Oh. My. Gods.

  I’m so not surprised. Cesca is not the sort of person whose bad side you want to be on. She’s vindictive as—well, as Stella, I guess. I never really noticed it before, but Cesca can be a real bi’atch to people who cross her. Or who cross her friends. If I were on the other side of her anger I might feel the same way about her as I do about Stella.

  And if I were on the other side of Stella’s anger, I might feel the same for her that I do for Cesca.

  Huh. Stella as my best friend. Not likely. But still, I feel like maybe I understand where she’s coming from a little better.

  “Suffice it to say I think he’ll have a hard time finding a date anytime soon.” Cesca checks her nails likes it’s no big deal. “Power Rangers boxers aren’t exactly en vogue right now.”

  I laugh at the thought of Justin exposed to the entire student body.

  “How old is this school, anyway?” Cesca asks, staring up at the massive templelike façade of the Academy. “This building looks ancient.”

  “It is,” I say. “It’s fifteen hundred years old.”

  “Holy hot tamale,” Cesca gasps.

  “They have excellent landscaping,” Nola says. “I can’t believe the grass is so healthy in such an arid climate.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” I glance back over my shoulder at Mom and Damian, following us across the lawn. “There’s a very good reason

  for that.”

  “Phoebe!”

  I spin around, looking up to see Troy standing at the top of the steps. He’s grinning like a crazy person. Maybe he is.

  “You!” I shout.

  “Where’d you go?” he asks, standing with his fists on his hips. “You took off so fast I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you.”

  I turn to the girls. “Give me a minute?”

  “Sure,” Cesca says.

  Nola nods. “No problem.”

  Leaving them at the base of the steps, I stomp up to meet Troy. “I can’t imagine why I’d want to get away quickly, can you?”

  “What?” He looks genuinely confused. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “What? What!” I jab my finger into his chest. “After what you did, you have the nerve to ask what?”

  “What I did? What are you talking about?”

  “I know what your ‘good luck charm’ did, Troy.” I cross my arms across my chest. “I saw the glow.”

  “The glow?” He frowns. “I saw it too, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, I know you were just trying to help. But cheating is cheating. You humiliated me. I can’t even face the team, let alone look at myself in the mirror.”

  “Cheating? You cheated?” He shakes his head, as if he doesn’t understand. “You’re not making any sense.”

  In all my years of running I’ve never cheated. When other racers were trying anabolic steroids, synthetic hormones, and amphetamines I just trained harder. I focused on perfecting my technique, improving my endurance, and obsessing about my nutrition.

  Now, after all those years of hard work and integrity, in just one race on this island, I’m a cheater. Someone—and I have a pretty good idea who that powers-charmed-bracelet-giving someone is— used godly powers to help me win. I won a race that I didn’t deserve to win.

  Winning by cheating isn’t winning at all.

  “I didn’t cheat,” I say, barely keeping my volume under control because I am so irritated that he keeps playing dumb, “but it feels like I did. When you gave me your powers, I—”

  “Whoa!” He jumps back, waving his hands in front of his chest defensively. “When I gave you my powers? I couldn’t even do that if I wanted to.”

  Holding up my hand, I pluck at the friendship bracelet. “Then what do you call this?”

  “A friendship bracelet.”

  “Ha,” I snort.

  “We can’t just give our powers to someone else.” He steps closer, his voice calm and certain. “Besides the fact that it would probably kill the person on the receiving end, your stepdad would expel me in a heartbeat. I like you a lot Phoebe, but I’m not about to throw away my future for anyone.”

  “If you’re just going to lie to me, then I’d like you to leave.” I turn my back to him and head down the steps.

  He doesn’t say a word, so I think he’s gone.

  When I glance back he’s still there. Staring at me. He looks like I’ve kicked him in the guts. With that wounded look in his eyes, he turns and walks into the school. I shrug it off, telling myself I don’t care about the feelings of a cheater, no matter how cute and sincere he seems. No matter how good of a friend I thought he was.

  Damian smiles oddly. “I wouldn’t be too hard on the boy,” he says. “Shall we go inside and have our talk?”

  I nod and we all head up the broad stone steps. Now I’m even more confused. Either Damian doesn’t know about the cheating, or he doesn’t care.

  Coach Lenny is waiting in Damian’s office. For a second I stare at him, shocked that he’s there. This must be about my cheating. I drop my gaze to the floor. I can’t face him. I can’t stand to see the look of betrayal in his eyes. After we worked so hard, so many extra hours, for it all to just not count because of Troy’s misplaced desire to help.

  But I know it’s Coach’s right to confront me. He put in as much extra time and effort as I did, and he deserves to grill me about why I’ve quit the team.

  “I’m so sorry, Coach,” I say, dropping into the chair next to his. “I didn’t know what he did.”

  Coach frowns. “What who did? And why in Hades are you sorry? You’re my superstar. You won the race.”

  Damian moves around behind his desk, lowering into his big leather chair. “Phoebe thinks she cheated,” he says as he pulls open a desk drawer. “She thinks Travatas gave her a power-granting

  charm.”

  Lenny gapes at him. “But that’s not even—”

  “I know.” Damian lays the folder on the desk.

  “I quit the team,” I say, trying to at least save myself the embarrassment of getting kicked off. But even as I say the words my eyes fill with tears—I’ve never felt as close to a coach as I do to Coach Lenny. It breaks my heart to know I can’t run for him anymore. “I’ll send you an official e-mail of resignation when I get home.”

  Mom comes up behind me and places her hands on my shoulders, softly massaging my tension. “Listen to what they have to say, Phoebe.”

  “You’re still on the team,” he says. “And you didn’t cheat.”

  I stare at him blankly. He’s clearly in denial.

  “Even if you had wanted to, you couldn’t have,” he explains. “Everyone’s powers were grounded for this race. Even yours.”

  “I don’t know how he did it, Coach—” I wipe away a stray tear. “But I know you saw the glow.”

  “Of course I saw it,” he says. “Everyone saw it.”

  “You can’t tell me that wasn’t someone’s powers.”

  “No, Phoebe, I can’t tell you that.”

  “I’m telling you, it w—” His words register. “What?”

  “You’re right,” he says. “That glow that surrounded you at the end of the race was the glow of immortal powers.”

  “Then, why—”

  “You’re missing his point, Phoebola.” Mom squeezes my shoulders tighter.

  Coach looks at me expectantly. I shake my head. I don’t understand what he’s saying. It’s like I know something’s not sinking in, but I just can’t figure out what. He says I’m right and I’m wrong. How can I be both? Either someone helped me cheat or they didn’t.

  Damian slides the file folder across the desk; Coach picks it up, opens it, and shuffles through the stack of papers inside. “Have you ever done something you thought yourself physically incapable of doing?” he asks.

  Startled by the abrupt change of subject, I snap, “Other than winning the race?”

  “Yes,” Damian says, patiently. “Other than that.”

  “
No,” I say flatly. Then I remember the time I sent Adara flying across the locker room. “I mean, I suppose so. Who hasn’t?”

  “We’ve done some investigating, Phoebe.” Coach pulls out what looks like a computer printout of run times. “Ever since you kept up with me in the first warm-up session I had my suspicions. I mean, I’m a descendant of Hermes. No nothos should be able to keep my pace. But you did.”

  “So?” I read upside-down that the title of the printout is “Castro Results.”

  “And, like you said, your performance in the race was . . .” He reads over the report. “. . . Supernatural.”

  “Listen,” I say, sniffling, “I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do to make me feel better, but I know I didn’t win the race fairly, so if you could get to the point—”

  “Phoebe, you’re a descendant of Nike,” Mom says. “You have godly blood.”

  I feel my jaw drop and I think I make a sound like, “Gah ung,” but everything else blanks out.

  For about twelve seconds.

  Then I’m fully conscious, mind racing. “What do you mean ‘a descendant of Nike’?” I twist around, staring up at Mom and trying to capture the thoughts jumbled around in my head. “Nike like the running shoe.”

  “Not exactly,” she says with a huge grin. “Nike like the goddess.

  The goddess of victory.” “What!?” “Here,” Coach says, handing me the folder. “Read this.” I look down at a newspaper article. The familiar headline reads,

  “Football Star Mysteriously Dies on the Field.” It’s an article about my dad’s death. I don’t have to read it—I have it memorized.

  At last night’s playoff game between the Chargers and the Broncos, San Diego star running back Nicholas Castro collapsed on the three yard line, ball in hand. The former USC all-star was only nine feet from the winning touchdown. Though he was rushed to Cedars-Sinai hospital for treatment he was declared dead on arrival. Doctors could find no obvious cause of death and have ruled it undetermined.

  “So?” I shove the article back at him.

  Why is he bringing Dad into this?

  “Your father did not die of natural causes.” Mom’s voice is whis

  per soft. “What?” I gasp. Damian leans across the desk and takes my hand. “The gods

  smote him because he broke the rules.”

  “What rules?” I stare at him, furious that they’re saying all this stuff about my dad. “What are you talking about?”

  “The primary rule among descendants choosing to live in the nothos world is they may not use their powers overtly to succeed in that world. The risk of exposure is too great.” Damian’s face is full of sympathy. “Your father used his powers to further his football career. On national television. He knew he would be punished.”

  None of this makes sense.

  Dad was part god?

  I’m part god?

  Dad died for football?

  “Oh honey,” Mom soothes, squeezing me tightly. “As soon as Damian told me I knew you’d be upset. Hell, I was upset. The fact that your father never—”

  “Did you just swear?” I asked between threatening tears.

  “Did I?” she repeated. “I suppose so. I’m just so mad that in all the years we were married, you father kept this secret from me. That he kept it from you.”

  “Wait?” I interrupt. “When Damian told you?” This is déjà vu all over again. “How long have you known?”

  I’m having flashbacks to the whole you’re-going-to-a-schoolfor-the-relatives-of-Greek-gods thing. A sharp pain starts at the base of my skull and slowly spreads across my entire head. Why do people keep withholding major details of my life from me? Do I seem incapable of handling astonishing news? I would think that by now I’ve proven myself pretty rational in the face of unbelievable information.

  I glare at Mom, daring her to lie to me.

  “Damian told me his suspicions a few days after we arrived,” she admits. “Until he received a genealogical report on your father a few days ago we weren’t sure.”

  “And you didn’t tell me about his ‘suspicions’ earlier—why?”

  “Damian wanted to. But I stopped him.” She brushes my hair out of my eyes. “Once I knew what this world would be like, I wanted you to have a chance to find your own home at the school. If you had known—if others had known—you would have been judged solely on your association with Nike.”

  “Instead I was judged as the only nothos. As a kako with bad blood.” No. Even as I say this, though, I realize it’s not true.

  Sure, at first that’s what happened. But Nicole never thought any less of me for not being godly—in fact, I think she liked me better for being nothos. I may go down in her estimation now. Troy never cared, either. Oh crap, I have to apologize to him. And Griffin . . . well, he was a little more work. No matter what he thought of me, though, he never called me kako. I smile—Griffin liked me before he even knew it.

  Plus, all my hard work paid off. I won the race. Even before the whole glowing incident I was leagues ahead of every last racer from the Academy.

  “Wait a second,” I say, realizing something. “Coach, you said I didn’t cheat—that I couldn’t have because my powers were grounded. If that glow was my powers, how is that possible?”

  Coach shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

  “That was certainly a surprise,” Damian says. “Even with your heritage.”

  “From what Damian told me,” Mom says, moving around to his side of the desk and leaning her hip against his chair, “this is the

  most exciting part.”

  More exciting than the whole I’m-a-descendant-of-Nike thing?

  “A general grounding of powers is usually sufficient to prevent any adolescent descendant from using them,” Damian explains.

  “I didn’t think I’d need to use something more powerful,” Coach mutters.

  “I believe the glow we all saw was your powers trying to manifest.” Damian leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. “The fact that yours—latent and dormant as they were—managed to appear at all suggests that they are quite potent.”

  I stare at him. “How is that possible?”

  “Like any other talent, powers strength vary greatly from person to person,” Damian says. “There is a correlation between strength and the concentration of godly blood you carry. In short, the closer your proximity to a deity, the stronger your powers.”

  “Which is a complicated way of saying . . .?”

  Mom beams. “That your father was Nike’s grandson.”

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because otherwise I think I’d fall over. I’m only one “great” away from a goddess?

  “Your powers,” Damian says, “have phenomenal potential.”

  Coach pumps his fist. “We are so going to win the Mediterranean Cup this year!” When Mom, Damian, and I all glare at him, he hurries to say, “Not that we’d use her powers to win, of course. Phoebe doesn’t need powers to kick tail on the course.”

  Powers? My powers? I have phenomenal powers? Now that is a strange thought.

  Yet somehow it makes sense. When I think about how easy running has always come for me, and how sometimes I can almost sense what other people are feeling (not to mention my almost unnatural obsession with Nike shoes) it seems almost logical that I’m descended from the goddess of victory herself. Being here, on Serfopoula, has made these things even more apparent. I dropped my already exceptional running time. I connect with Griffin and—I will never, ever admit this to Mom—I feel even closer to Dad. Maybe it was my godly blood coming home?

  Another thought occurs. If I have godly blood then I must be able to zap stuff like everyone else. I know Nicole said you have to learn how to use powers, but I wonder if I can . . .

  As soon as the thought enters my mind I get a tingling feeling in my hands. I look down and they’re glowing.

  Mom gasps.

  Coach’s jaw drops.

  Damian smiles. Until
the collection of framed diplomas and stuff hanging on the wall suddenly crash to the floor.

  Maybe there’s more to this whole zapping thing than I thought.

  “Powers are not something to be toyed with.” Damian waves his hand and the frames all zip back up onto the wall. “You will need to train. Extensively. Other students have had years to learn how to control their powers. If you can tap into yours this easily—and unintentionally—then you must take great care in your thoughts and actions until you have mastered them.”