* * *

  "I fo­und se­ve­ral pro­mi­sing exer­ci­ses in my fi­les," Stel­la says as we stack up our dis­hes and carry them to the kitc­hen.

  I qu­ickly rin­se mi­ne off and set them in the ne­ar-anci­ent dish­was­her-se­ri­o­usly, it's ama­zing this thing even has elect­ri­city. When it runs, the who­le ho­use ro­ars li­ke we're ke­eping a Cyclops in the ba­se­ment.

  Tur­ning and le­aning a hip aga­inst the co­un­ter as Stel­la adds her dis­hes next to mi­ne, I wa­it for her to say mo­re. She ca­re­ful­ly re­ar­ran­ges my dis­hes in the bot­tom tray. Li­ke the dish­was­her ca­res if the pla­tes are all in the sa­me qu­ad­rant.

  "I'd li­ke to try the first one to­night," she fi­nal­ly says. "I think it will re­al­ly help you get in to­uch with yo­ur po­wers."

  Her vo­ice is very calm and re­as­su­ring, li­ke an ele­men­tary-scho­ol te­ac­her's. I'm ins­tantly on alert.

  "What exer­ci­se is that?" I ask wa­rily.

  She clo­ses the dish­was­her. "It will be easi­er if I show you."

  Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter, we've pus­hed the fur­ni­tu­re asi­de in the li­ving ro­om and we're sit­ting pret­zel style on the flo­or fa­cing each ot­her.

  Tho­ugh I try to ke­ep my dis­tan­ce,. Stel­la inc­hes clo­ser un­til our kne­es are prac­ti­cal­ly to­uc­hing. She re­ac­hes for­ward and ta­kes my hands, pla­cing them palm up on my kne­es.

  This re­minds me of the yo­ga class No­la on­ce drag­ged me to. Not re­al­ly my thing. If Stel­la starts tal­king abo­ut me­di­ta­ti­on and as­king me to "om" to the god­dess Shi­va, I'm out­ta he­re.

  "The exer­ci­se is cal­led 'Inner Con­tact,'" she exp­la­ins, set­ting her hands palm up on her kne­es, too. The go­al is for you to lo­ca­te the so­ur­ce of po­wer in yo­ur body."

  Next she'll be spo­uting Hin­di and di­rec­ting me in­to the down­ward-fa­cing dog po­si­ti­on.

  "Clo­se yo­ur eyes," Stel­la inst­ructs, her vo­ice soft, me­lo­dic. "I am go­ing to le­ad you thro­ugh yo­ur body, and each ti­me I say an area, I want you to fo­cus all yo­ur energy on that part of yo­ur body. Pic­tu­re yo­ur po­wers glo­wing from that spot, il­lu­mi­na­ting the en­ti­re ro­om. Okay?"

  I nod. I al­so roll my eyes. Thank­ful­ly Stel­la can't see, tho­ugh, sin­ce my eyes are clo­sed. I'm wil­ling to gi­ve this exer­ci­se a chan­ce, but I'm skep­ti­cal. All this to­uchy-fe­ely-New-Agey stuff se­ems li­ke ho­o­ey to me.

  "To­es," Stel­la whis­pers.

  I fo­cus on my to­es. Se­ri­o­usly, tho­ugh, if my po­wers co­me from my to­es, I think I'd be too em­bar­ras­sed to ever use them aga­in.

  "Ankles."

  I shift my fo­cus. I'm not su­re how I'll know when I've "fo­und my po­wers," but I ke­ep trying.

  "Cal­ves." She pa­uses long eno­ugh for me to shift fo­cus. "Kne­es. Thighs."

  I fol­low along.

  "Hips. Wa­ist. Chest. Sho­ul­ders. Up­per arms. El­bows. Fo­re­arms. Wrists. Fin­gers. Neck. He­ad"

  Okay, we've go­ne from to­es to no­se and still not­hing.

  "Now I will mo­ve on to the or­gans," Stel­la exp­la­ins. "You will ne­ed to shift yo­ur fo­cus in­si­de yo­ur body."

  I nod. I'm star­ting to fe­el re­al­ly go­od. Qu­i­et and at pe­ace. May­be the­re is so­met­hing to me­di­ta­ti­on af­ter all.

  "Sto­mach."

  Not­hing.

  "He­art."

  Not­hing.

  Mind."

  Noth-

  "Oh my gods!" Stel­la squ­e­als. "That's it, that's it!"

  I open my eyes, re­ady to ask her how she knows, but then I see it. The glow. It's everyw­he­re. It's li­ke my he­ad is a gi­ant lamp and the en­ti­re ro­om is glo­wing in my light. (That so­unds gross, but it is bre­ath­ta­king.)

  "Wow, that's amaz-"

  Knock, knock.

  We both jump at the lo­ud knock on the front do­or. Ins­tantly, the glow is go­ne. I lost my fo­cus.

  "Who co­uld that be?" Stel­la asks, clim­bing to her fe­et and he­ading to the do­or. When she yanks it open. no one's the­re. The porch is empty.

  I jo­in her at the do­or, con­fir­ming that we just got ding-dong-ditc­hed. I bet it was a ten-ye­ar-old from bo­ot camp. That's just the sort of juve­ni­le prank they wo­uld pull.

  "We­ird." Stel­la le­ans out the do­or, glan­cing aro­und, then lo­oks down. "Oh, he­re's so­met­hing."

  She bends down to pick up an en­ve­lo­pe sit­ting on the wel­co­me mat. Re­ading the front as she clo­ses the do­or, she says, "It's for you."

  "For me?" I ec­ho. Who wo­uld le­ave me a no­te on the front porch in such a myste­ri­o­us way? Ac­tu­al­ly, who wo­uld le­ave me a no­te pe­ri­od? Ever­yo­ne knows I li­ve on e-ma­il and IM.

  But my na­me is pen­ned ne­atly on the en­ve­lo­pe in a thin, ele­gant script.

  I rip it open and pull out the no­te in­si­de. My jaw drops.

  Want to le­arn what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned to yo­ur fat­her?

  "Holy Ha­des," I gasp. Then my everyt­hing go­es black.

  The next thing I re­mem­ber is Stel­la sha­king me and scre­aming. "For the lo­ve of Ze­us, Pho­ebe, stop thin­king!"

  Everyt­hing in the ro­om is swir­ling aro­und me-except for Stel­la, who has me in a to­tal de­ath grip. The li­ving ro­om is a whirl of fur­ni­tu­re and plas­ter. It fe­els li­ke I wo­ke up in the Gra­vit­ron-that car­ni­val ri­de whe­re the flo­or drops out from un­der you as you spin aga­inst the out­si­de wall-only it's the ro­om that's spin­ning, not me.

  I blink away all the crazy tho­ughts of what that no­te might me­an. As my mind sha­kes off the dizzy sen­sa­ti­on, the ro­om slowly re­turns to nor­mal.

  I fo­cus on not thro­wing up.

  "We ha­ve got to get you un­der cont­rol," she says, smo­ot­hing her twin­set in­to pla­ce, li­ke we we­ren't just spin­ning in a whirl­po­ol vor­tex in the li­ving ro­om.

  Bet­ter not tell her what her ha­ir lo­oks li­ke.

  "What set you off?" she asks. "What do­es the no­te say?"

  I'm not su­re why I don't tell her the truth. May­be I'm not com­for­tab­le tal­king abo­ut my dad with her, sin­ce her dad step­ped in­to his pla­ce. May­be I don't want to suf­fer her in­qu­isi­ti­on over what the no­te might me­an. Or may­be I'm just so shoc­ked by the sug­ges­ti­on that the­re might be mo­re to Dad's de­ath than I al­re­ady know that I want to sa­vor that idea wit­ho­ut int­ru­si­on. Wha­te­ver the re­ason, I shrug it off with a lie.

  "It's just a joke from Ni­co­le," I say, for­cing a lit­tle la­ugh. "She's a jokes­ter."

  From the way her per­fectly twe­ezed brows drop, I get the fe­eling she's not bu­ying my story. When her gray eyes glan­ce bri­efly at the whi­te card clutc­hed in my fist, I know she's not bu­ying my story. Darn psychos­pec­ti­on. But, for wha­te­ver re­ason, she do­esn't call me out. I can see the ins­tant she de­ci­des not to ar­gue; she lo­oks back in­to my eyes and ex­ha­les.

  "Wha­te­ver," she says dis­mis­si­vely. "Now that we know yo­ur po­wers co­me from the mind, I can ta­ilor so­me camp exer­ci­ses to me­et yo­ur ne­eds."

  Be­fo­re she clumps out of the ro­om, she tos­ses anot­her lo­ok at the no­te. A lit­tle re­min­der that she knows I li­ed.

  "Oh, and Pho­ebe?" she calls out over her sho­ul­der as she di­sap­pe­ars in­to the hall. "Try to cont­rol yo­ur tho­ughts un­til we get you stra­igh­te­ned out."

  That's go­ing to be a prob­lem. Now that the se­eds of do­ubt are plan­ted, how am I ever go­ing to stop thin­king abo­ut Dad, and what I don't know abo­ut his un­ti­mely smo­ting? And wor­rying whet­her I'm des­ti­ned for a smo­ting of my own?

  Chapter 5

  _____________________________________________________________________________
__________________

  AEROK1NES1S

  SO­UR­CE: AR­TE­MIS

  The abi­lity to cont­rol and mo­ve air and wind. This can al­so re­sult in the mo­ving and/or le­vi­ta­ting of obj­ects, self, or ot­hers. Use­ful du­ring sum­mer months to re­du­ce air-con­di­ti­oning costs. Only very po­wer­ful he­mat­he­os can use this po­wer to ef­fect no­ti­ce­ab­le chan­ges in we­at­her.

  DYNAM­Q­TI­IHOS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________

  "WHAT EL­SE DID THE NO­TE SAY?" Ni­co­le asks.

  After the early-mor­ning tra­ining run with Grif­fin, I'd sho­we­red and got­ten chan­ged for camp with mo­re than an ho­ur to spa­re. Sin­ce Grif­fin was on the bo­at to Se­ri­fos with Aunt Li­li, I he­aded to Ni­co­le's dorm ro­om.

  'He­re," I say, pul­ling it out of the back poc­ket of my je­ans. I tri­ed to le­ave it on my desk when I left ho­me, but co­uldn't walk away. Li­ke I was com­pel­led to ta­ke it with me. "You can re­ad it."

  Ni­co­le lo­oks at the no­te and then scowls. "This is the no­te?"

  "Ye­ah." I le­an over and re­ad it up­si­de down. "That's it."

  She lo­oks at me li­ke I'm crazy. "It's blank."

  "No it's not." I ar­gue. I po­int at the words. "Right the­re it says, "Want to le­arn what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned to yo­ur fat­her?"

  Ni­co­le squ­ints at it. Holds it up to her no­se. Flips it over and lo­oks at the back. She sha­kes her he­ad.

  "Se­ri­o­usly," she says, gi­ving it one last lo­ok. "I don't see anyt­hing."

  How is that pos­sib­le?

  "It must be cur­sed," she says, han­ding it back to me.

  "Cur­sed?" I squ­e­ak, drop­ping the no­te li­ke she'd sa­id it was co­ated in the pla­gue. I do not li­ke the so­und of that.

  "Re­lax." She drops back on­to her bed, grab­bing a black pil­low and tos­sing it in the air. "A cur­se isn't ne­ces­sa­rily a bad thing. It's just a spe­ci­ali­zed use of po­wers that af­fects only one per­son or a spe­ci­fic gro­up of pe­op­le."

  Snatc­hing the no­te back off the flo­or, I say, "Oh, well, that's a-"

  "Of co­ur­se it can be a bad thing," she adds, ru­ining my mo­ment of re­li­ef. She snorts. "A re­al­ly bad thing."

  "Not hel­ping." I sit in her desk cha­ir and re­ad the no­te alo­ud aga­in.

  "What was that last bit?" she asks.

  "X Sig­ma 597.11 FL76." It ma­kes no sen­se. It's not even a word. "What is it? So­me kind of co­de or so­met­hing?"

  "It se­ems fa­mi­li­ar," she says.

  Ni­co­le jumps up and grabs a scrap of pa­per and a pen­cil with a skull-and-cros­sbo­nes era­ser at the end. Han­ding them to me, she says, "Wri­te it out. Exactly as it is in the no­te."

  When I do, she claps her hands. "I know what that is!"

  "You do?"

  "Yes." She smi­les tri­ump­hantly. "It's a call num­ber. Li­ke from the lib­rary."

  A call num­ber? I sha­ke my he­ad.

  "It's a bo­ok!"

  "Oh," I say bril­li­antly. A bo­ok. How is so­me bo­ok sup­po­sed to exp­la­in so­met­hing abo­ut my dad? It's not li­ke just an­yo­ne can pub­lish stuff abo­ut the sec­ret world of the gods. Mo­unt Olym­pus to­tal­ly has su­per­na­tu­ral pro­tec­ti­ons aga­inst that kind of thing. Why wo­uld this crazy no­te ha­ve a lib­rary call num-

  "What are you wa­iting for?" Ni­co­le de­mands, grab­bing me by the wrist and pul­ling me to the do­or. "Let's go to the lib­rary."

  I've ne­ver se­en Ni­co­le get so ex­ci­ted abo­ut anyt­hing-except that ti­me she ca­me up with the plan to help me cap­tu­re and then bre­ak Grif­fin's he­art. That ti­me didn't turn out so well for me. She tem­po­ra­rily zap­ped away my ank­le musc­les so Griff wo­uld ha­ve to carry me ho­me. That was be­fo­re they ma­de up, of co­ur­se. And be­fo­re he and I got to­get­her.

  It was the thrill of stra­tegy and es­pi­ona­ge that ex­ci­ted her then. It's a go­od bet that it's the sa­me thrill that has her hur­rying me ac­ross the cam­pus lawn. In un­der two mi­nu­tes we've ma­de it from her ro­om to the lib­rary do­or.

  I'd be­en to the lib­rary do­zens of ti­mes du­ring the scho­ol ye­ar. Re­se­arc­hing a bo­ok-length term pa­per for Ms. T's lit class. Using the com­pu­ter lab to check out a su­per­co­ol 3-D physics si­mu­la­tor prog­ram in Ms. Mad­ri­anos' class. Lo­oking up news­pa­per ac­co­unts of my dad's de­ath.

  Still, as Ni­co­le and I walk thro­ugh the glass do­ub­le do­ors, I can't help sta­ring in awe.

  You know what most high-scho­ol lib­ra­ri­es are li­ke? Small, cram­ped, and with so few bo­oks that if every stu­dent chec­ked one out at on­ce, the shel­ves wo­uld be empty? Well the Aca­demy lib­rary is so not li­ke that.

  First of all, it's hu­ge. When you walk in, you're on the se­cond story, on a bal­cony that over­lo­oks the ba­se­ment-le­vel ma­in flo­or. Circ­ling the up­per le­vel is an al­ter­na­ting pat­tern of tab­les and cha­irs, in­di­vi­du­al study car­rels, and comfy armc­ha­irs fa­cing low cof­fee tab­les. Who wo­uldn't want to study in he­re?

  Se­cond of all, it's be­a­uti­ful. The­re is light everyw­he­re on the bal­cony and po­uring in­to the open spa­ce be­low. Sin­ce it's at the cor­ner of the scho­ol, it has two full walls of win­dows that let in glo­ri­o­us sun all day. The shel­ves that li­ne the bal­cony are the exact sa­me co­lor as the Aca­demy ex­te­ri­or, so they blend right in with the walls. Everyt­hing is trim­med in gold-I ha­ve a fe­eling it's re­al gold-and marb­le. All the fab­rics are this gor­ge­o­us gold swirly-girly pat­tern. As far as lush in­te­ri­ors go, it co­uld ri­val any of the gre­at pa­la­ces of the world.

  Third of all, it's full of bo­oks. Oh, not so much that you fe­el crow­ded by them or anyt­hing, but if they had a card ca­ta­log-which they ha­ven't sin­ce com­pu­te­ri­zing everyt­hing in the ni­ne­ti­es-it wo­uld be the si­ze of an ave­ra­ge high-scho­ol lib­rary. Al­most all of the bo­oks are in the ba­se­ment le­vel, which spre­ads out un­der the en­ti­re scho­ol. Pro­bably fart­her. This is to­tal­ly the kind of pla­ce that wo­uld ha­ve sec­ret cham­bers or hid­den pas­sa­ges or so­met­hing el­se right out of a Nancy Drew no­vel.

  "Co­me on," Ni­co­le calls out as she he­ads for the swe­eping sta­ir­ca­se that le­ads to the lo­wer le­vel. "Let's check the call num­ber aga­inst the Map."

  No­te clutc­hed in my hand, I hurry af­ter her. The Map is a hu­ge-sca­le, Ple­xig­las flo­or plan of the lib­rary that de­ta­ils what's on every shelf. Not to the bo­ok, of co­ur­se-wo­uldn't that be co­ol, tho­ugh, if it was so­me ult­ra hip, in­te­rac­ti­ve map whe­re you co­uld scan thro­ugh every bo­ok on the shelf!-but by call num­ber.

  When we re­ach the map I un­fold the no­te and re­ad the call num­ber out.

  "X Sig­ma 597.11 FL76." I'm su­re that ma­kes sen­se to so­me­body- lib­ra­ri­ans, pro­bably-but to me it's just a garb­le of num­bers and let­ters.

  The one bad thing abo­ut the Aca­demy lib­rary is that not­hing is in or­der. At le­ast, not call-num­ber or­der. Or any ot­her or­der, as far as I can see. Tra­cing over the Map with our fin­gers, Ni­co­le and I se­arch every inch of it. I'm just abo­ut to gi­ve up, when she says, "He­re it is." Fol­lo­wed im­me­di­ately by, "No, that's not it."

  "What?" I mo­ve to her si­de of the Map and lo­ok at the spot she's pin­po­in­ting with her fin­ger.

  "This do­esn't ma­ke any sen­se," she says. That set of shel­ves has all the X-wha­te­vers ex­cept X Sig­ma. The­re's no X Sig­ma anyt­hing anyw­he­re."

  Le­aning in for a clo­ser vi­ew, I see she's right. How we­ird is that? The la­bel lists everyt­hing that starts with X plus a let­ter from the La­tin alp­ha­bet.

/>   I scan the Map aga­in. The­re are no call num­bers with Gre­ek let­ters. But the se­cond let­ter of the call num­ber is de­fi­ni­tely a Ј. A Sig­ma.

  May­be the no­te was a typo.

  "You will not find Chi Sig­ma on the Map."

  Ni­co­le and I both spin aro­und. I don't know abo­ut Ni­co­le, but my he­art is ra­cing. I fe­el li­ke we got ca­ught sne­aking in­to scho­ol af­ter dark, not se­arc­hing for a lib­rary bo­ok.

  Stan­ding right be­hind us is the lib­ra­ri­an, Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos. I ado­re her-she hel­ped me find obs­cu­re Aris­tot­le wri­tings for my fi­nal in Mr. Dor­cas's phi­lo­sophy class-but she sca­res me a lit­tle. She is no ste­re­oty­pi­cal lib­ra­ri­an. She only co­mes up to my chin, ma­king her may­be fi­ve fo­ot. May­be. My best gu­ess at her age is se­venty, but you wo­uldn't know it from how she's dres­sed. It's not every day you sec a fi­ve-fo­ot, se­venty-ye­ar-old lib­ra­ri­an we­aring black car­go pants and a black le­at­her cor­set top. And cer­ta­inly not one that lo­oks go­od in that out­fit.

  "Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos," Ni­co­le gasps. "You sca­red the Ha­des out of us."

  "We lib­ra­ri­ans ha­ve to be ste­althy," She shrugs her tiny sho­ul­ders. "How el­se can we ex­pect to spy on yo­ung lo­vers in the stacks?"

  My che­eks flush with the me­mory of one night du­ring fi­nals we­ek when Grif­fin and I slip­ped down the mo­dern-dra­ma­tic-the­ory ais­le for a ma­ke-out ses­si­on, cer­ta­in that no one in the­ir right mind wo­uld co­me lo­oking for one of tho­se bo­oks. We qu­ad­rup­le-chec­ked that no one was aro­und. The­re was no way she co­uld ha­ve-

  "Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos!" I gasp.

  The tiny lib­ra­ri­an winks at me.

  I gi­ve her a we­ak smi­le.

  Re­mem­be­ring why we're he­re-and des­pe­ra­te to def­lect my em­bar­ras­sment-I ask, "Why won't we find Chi Sig­ma on the Map?"

  Why didn't we gu­ess that the X was re­al­ly a chi?