Goddess Boot Camp

by Tera Lynn Childs

  Before I know it, I’m jogging toward home, following the path that curves around the front lawn of the Academy. But I haven’t finished exercising my problems, so I steer off toward campus. A hard run around the cross-country course should do the trick.

  Nearly two hours later I’m racing up the front steps at home, exhausted in the best possible way.

  Giddy on endorphins, I bust in and shout, “Stella, I’m—”

  I stop midsentence.

  Lying on the living-room couch, feet propped up on the arm and clearly asleep, is Griffin. He didn’t stir when I came shouting into the room. Obviously, he’s been out for a while.

  “He was on the front porch when I got home from camp,” Stella says. She’s leaning against the far wall, casually stirring up the fruit in a peach yogurt.

  My heart melts big-time.

  How could I have been such an idiot? He’s made it clear every day in a million different ways how much he cares for me. I was ready to dismiss it all because he was talking to another girl. Because he was helping out a good friend.

  I will never be that stupid again. Well, I’ll try not to be anyway.

  In an instant, I’m sitting on the coffee table at the end by his head.

  “I’ve got some work to do,” Stella says, pushing away from the wall. “I’ll be in my room. With the door shut. And my headphones on.”

  I flash her a grateful smile. She’s giving us—me—some privacy and I appreciate it. I don’t need her to see me begging for forgiveness—she’d never let me live it down.

  As soon as she and her yogurt disappear down the hall, I lean forward over Griffin. I take a second to absorb him before I wake him up. I’ve never seen him sleep before—his thick lashes fan out below his eyes like exotic palm fronds. There is no sign of worry or pain or the weight of his Herculean obligations. Just pure, innocent boy.

  My pure, innocent boy.

  Hand hovering above his shoulder, I sigh. I don’t want to wake him up. I don’t want to disturb his peace.

  But my sigh must have been a touch too loud or too close—or maybe he just sensed I was there—because his palm-frond lashes flutter open, and instead I’m staring into his bright blue eyes.

  For about half a second, his eyes are just as worry-free as his sleeping face had been. He smiles. Then a cloud shadows their brightness.

  “Phoebe,” he exclaims, lurching up to a sitting position, “I was waiting for you.”

  I smile nervously. “Clearly.”

  “I mean, I wanted to talk to you.” He looks over my shoulder. “What time is it?”

  I check my watch. “Six-thirty.”

  “Skata, I was supposed to meet Dara at six.” His eyes pop wide. “I mean—not that I—she doesn’t—”

  “It’s okay,” I say, laying a hand on his arm. “She told me.”

  His eyebrows pinch into a frown and he looks like he’s in pain. “I wanted to tell you. You know I did. I just—”

  “I know,” I say, trying to ease his pain. “You have to help her. It’s your Hercules complex.”

  “No,” he says. “It’s more than that.”

  “Then what?” I say, trying to be as open as possible. I won’t let there be any more lies and half-truths between us.

  “Adara is my friend. Until you helped me work through things with Nicole last year, she was my oldest friend. That’s never going to change.” He takes my hands and holds them between his, between us. “Neither is the fact that you’re my girlfriend.”

  “I know.” I ignore the wetness in my eyes. “I’m sorry I doubted you. I trust you, I really do. But sometimes I just don’t trust my own instincts.”

  “We’ll have to work on that,” he says, grinning and pulling me off the coffee table and onto his lap.

  When he’s got me settled, I slip my arms around his neck. “While we’re at it, let’s work on you trusting me, too.”

  “Me? I trust you,” he insists. “What makes you think I—”

  “I saw you with Nicole on the beach the other night.” I think back to that night. When I got so upset I’d shimmered myself home. Griffin always said my powers would be affected by my emotions until I learned to master them. “She knew what was going on with Adara.”

  His brows scrunch over his blue eyes. “You were there?”

  I refuse to blush. He doesn’t need to know I was hiding behind a boulder. “Why could you tell her the truth and not me?”

  His head flops back against the couch. “I didn’t tell her,” he groans. “She guessed.”

  “Really?” That’s a pretty uncanny guess.

  “Interpol could use someone with her instincts. If it makes you feel any better, she was pretty pissed that I hadn’t told you.” He gives me a half smile. “She let me have it.”

  Score one for Nicole. She always has my back.

  “Why did you think the truth would hurt me?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You asked her not to tell me,” I explain. “You said you didn’t want me to get hurt.”

  “No, that wasn’t about Dara.” He turns completely serious. “You know that research project Nic’s been working on?”

  I nod.

  “She’s been trying to find a loophole in our parents’ punishment decree.”

  “Wow.” I’m breathless. “Can you do that?”

  “There have been a few cases.” He gives me a sad smile. “But it’s very rare.”

  Rare, but not impossible. My mind floods with possibilities. If there was a way to undo an Olympic decree, then Griffin could get his parents back. Nicole’s parents could be un-banished. Dad could get un-smoted.

  “Omigods, Griffin,” I gasp, overwhelmed with hope. “Do you know what this means? This means we could all—”

  “No,” he says, cutting me off. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you what she’s trying to do. This is a one-in-a-billion long shot. The gods are as unyielding as they are fickle, if that makes any sense. They’ve had millennia to hone their skills at writing unbreakable decrees. The chance that they messed up in one of ours—” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, just to see you get hurt all over again.”

  His blue eyes are full of the same pain I felt at losing Dad. More, since he lost both his parents at once. But at the same time, deeper than the pain is his love for me. I don’t know how I let myself believe that wasn’t there.

  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 Petrolas

  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—supe
rexaggerated stretching, like a cartoon or something.

  “Is that her?” Griffin whispers.

  “Uh-huh,” 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 sweatbands.”

  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 Griffin 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?”