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Oh.My.Gods. 02 - Goddess Boot Camp

Page 19

by Tera Lynn Childs


  "The­re's no ne­ed to get nasty," I say, de­fen­ding Troy. It's not his fa­ult.

  Grif­fin's blue eyes, bur­ning whi­te-hot, fo­cus on me so in­tently I'm not su­re he even se­es anyt­hing-or an­yo­ne-else in the ro­om. You know that who­le pro­tec­ti­ve thing I was thank­ful for last night? Well, he­re it is aga­in, las­hing out. I try to ke­ep calm by tel­ling myself he's just wor­ri­ed abo­ut me. My get­ting de­fen­si­ve is not go­ing to imp­ro­ve the si­tu­ati­on.

  "What is this abo­ut?" he de­mands.

  Acu­tely awa­re of three pa­irs of very ob­ser­vant eyes, I slam my palms aga­inst Grif­fin's chest and push him out in­to the hal­lway. He and I ha­ve be­en thro­ugh eno­ugh. We don't ne­ed an audi­en­ce. "Pri­vacy."

  "Pho­ebe," he prac­ti­cal­ly growls.

  "You know I got that no­te po­in­ting me to the re­cord of my dad's tri­al." I po­int out. When he nods, I exp­la­in. Then I got an e-ma­il. And anot­her."

  "How many?"

  "Fi­ve, in all."

  "From who?"

  "I'm not su­re," I say. The sen­der's ad­dress was bloc­ked."

  "In yo­ur Aca­demy e-ma­il? Not pos­sib­le."

  "Appa­rently it is," I in­sist, trying not to get an­no­yed that he do­esn't be­li­eve me. Li­ke I wo­uld ma­ke that up. "I co­uldn't get them to print, eit­her. So we as­ked Uri­an"-I nod at the do­or be­hind us- "for help."

  "What did the e-ma­ils say?"

  I exp­la­in the con­tent, inc­hing away as his exp­res­si­on grows dar­ker with every word. He lo­oks li­ke he co­uld exp­lo­de at any se­cond. By the ti­me I fi­nish, I'm pres­sed up aga­inst Uri­an's do­or.

  "Why didn't you tell me abo­ut this?"

  "We we­ren't exactly in a sha­ring mo­od the past few days," I say. "Be­si­des, I don't see why this is such a big de­al."

  "I don't think you sho­uld go."

  "Why not? Ever­yo­ne se­ems so su­re this is so­me mas­ter plot or so­met­hing." Li­ke I'm im­por­tant eno­ugh for so­me­one to mas­ter-plot aga­inst me. "What if it's just so­me­one trying to help me out?"

  Altho­ugh the fi­re in his eyes is go­ne-rep­la­ced by an equ­al­ly in­ten­se blank lo­ok-and he isn't mo­ving a musc­le, his en­ti­re body is prac­ti­cal­ly ra­di­ating ten­si­on. If No­la we­re he­re, she'd pro­bably tell me that his aura is fi­re-engi­ne red right now. It do­esn't ta­ke ma­j­or de­duc­ti­ve or psychic po­wers to re­ali­ze he's up­set. And, if it wasn't my dad we we­re tal­king abo­ut, I'd pro­bably ap­pre­ci­ate the con­cern.

  "Then why all the ga­mes?" he rep­li­es. "Why not just ma­il you the re­cord or le­ave it on yo­ur do­ors­tep? No." He sha­kes his he­ad. "This recks of misc­hi­ef."

  "You're be­ing ri­di­cu­lo­us. 'Re­eks of misc­hi­ef.' What are you. a cha­rac­ter from Sha­kes­pe­are? I'm go­ing," I say, da­ring him to ar­gue. Which, of co­ur­se, he do­es.

  "No," he grinds out, "you're not."

  "You can't stop me." I turn to grab the do­or hand­le, but Grif­fin snags it first, hol­ding it shut.

  "Yes I can," he says, so­un­ding overly alp­ha ma­le. "I will do wha­te­ver I ha­ve to do to pro­tect you from harm."

  I want to spin aro­und and chew him a new one. To say that it's just his Her­cu­les he­ro­ic ge­ne that's ma­king him so pro­tec­ti­ve.

  But I know that's not true-not en­ti­rely any­way. Be­si­des, I don't li­ke using that aga­inst him, li­ke it's a to­ol I can use to win an ar­gu­ment.

  Inste­ad, I say softly, "You won't." I lay my hand over his on the hand­le. "Be­ca­use you wo­uld ne­ver for­gi­ve yo­ur­self if you kept me from fin­ding out the truth abo­ut my dad." His hand sof­tens be­ne­ath mi­ne, but do­esn't mo­ve. "And be­ca­use you're af­ra­id I'd ne­ver for­gi­ve you, eit­her."

  His hand drops away.

  Be­fo­re I turn the hand­le and slip back in­to Uri­an's ro­om, I say, "Thank you for trus­ting me."

  * * * *

  At ele­ven-thirty, I'm le­aning aga­inst the co­urt­yard wall, trying to stay in the sha­dows and ke­ep an eye on the two ent­ran­ces at the sa­me ti­me. All of the clas­sro­oms that over­lo­ok the co­urt­yard are dark and only the fa­int glow of mo­on­light il­lu­mi­na­tes the smo­oth sto­ne flo­or. The tiny pi­eces of the int­ri­ca­te mo­sa­ic at the cen­ter shi­ne li­ke tho­se glow-in-the-dark jel­lyfish we le­ar­ned abo­ut in fresh­man bi­ology. I can't ma­ke out the de­sign at the mo­ment, but I know from me­mory that it de­picts Pla­to and At­he­na-the co­fo­un­ders of the Aca­demy-loc­ked in a he­ated de­ba­te.

  I can just ima­gi­ne what they're ar­gu­ing abo­ut. The ide­al po­li­ti­cal sta­te. Et­hics and edu­ca­ti­on. Who lo­oks bet­ter in a to­ga.

  I stif­le a snort at my own joke.

  "So­me­how I knew you wo­uldn't wa­it un­til mid­night."

  I spin aro­und, fa­ce-to-fa­ce with the one per­son I ne­ver ex­pec­ted to see he­re.

  "Da­mi­an?" I can't stop blin­king. Da­mi­an isn't he­re, he's in Tha­iland with Mom. Trek­king thro­ugh the So­ut­he­ast Asi­an jung­le. On the­ir ho­ney­mo­on. They're not get­ting back for anot­her two days. Oh no, may­be so­met­hing hap­pe­ned. May­be Mom-

  "Yo­ur mot­her is fi­ne," he as­su­res me with a kno­wing smi­le. "She is sle­eping pe­ace­ful­ly in our Nak­hon Pat­hom ho­tel ro­om.'

  It still bugs me how he can re­ad minds, but I'm mo­re in shock over the fact that he's he­re. In this co­urt­yard. Right now.

  "Then what are you do­ing he­re?" I ask. "How did you know I-"

  "I sent the e-ma­ils, Pho­ebe." He pla­ces his hand on my sho­ul­der. "I sent the no­te."

  That do­esn't ma­ke any sen­se. Why wo­uld Da­mi­an go thro­ugh all this mystery and su­perspy sub­ter­fu­ge? He co­uld ha­ve just pic­ked up the pho­ne-or, con­si­de­ring the ra­tes to pla­ce a call from Tha­iland, sent a non bloc­ked e-ma­il. Be­si­des, he is so not the type to play ga­mes.

  When he do­esn't se­em to be re­ading my mind-or at le­ast he's not ac­ting on what he re­ads-I ask, "Why? The mystery, the sus­pen­se, the sec­recy. Why wo­uld you do it this way?"

  For many re­asons," he rep­li­es crypti­cal­ly. "The fo­re­most of which is that I wis­hed to dist­ract you from yo­ur lo­oming test. I be­li­eved that if I di­ver­ted yo­ur worry from yo­ur po­wers, you might mo­re easily cont­rol them."

  Ha, li­ke that wor­ked.

  "Skep­ti­cism asi­de," he says. "Con­si­der this: When was the last ti­me yo­ur po­wers be­ha­ved er­ra­ti­cal­ly?"

  "This mor­ning," I say wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on. "Grif­fin and I we­re tra­ining with Tansy, and as we-"

  "I know." He al­ways se­ems to know way mo­re than sho­uld be pos­sib­le. It's li­ke he's got this who­le is­land wi­red or so­met­hing. "Auto­por­ting sur­p­ri­sed you, but it did not mis­be­ha­ve. That was exactly what yo­ur sub­cons­ci­o­us was trying to ac­hi­eve."

  May­be he's right. I me­an, I was ex­ha­us­ted and des­pe­ra­te to get ac­ross the fi­nish li­ne and then, sud­denly, I was. At le­ast I hadn't zap­ped myself to Fin­land or anyt­hing. The last ti­me my po­wers truly fre­aked out on the­ir own was the first day of camp, when I tur­ned Stel­la in­to a birth­day ca­ke.

  His dist­rac­ti­on had wor­ked.

  "Was that the only re­ason?" I ask. "Ke­eping my mind on so­met­hing el­se?"

  "No," he exp­la­ins. "I cho­se the lu­re of yo­ur fat­hers tri­al in an at­tempt to draw out yo­ur stron­gest emo­ti­ons."

  "Why?" I sha­ke my he­ad. "Ever­yo­ne says emo­ti­ons hi­j­ack yo­ur po­wers."

  "Exactly."

  "I don't un­ders­tand."

  "Pho­ebe, le­ar­ning to cont­rol yo­ur po­wers is abo­ut mo­re than pas­sing a sing­le test." He steps for­ward and pla­ce
s his hands on my sho­ul­ders. For yo­ur own pro­tec­ti­on, you ne­ed to ha­ve comp­le­te mas­tery over yo­ur po­wers. Even in the fa­ce of emo­ti­onal up­he­aval."

  "Oh." I gu­ess that ma­kes sen­se. Not­hing co­uld sha­ke me up mo­re than anyt­hing to do with Dad. If I can cont­rol my po­wers in the midst of all that, then I can cont­rol them in any si­tu­ati­on.

  But do­es that me­an it was not­hing mo­re than an emo­ti­onal dist­rac­ti­on?

  I sha­ke my he­ad in dis­be­li­ef. "So this was all so­me kind of mind ga­me," I say, a wa­ve of re­al­ly un­com­for­tab­le emo­ti­on wel­ling in my chest. "The­re ne­ver was anyt­hing new in my dad's tri­al re­cord, was the­re?"

  "On the cont­rary," Da­mi­an says, clas­ping his hands to­get­her in his very for­mal way. The­re are many things in the transc­ripts you may wish to see."

  So the­re re­al­ly is so­met­hing in the re­cord. And he re­al­ly is go­ing to let me see it. I'm abo­ut to ask what it says when Da­mi­an steps si­de­ways in­to the dar­kest sha­dows.

  "But no one must see what I am abo­ut to show you, so you must send yo­ur fri­ends away," he says, his vo­ice a low whis­per. When I lo­ok at him li­ke he's crazy-I'm he­re alo­ne, aren't I?-he adds, "A pa­ir of them are abo­ut to burst thro­ugh the far do­ors, and a third has be­en watc­hing you from the se­cond story che­mistry clas­sro­om sin­ce shortly af­ter you ar­ri­ved."

  I scowl up at the clas­sro­om win­dow. That wo­uld be Grif­fin, I'm su­re of it. Stal­king out in­to the mo­on­light, I lo­ok di­rectly in­to what I know are his bright blue eyes-just so he knows I know-and po­int to­ward the Aca­demy ent­ran­ce. I sen­se his he­si­ta­ti­on and then a sha­dow fi­nal­ly mo­ves ac­ross the dar­ke­ned win­dow and I know he's go­ne. Pro­bably to go wa­it on the front steps.

  Then, be­fo­re I can even turn back to see if Da­mi­an is imp­res­sed, the far do­ors fling open and Troy and Uri­an co­me ra­cing in­to the co­urt­yard.

  "We've got it," Troy sho­uts.

  "My com­pu­ter fi­nis­hed its se­arch," Uri­an says, hol­ding up a com­pu­ter prin­to­ut and lo­oking ext­re­mely pro­ud of his gecky self. "We fi­gu­red out who sent the e-ma­il."

  "Ye­ah," Troy gasps, skid­ding to a stop in front of me. "it's-"

  "Da­mi­an," I say, burs­ting his bub­ble. "I know."

  Uri­an drops his jaw. "How?"

  I jerk back over my sho­ul­der. Fo­ots­teps ec­ho ac­ross the co­urt­yard and I know Da­mi­an has step­ped out of the sha­dows.

  Troy-who is al­ways kind of a chic­ken when it co­mes to aut­ho­rity fi­gu­res-blanc­hes. "Um, ah, He­ad­mas­ter Pet­ro­las," he stam­mers. "I tho­ught, um, you we­re in er, Tha­iland."

  Da­mi­an ta­kes two steps to­ward Troy, who is prac­ti­cal­ly sha­king, and says, "I am." in his best he­ad­mas­ter to­ne.

  Troy lo­oks too sca­red to spe­ak.

  "Yes, sir," Uri­an says, grab­bing Troy by the wrist and drag­ging him back­ward ac­ross the co­urt­yard. "You we­re ne­ver he­re. We ne­ver saw you."

  Da­mi­an smi­les and gi­ves me a qu­ick wink.

  "On yo­ur way out," he says, be­fo­re they di­sap­pe­ar thro­ugh the do­ors, "see to it that Mr. Bla­ke re­ma­ins at a sa­fe dis­tan­ce."

  Uri­an ac­tu­al­ly sa­lu­tes and then pus­hes Troy thro­ugh the do­ors.

  I squ­int at Da­mi­an. "You enj­oy in­ci­ting fe­ar, don't you?"

  He gi­ves me an in­no­cent lo­ok-which is pro­bably whe­re Stel­la le­ar­ned it-and says, "It do­es se­em to help ke­ep the pe­ace."

  Da­mi­an de­fi­ni­tely has hid­den depths. Who wo­uld ha­ve ima­gi­ned he wo­uld send me anony­mo­us no­tes and e-ma­ils and auto­port him­self all the way from Tha­iland just to… Wa­it. I'm not su­re what he's re­al­ly do­ing he­re.

  "Hey, so why did you-"

  "I tho­ught you wo­uld ne­ver ask," he says with a misc­hi­evo­us grin.

  Who is this guy, and what has he do­ne with my stuf­fed-shirt step­dad?

  "Fol­low me."

  I do fol­low him. All the way to the cen­ter of the co­urt­yard, he stops on the mo­sa­ic, one ox­ford-clad fo­ot on eit­her si­de of Pla­to's he­ad.

  "What I am abo­ut to show you," he says, so­un­ding mo­re and mo­re in­to the who­le spy ga­me with every word, "you can ne­ver tell anot­her so­ul. No­ne know and no­ne can know."

  "You're not tal­king abo­ut the sec­ret arc­hi­ves, are you?" I ask, re­mem­be­ring Mrs. Phi­li­po­ulos' si­mi­lar war­ning to me and Ni­co­le. "Be­ca­use ho­nestly, ever­yo­ne al­re­ady knows abo­ut that."

  "No," he says, squ­at­ting down and pla­cing his hand on Pla­to's no­se. "I am not spe­aking of the arc­hi­ves." He pres­ses on one of the mo­sa­ic ti­les, no big­ger than a half-inch squ­are, which sli­des down abo­ut an inch. "I am spe­aking of this."

  "Of wh-"

  Be­fo­re I can fi­nish my qu­es­ti­on, the gro­und be­ne­ath my fe­et starts sha­king. All the tiny ti­les in the mo­sa­ic qu­iver back and forth. My Ca­li­for­nia-bred ins­tincts kick in and my first tho­ught is, Ear­t­h­qu­ake! Do­es Gre­ece ha­ve earth­qu­akes? May­be it's a vol­ca­nic erup­ti­on, or tsu­na­mi, or-

  "I sug­gest you ta­ke two steps back," Da­mi­an says, calm as can be. "Unless you wish to end up at the ba­se of a very long sta­ir­ca­se."

  For half a se­cond, I'm fro­zen in con­fu­si­on. What is go­ing on? Isn't this a na­tu­ral di­sas­ter? What sta­ir­ca­se?

  Then, as Da­mi­an's smug lo­ok turns to con­cern, I he­ed his war­ning and ta­ke a gi­ant le­ap back. Just as the mo­sa­ic be­ne­ath my fe­et drops. It falls in a se­ri­es of thunks, le­aving a step­li­ke led­ge with each crash. I fe­el li­ke I'm in one of tho­se Hol­lywo­od sec­ret pas­sa­ges, whe­re the mo­vie he­ro pulls the gar­goy­le's he­ad and a sto­ne sta­ir­ca­se ap­pe­ars in the flo­or.

  "What the-"

  "We must hurry," Da­mi­an says, step­ping on­to the first led­ge and wa­ving at me to fol­low. "The sta­ir­way will only re­ma­in open for a short ti­me. And I ne­ed to re­turn to yo­ur mot­her be­fo­re she dis­co­vers I am go­ne."

  As he mo­ves down the sta­irs, I he­si­ta­te. This is so we­ird. I can't co­unt the num­ber of ti­mes I've be­en in this co­urt­yard and ne­ver tho­ught twi­ce abo­ut this mo­sa­ic. And all the ti­me it was a sec­ret ent­ran­ce to-

  "Pho­ebe," Da­mi­an sho­uts up from the bo­wels of the Aca­demy. "We do not wish to be ca­ught be­low when the sta­ir­way clo­ses. I as­su­re you it is not a ple­asant ex­pe­ri­en­ce."

  Thro­wing my wor­ri­es and won­ders to the wind, I hurry down af­ter him.

  Chapter 11

  ________________________________________________________________

  PHO­TO­MOR­P­HO­SIS

  SO­UR­CE: APOL­LO

  The abi­lity to cont­rol light and fi­re. Most com­mon exp­res­si­on con­sists of

  brin­ging light in­to an area of dark­ness (ie: a ca­se or ba­se­ment). May

  also ma­ni­fest as fi­re­works, fla­mes, and, in re­mar­kably ra­re ca­ses, fi­re-

  bre­at­hing. Do not at­tempt fi­re-bre­at­hing as it do­es ir­re­pa­rab­le da­ma­ge

  to the esop­ha­gus!

  DYNA­MOT­HE­OS STUDY GU­IDE * Stel­la Pet­ro­las

  ________________________________________________________________

  TRA­ILING DA­MI­AN DOWN A DARK, dank, cor­ri­dor be­ne­ath the Aca­demy co­urt­yard was not whe­re I ex­pec­ted to be right now. So­mew­he­re in the back of my mind, I still tho­ught it was go­ing to be Stel­la or Ada­ra pul­ling my cha­in. May­be even Xan­der- his na­me was on the lib­rary emp­lo­ye­es list and he has ta­ken so­mew­hat of a per­so­nal in­te­rest in my prob­lems. But Da­mi­an?

  "I ne­ver
wo­uld ha­ve gu­es­sed it was you," I say. "Stel­la or Ada­ra, may­be. Xan­der even. But not you." Then aga­in, it is just li­ke him to ma­ke me work for my in­for­ma­ti­on.

  "Ke­eping you gu­es­sing was part of the plan," Da­mi­an la­ughs, then his vo­ice turns mo­re se­ri­o­us. "Xan­der has exp­la­ined his si­tu­ati­on?"

  "Ye­ah," I say. "He won't tell me what hap­pe­ned the ye­ar he was go­ne, tho­ugh."

  "That is at his disc­re­ti­on," Da­mi­an so­unds a lit­tle sad. The gods tend to ma­ke the­ir pu­nish­ments de­eply per­so­nal."

  I can un­ders­tand that.

  "Well, I fe­el bet­ter abo­ut the who­le test thing, just kno­wing he went thro­ugh it al­re­ady and-aa­ack!" I squ­e­al as I stumb­le over an une­ven sto­ne and pitch in­to the wall.

  "Are you all right?" he asks from so­mew­he­re up ahe­ad.

  The fa­int mo­on­light that had il­lu­mi­na­ted the sta­ir­ca­se and a few fe­et be­yond fa­ded in­to black abo­ut twenty steps ago. I can't see an inch in front of my fa­ce and ha­ve be­en fol­lo­wing the so­und of Da­mi­an's fo­ots­teps.

  "I'm fi­ne," I say, wi­ping my damp palm aga­inst my je­ans. "I can't see anyt­hing."

  "Of co­ur­se," Da­mi­an says.

  I he­ar fo­ots­teps and a soft click. Sud­denly the hall is bat­hed in flic­ke­ring torch­light-very me­di­eval.

  "My apo­lo­gi­es. I was so fo­cu­sed on get­ting to the va­ult that I did not ta­ke in­to ac­co­unt that you ha­ve ne­ver be­en he­re be­fo­re."

  "No prob­lem. I've ta­ken wor­se tumb­les in my li­fe." Re­al­ly I'm just thank­ful to see that the damp­ness on the walls is just con­den­sa­ti­on and not so­met­hing mo­re dis­gus­ting li­ke sli­me or mold. "We're go­ing to a va­ult?"

  "Yes," Da­mi­an says, tur­ning and con­ti­nu­ing down the cor­ri­dor. "I re­mo­ved the re­cord from the arc­hi­ves last fall."

 

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