Goddess Boot Camp (9 page)

“What’s the deal with Xander Katara?” I ask before I realize I’m going to.

“Katara?” Griffin gets that adorable scowl between his brows. “Why do you want to know about him?”

“He’s one of the counselors.” I remember him leaning back on his elbows, staring at the sky while everyone else did introductions. “All he said about himself was, ‘Xander Katara. Level 13.’ Didn’t even say who he descends from. Total enigma.”

“Sounds like him.”

Our arms brush as we squeeze through a narrow section of the cross-country course. Glancing down at where the brief contact left little tingles, I realize I forgot to start the stopwatch . . . again. Quickly clicking it on, I make a mental note to add three minutes to the time from when we started. Where is my head, lately?

No, I know where it is.

“So . . . ?” I prod when Griffin doesn’t say more about the mysterious Xander. “Who
is
he descended from?”

Griffin shrugs. “Who knows? He’s kind of a loner, like Nic.”

She’s an enigma, too.

“I still don’t know her god.” She’s avoided the question more times than I can ask, sly girl. “Who is she descended from?”

“If she hasn’t told you,” he says with a laugh, “then I won’t. She just started speaking to me again. I’m not about to piss her off.”

“Why the big secret?” Seems like everyone in this world has some whoppers. “What difference does it make who Nicole or Xander is descended from?”

“To some people,” he explains, “it makes a huge difference. You know how most descendants stick to their own kind?”

I nod, remembering last year when Nicole and Troy gave me a crash course in the Academy cliques. Aphrodites stick with Aphrodites. Zeuses hang with other Zeuses and, because of the Olympian marriage, Heras. And those are just the populars. Breaking those cliques is practically impossible.

“Well, some associations work opposite,” he continues with a heavy tone. “There are some gods and heroes that no one is proud to descend from.”

“Is that Nicole’s situation?” I ask in a near whipser.

“No, that’s just an example.” His fists clench, a sign he’s processing some serious emotion. “There are thousands of years of history in our world, Phoebes. Not all of it honorable.”

We run in silence for a few minutes. I focus on my steps and my breathing, on feeling my core muscles react to the faster pace. Step, step, step, breath. My rhythm. Step, step, step—

“That’s weird about Katara, though,” Griffin says suddenly.

“What?”

“I wonder why Petrolas made him a counselor?” Griffin shakes his head. “He’s not exactly a model student. He got expelled in Level 10. He’s actually a year older than the rest of the Level 13s because he was gone for an entire school year.”

Hmm. The mystery-shrouded rebel boy gets even more mysterious. Maybe that’s why Stella’s attracted to him. He’s the complete opposite of her kiss-up preppy-girl style.

“What did he do?”

“Petrolas kept it quiet.” Griffin wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead, then runs his hand through his lush curls. “No one thought he’d ever be back.”

I wonder how someone gets expelled from the Academy—where students zap one another (secretly) every day—and then readmitted? Maybe Stella knows what happened. She can be deviously determined when she wants to be. And where Xander is concerned, she is clearly motivated. I don’t really get the attraction, though. I mean, he has that rebel-boy image going for him, if you like that kind of thing. Which she clearly does. Me? I prefer the heroic athlete type. I mean, how many girls get to date a descendant of Hercules? One. Literally. Griffin’s the only one, and he’s all mine.

Of course at first I thought Griff was the bad-boy type, but that turned out to be only one thin layer of his personality. Maybe there’s something deeper in Xander, too.

Watching Griff from the corner of my eye, I smile. I don’t think I could have dreamed up a more perfect guy.

“Can we run in the morning tomorrow?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, though I’m a little disappointed at the thought of getting up early. It’s bad enough I have camp every day on my summer vacation. But better to run early with Griffin than alone at any other time. “Any particular reason?”

“Aunt Lili wants me to go to Serifos with her to stock up on fresh berries.”

As we kick up our pace a notch, I try to ignore the sour feeling in my gut. Maybe I just imagined the hint of guilt in his voice.

“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?
χ∑ 597.11 FL76

“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 clomps 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

AEROKINESIS

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.

DYNAMOTHEOS 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.