re, I ask, "You up for it, Tansy?"

 
"Yes!"

  "Okay." I say as we cross the fi­nish li­ne and turn im­me­di­ately back on­to the co­ur­se. "Why don't you ta­ke the le­ad, then."

  She turns and lo­oks at me. "Re­al­ly?"

  I nod and be­fo­re I can say, "Re­al­ly," she spe­eds up and pas­ses Grif­fin to ta­ke first po­si­ti­on. He drops back to my si­de and asks, "Are you su­re she's re­ady?"

  "She thinks she is," I say, watc­hing her po­und the dirt "She de­ser­ves a chan­ce to pro­ve it."

  Twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter, we're ra­cing up the inc­li­ne, wor­king hard to ke­ep up with Tansy's pa­ce. Her tra­ining spe­ed is at le­ast fif­te­en se­conds fas­ter than Grif­fin's. And a co­up­le se­conds fas­ter than mi­ne. By the ti­me we re­ach the dec­li­ne, he and I are both bre­at­hing hard and a low burn is star­ting in my qu­ads. From be­hind, I can't tell if Tansy is we­aring out. Her arms may be han­ging a lit­tle lo­wer than when we star­ted, but I can't be su­re.

  We pass the se­ven-mi­le mar­ker. Only one bles­sedly flat mi­le left.

  I think our dis­tan­ce en­du­ran­ce is imp­ro­ving, but we ne­ed to push har­der. I'm ex­ha­us­ted af­ter less than ten mi­les and the tri­als are only fo­ur days away.

  "The fi­nish li­ne," Grif­fin says.

  I lo­ok ahe­ad. "Thank the gods."

  We're so clo­se. For a se­cond, I ima­gi­ne myself al­re­ady ac­ross the fi­nish li­ne, al­re­ady star­ting my re­co­very. Be­fo­re I can ta­ke anot­her step, I'm sur­ro­un­ded by a bright glow. I blink. When I open my eyes, I'm stan­ding at the fi­nish li­ne, watc­hing Griff and Tansy run to­ward me.

  "What the-"

  "That was way co­ol," Tansy squ­e­als as she cros­ses the fi­nish li­ne and pulls up to a stop.

  Grif­fin jogs over to me. "You okay?"

  "Ye­ah, I-" I sha­ke my he­ad. On ins­tinct, I re­ach down and punch off the stop­watch. "I didn't me­an to do that."

  "I know."

  "What do you think of my sta­mi­na now?" Tansy asks in bet­we­en gas­ping bre­aths, li­ke I'm not over he­re fre­aking out abo­ut ac­ci­den­tal­ly using my auto­port po­wers.

  This is exactly what I was af­ra­id wo­uld hap­pen-I was so fo­cu­sed on cros­sing the fi­nish li­ne, on win­ning, that I just. . . I don't know.

  I bet that's the sort of thing that hap­pe­ned to Dad. He pro­bably ne­ver even me­ant to use his po­wers to suc­ce­ed in fo­ot­ball. It was an ac­ci­dent, but he got smo­ted any­way.

  I half ex­pect the gods to smo­te me on the spot.

  My legs start sha­king, and not just be­ca­use the musc­les are exha­us­ted. Grif­fin wraps his hands aro­und my up­per arms and squ­e­ezes.

  "Ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath," he whis­pers so Tansy won't he­ar. "You're fi­ne."

  "But what if they-"

  "They won't." He so­unds so cer­ta­in. Li­ke the gods wo­uldn't da­re cont­ra­dict him. Thank­ful for his ste­ady re­as­su­ran­ce, I le­an in­to him a lit­tle.

  I nod and whis­per softly, "I'm fi­ne."

  His bright blue eyes watch me, may­be ma­king su­re I'm not just sa­ying that. I gi­ve him a tiny re­as­su­ring smi­le. Ap­pa­rently sa­tis­fi­ed that I've re­tur­ned to my sa­nity, he steps back.

  "I'm imp­res­sed, Tansy." he says, grab­bing one wrist with the op­po­si­te hand and res­ting it on his he­ad to open up his lungs.

  "Dit­to," I say, trying to act li­ke everyt­hing is fi­ne. I sup­press the ur­ge to bend over and rest my hands on my kne­es. That will only ma­ke it har­der to bre­at­he-and won't do anyt­hing to ste­ady my tre­mu­lo­us ner­ves. "But may­be a lit­tle fast for a tra­ining run."

  "Sorry," she says, her eyes wi­de. "I gu­ess I was trying ext­ra hard to pro­ve myself."

  "You did," I in­sist, trying to re­as­su­re her. "So next ti­me we can try a non-li­fe-thre­ate­ning pa­ce?"

  "Next ti­me?" She so­unds shoc­ked, li­ke we wo­uld ne­ver want to run with her aga­in af­ter that.

  So­on she'll un­ders­tand that we li­ve for this kind of tor­tu­re. Li­ke my T-shirt says, run­ning is a li­festy­le, not a sport.

  "Ye­ah," Grif­fin says, drop­ping his arms back to his si­des as he con­ti­nu­es to co­ol down in lit­tle circ­les. "You're a bet­ter sla­ve dri­ver than Co­ach Lenny."

  As we all ke­ep circ­ling, Tansy be­ams. She lo­oks li­ke we pro­mi­sed to gi­ve her a pony for Christ­mas-or the an­ci­ent Gre­ek win­ter ho­li­day, Bru­ma­lia.

  "What was our ti­me?" Grif­fin asks, his bre­at­hing re­tur­ning to nor­mal.

  I lo­ok at my watch. "Sixty-two mi­nu­tes!"

  "Ni­ne and a qu­ar­ter mi­les in sixty-two mi­nu­tes?" He sha­kes his curly he­ad. "At that pa­ce, we wo­uldn't just fi­nish the tri­als, we'd win them."

  "Ama­zing job, Tansy," I say, re­set­ting my watch. Our run­ning ti­me di­sap­pe­ars and the ac­tu­al ti­me flas­hes. ''It's just af­ter ni­ne. We'd bet­ter fi­nish our co­ol­down and he­ad to the sho­wers. Why don't we co­ol down on the track?"

  We all ag­ree, and Grif­fin and I grab our swe­ats­hirts from the drin­king fo­un­ta­in-way too he­ated up to put them on.

  As we walk to­ward the sta­di­um, I slip my arm thro­ugh Grif­fin's. He smi­les down at me and then pres­ses a qu­ick kiss to my no­se. Everyt­hing with Grif­fin fe­els comp­le­tely back to nor­mal. Now if I co­uld just get the rest of my li­fe the­re.

  * * * *

  ORCS AND STORMT­RO­OPERS EN­TER AT YO­UR OWN RISK

  "Knock on the do­or al­re­ady," Troy says.

  Sha­king my he­ad-I ne­ed to stop trying to un­ders­tand the des­cen­dants of Hep­ha­es­tus… they are be­yond nor­mal comp­re­hen­si­on-I rap twi­ce on the do­or. Not­hing hap­pens.

  Ni­co­le po­unds re­pe­atedly on the smo­oth wo­oden sur­fa­ce. "Open up."

  "Not li­ke that," Troy says, snatc­hing her hand away from the do­or. "How I sho­wed you."

  I ta­ke a de­ep bre­ath and hold it. Ha­ving a sec­ret knock is a lit­tle ext­re­me, I think, but cle­arly Uri­an is not ans­we­ring the do­or for anyt­hing el­se. Re­pe­ating the pat­tern Troy ta­ught me, I fi­nish knoc­king and then step back-as if the do­or might exp­lo­de or so­met­hing.

  "Pas­sword?" Uri­an's vo­ice is muf­fled by the still-clo­sed do­or.

  I can't bring myself to say it.

  "Holy Ha­des," Ni­co­le snaps. "Just let us in, Na­cus."

  No res­pon­se.

  Troy el­bows me in the ribs.

  I clench my jaw and grind out. "Ares we­ars pink un­der­pants."

  Grif­fin wo­uld so kill me if he he­ard me ut­ter tho­se words.

  The do­or swings open and Uri­an wa­ves us in­si­de. I'm not su­re I want to go, but Troy pus­hes me in ahe­ad of him.

  "What did you find out?" he asks Uri­an as he clo­ses the do­or be­hind Ni­co­le.

  Uri­an drops in­to his desk cha­ir and grabs his mo­use. A few clicks la­ter, he says, "Not­hing yet. My bot is still scan­ning the Aca­demy ser­ver. It's at ni­nety-eight per­cent, so it sho­uld be do­ne so­on."

  "Okay then," I say, tur­ning and trying to sco­ot aro­und Troy to re­ach the do­or. Thanks for trying. See you la­ter."

  "Not so fast." Troy grabs my sho­ul­ders be­fo­re I can es­ca­pe. "You ha­ve an ho­ur un­til mid­night. May­be Uri­an's se­arch prog­ram will find so­met­hing by then." He lo­oks me stra­ight in the eyes with a very se­ri­o­us ol­der-brot­her-li­ke in­ten­sity. "Sit."

  Whi­le I ap­pre­ci­ate the who­le lo­oking-out-for-me thing, I don't ne­ed a baby­sit­ter. And I don't ne­ed to sit aro­und in the dark when I co­uld be sta­king out the co­urt­yard or so­met­hing.

  "Chill, Tra­va­tas." Ni­co­le sho­ves aga­inst his chest un­til he steps back.

  "Li­ke I sa­id in my no­te," Troy says, gi­ving
Nic a nar­row-eyed gla­re. "I'm not let­ting you go to the co­urt­yard un­til we know who you're me­eting."

  "As if you co­uld stop me," I mut­ter, cros­sing my arms over my chest. I'm star­ting to get an­no­yed. "What no­te? I ne­ver got a no­te."

  The one I tuc­ked in yo­ur poc­ket whi­le you we­re run­ning this mor­ning," he ar­gu­es-not the best mo­ve at the mo­ment. "I saw yo­ur swe­ats­hirt han­ging on the wa­ter fo­un­ta­in when I was on my way to yo­ur ho­use."

  "The­re was no no­te," I re­pe­at.

  Sin­ce I'm we­aring the sa­me swe­ats­hirt I to­ok with me this mor­ning, I slip my hands in­to the poc­kets. Empty.

  "See," I say, pul­ling the poc­kets in­si­de out. "Empty."

  "No, that's not the-"

  Knock, knock, knock.

  We all fre­eze at the lo­ud ban­ging on the do­or.

  Well, most of us fre­eze. Ni­co­le re­ac­hes for the hand­le.

  "Don't mo­ve," Uri­un whis­pers, grab­bing Nic by the wrist. "They'll go away."

  They don't.

  Knock, knock, knock. Lo­uder this ti­me.

  Nic gla­res at Uri­an-li­ke he is the dirt stuck to the gum at­tac­hed to the bot­tom of her com­bat bo­ot-until he re­le­ases her. Ac­tu­al­ly, his hand snaps back li­ke she ga­ve him a 220-volt shock. I wo­uldn't be surp­ri­sed.

  She go­es for the hand­le.

  "No­oo!" Uri­an sho­ut-whis­pers.

  But he do­esn't ha­ve to stop her. Be­fo­re she can re­ach the hand­le, it turns and the do­or flings open.

  "Grif­fin?" I gasp. "What are you-"

  "I was abo­ut to do my la­undry when I fo­und this"-he sho­ves a crump­led pi­ece of pa­per in my fa­ce-"in my poc­ket."

  I pull back, trying to bring the pa­per in­to fo­cus-even tho­ugh I'm pretty su­re I know what it is.

  "That's my no­te," Troy says, po­in­ting at the pa­per. "How did you get it?"

  Thanks,Troy. That helps.

  Grif­fin is ob­vi­o­usly fu­ri­o­us. His eyes are all squ­inty-thank­ful­ly fo­cu­sed on Troy at the mo­ment-and his full lips are clam­ped so tight they lo­ok out­li­ned in whi­te. "You slip­ped it in­to the wrong poc­ket, ge­ni­us."