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.”
“Why did you send me the call number if you knew it wasn’t there?”
“Because I—”
“Wait. The distraction. I get it.” I may not like it, but I get it. “So you moved it . . . ?”
“Yes. Several inquiries into Mount Olympus documents came across my desk and I grew concerned that someone might stumble upon your father’s record. I moved it to the vault to protect you.”
“To protect me?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up now that we can actually see where we’re going.
“I didn’t want you to discover the contents of the record carelessly. I wanted to present them to you myself.” He pulls up his hurried pace as we reach the end of the corridor. “You were not ready to learn the truth. I now believe you are ready to make that determination for yourself.”
Before I can get offended that he thought I couldn’t handle the truth before—we went through all that last year with the Greek-gods-are-more-than-myth thing—I notice where we’ve stopped. The corridor dead-ends at a small chamber with twelve doors radiating out in a semicircle. It looks like some sort of medieval labyrinth, with walls of massive dark stone blocks and giant-size doors that look like they’re made of high-rise-grade steel. Above each door, carved into a giant slab of stone that spans the entire doorway, is a very ancient-looking symbol. The symbol above each door is different.
“What are these?” I ask nervously.
“Dodecathuron,” he replies. “The twelve doors of Olympus.”
“Of Olympus?” I repeat. “As in Mount Olympus? Do these doors lead there?”
Damian shakes his head. “When the Academy was built, the gods fought over the right to patronize the school. After many weeks of violent battles, Themis finally proposed a compromise. Each Olympian would be the school’s patron for one month of the year. None of them was entirely happy, of course, so each demanded a separate access portal.”
“But you said they don’t lead to Olympus?”
“They don’t,” he explains. “They lead from Olympus. If we were to open one of the doors, we would find an empty room on the other side.”
“If they’re empty,” I point out, “then where is the vault?”
Damian turns back toward the corridor we just left and points. “There.”
“Where?” I ask, spinning back around and expecting an empty hallway. Instead, there’s a giant steel door filling the entire space that we just walked through. “H-how?”
Whirling in a three-sixty, I confirm that I’m not crazy. There are the twelve doors of Olympus, the vault door, and solid stone walls. What happened to the corridor we just came down? And how are we supposed to get out?
“There is a safeguard on this room,” Damian explains, stepping to the steel door and deftly spinning the combination lock above the handle. “Once someone enters the room, it shifts, turning on a smooth and silent revolve to reveal the vault.”
“How is that a safeguard?” I ask.
“If someone enters who does not know the combination . . .” He sounds a little smug as he grasps the handle and twists. A loud click echoes in the chamber just before the door creaks open. “. . . they will not be able to get out.”
“So what?” I ask, glancing around the room to make sure I hadn’t missed spotting the skeletons of unwitting students who had been trapped here. “They would be stuck here and die of starvation—” I suddenly realize there are no air vents or anything. “Or suffocate when their oxygen runs out?”
“You should consider a career as a writer of fiction,” Damian says, stepping into the massive vault and scanning over the shelves of books that line one side. “You have a very vivid imagination.”
“No,” I explain, stepping closer and peeking in at the vault’s contents, “I’ve just read enough myth to know better.”
Damian laughs.
The vault itself is the size of Cesca’s walk-in closet—in other words: huge. As tall as the corridor ceiling, it’s at least six feet wide and so deep I can’t see the back wall. I am not about to step inside—I’ve seen enough after-school specials about kids getting accidentally locked in a safe—or maybe that was a refrigerator—to know better. But even from my position of safety, I see tons of stuff.
The entire left wall is lined with deep bookshelves, full of leather-bound books that look even older—if possible—than those in the secret archives. On the right, there are even deeper shelves, like the ones you use in your garage to organize junk. They’re jam-packed with boxes and baskets and see-through storage containers. Each one seems to be carefully labeled in Greek letters, but I bet it’s a nightmare to keep track of everything.
“What is all of this?” I ask absently, not really expecting Damian to answer. He’s not generally the forthcoming type.
“The vault is designed to safeguard the most dangerous items of the Academy collection,” he explains.
“Dangerous stuff from the library?” I ask.
“From all of our collections.” He pulls a book from the stack and dusts off the cover. “Here it is.”
I’ve been trying to translate one of the Greek labels, but when he says that my eyes instantly snap to the dust-covered leather-bound book. My heart goes crazy in my chest. Right there, in Damian’s hands, is the record of my father’s trial. The proceedings that led to the smoting decree—a virtual death sentence.
Damian holds it out for me.
My hands shake as I reach for the record. I’m not sure what I expect, but nothing earth-shattering happens when my fingers close over the leather. The ceiling doesn’t crumble. I don’t get zapped to Hades by some unforeseen curse. I don’t wake up and find that it’s all a dream.
I glance up at Damian, suddenly very afraid and very nervous. What if there are things in here that I don’t want to know, things I can’t handle?
“You do
not have to read it now,” Damian says, his voice soft and reassuring. “In fact, you do not have to read it at all. It is rightfully yours. You may keep it as long as you need. I know you will guard it well.”
At this exact moment he’s not being smug or parental or headmaster-like or anything but understanding.
Clutching the record to my chest, I say, “Thank you, Damian.”
Then, before I can stop myself, I rush forward and throw one arm around him in a big hug. He doesn’t even hesitate before wrapping his arms around my shoulders and hugging me back. For the first time since being uprooted and thrown into his world, I feel like we just might—might—become family.
Our stepdad-stepdaughter moment is cut short by a deep rumbling sound coming from the depths of the vault.
“We need to go,” Damian says, abruptly releasing me and stepping back. “Now.”
I barely jump out of the way before he grabs the open vault door and slams it shut. He fingers the combination lock and spins it back and forth quickly. I’m trying to figure out why he’s opening the vault again when he twists the handle, and instead of the vault opening, the vault disappears. The corridor is back.
“Hurry,” he says, grabbing my arm and propelling me into the hall.
With my dad’s record clutched under one arm, I jog toward the distant staircase—the distant moonlight. I hear Damian’s oxfords echoing on the stone floor behind me. When I reach the stairs, the ground starts to tremble again.
“Up,” Damian shouts over the growing roar.
I take them two at a time, my quads screaming that they still haven’t fully recovered from running the stadium steps. I burst into the courtyard and turn around in time to see Damian leap from the opening to land on Athena’s feet, just as the staircase closes up behind him.
He rolls onto his back, eyes closed, and panting. With a nervous giggle, I decide not to point out that he’s getting his suit dirty.
“I am most definitely getting too old for this,” he says between pants.
I’ve never seen Damian overexert himself like this.
“Why didn’t you just zap us out of there?” I ask, wishing I’d thought of that before running for my life.
“Impossible,” he wheezes. “The safeguard blocks powers usage in the chamber and the corridor.”
Standing over Damian, I say, “That’s pretty inconvenient.”
I offer him my hand.
He takes it and lets me haul him to his feet. “Inconvenient, but necessary,” he says, dusting off his suit. He glances at his watch. “I need to get back to your mother. I trust your friends will see you home safely.”
“Of course,” I say, sad that he’s leaving already. “I guess you can’t tell Mom I say hello.”
He smiles, like he can sense my sadness. “I’ll tell her.”
I give him my best smile—but I bet it comes off pretty weak.
“Is everything else all right?” he asks. “Your running. Your friends.”
“Yes,” I say, glad I can honestly say things with Griffin are fine now.
“And your powers?” he asks. “They are less erratic. Are you feeling more comfortable with your control?”
I bite my lip. It’s not like I can lie to him—he’ll read my mind and know it’s not true. “It’s getting better. But not perfect,” I admit. “I’m still having trouble.”
“You will get there,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I trust in you.”
“I know.” And I do, really. It’s not like I ever expected instantaneous control. “I’m working on it. Stella and I are working on it.”
“Good.” He steps back and smiles. “And stop worrying about the test. I regret ever having mentioned it.”
“No, I’d rather know,” I say.
Better to know the demons you face, right?
Oh gods, I hope there aren’t demons. What if I have to fight monsters or gorgons or something? What if I—
“Phoebe,” Damian interrupts my crazy thoughts, taking both my shoulders in his hands and looking directly into my eyes. “Stop. Worry will only impede your control. Just keep practicing and keep training. You will get there.”
I take a deep breath and try for some of Nola’s Zen calm.
“You’d better go,” I say, thinking calm, calm, calm so he won’t read that I’m still freaking out. “Mom will worry.”
“Of course.” He nods and starts to glow. Then stops and says, “Oh, and tell Miss Matios that if she returns the record she borrowed from the archives to my office before I return, there will be no detention.”
Then he glows and is gone.
Only Damian could know that a student broke the rules from thousands of miles away. Some principals have eyes in the back of their heads . . . he has eyes everywhere!
We’re lucky he never found out about the time Nicole and I switched places to take fall finals. If he knew she had taken my physics exam and that I’d taken her history test, we’d be in detention until graduation.
Griffin is pacing back and forth on the Academy steps. Troy and Urian are sitting on the top step, watching him like spectators at a tennis match. On one particularly long pass, Troy notices me in his peripheral vision.
“Phoebe!” He jumps to his feet and starts toward me. “Did you—”
Griffin shoves past him and grabs me by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Didn’t they tell you?”
From the dark look in his normally bright eyes, I’m going to guess no.
He twists to look back over his shoulder and practically growls, “They didn’t tell me anything. Except that I had to wait out here.”
“Um, I need to go,” Troy says, backing down the steps. “I have class in the morning.”
“Coward,” I taunt.
“Right.” He stumbles when he gets to the last step, tripping back in his hurry to escape Griffin’s wrath. “That’s me.” With a gulp, he adds, “Later.”
Then Troy turns and rushes around the corner of the Academy, probably heading for his dorm.
Urian, realizing that he’s been left to fend for himself, says, “I’ll just make sure he gets home without incident.”
I cover my mouth to keep from laughing as Urian follows Troy around the corner at light speed. They clearly don’t know Griffin like I do. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. But—he turns his attention back on me and I’m presented with the full focus of his fury—he is a descendant of Ares. He does a decent god-of-war impression. If I didn’t know he had the heart of a teddy bear, I might run away, too.
Instead, I laugh.
“What,” he bites out, “didn’t they tell me?”
“The identity of the secret e-mailer.” I didn’t think his eyebrows could furrow any deeper, but they do. “It was Damian.”
He jerks back. “Headmaster Petrolas?”
I nod.
“Why would he send you anonymous messages? Why would he send you on a hunt for your father’s record?” He’s still holding on to my shoulders, but his face has softened into confusion. “And isn’t he in Thailand?”
“He is,” I say, answering his last question first. “It’s a long story.”
Shaking his head, he glances down and notices the book clutched to my chest. “You found it, then.”
I look at the soft brown leather, at the slightly yellowed pages that smell faintly of dust and library—not that I sniffed them or anything. That would be a little obsessive . . . right? Contained in those pages are answers to questions I never knew I had until a few months ago.
“Have you looked inside?”
I slowly shake my head.
Griffin brushes his fingertips across my cheek. When I look up into his shining eyes, he asks, “Are you going to?”
“I—” I feel the tears line the bottom of my eyes. This should be an easy answer. Of course I want to know what really happened to my dad. Of course I want to see what made the gods decide to smote him—so I can avoid accidentally doing the same thing
to myself. But when I have to actually spit out the answer, it’s anything but easy. “I don’t know. Should I?”
Griffin takes my hand, pressing our palms together and lacing his fingers through mine. As he leads me down the steps, he says, “I can’t answer that question for you.”
“I mean, I should find out what happened, right?” We step onto the lush lawn, heading toward my house. “He’s my dad. I should want to know.”
“Maybe,” Griffin says, squeezing my hand. I melt a little as he rubs his thumb back and forth across the sensitive spot between my thumb and forefinger. “But if something inside is holding you back, then you should probably clear that up before doing something you can’t undo.”
“I definitely can’t unlearn whatever I read in here.” I wave the record in the air. “Once I know, I’ll always know.”
“The important question is”—he lifts our joined hands and presses mine to his lips—“. . . what are you really afraid of finding?”
He’s right. That’s the question. Why am I really holding back?
From what everyone has said about Dad’s death, he knowingly used his powers to help the Chargers win the AFC play-offs. That violates a major hematheos rule about using our powers for advancement in the nothos world. If we didn’t have that rule, then hematheos would control the planet—which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, but it wouldn’t be fair. He broke a rule and he was punished. That’s the bottom line. Right?
But what if it isn’t? What if he didn’t knowingly break the rule? Or what if he hadn’t been given a warning? Or what if he was forced to—
“I think . . .” I start, but my voice catches in my throat.
Griffin pulls us to a stop, tugs me into his arms, and just holds me. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t press me to say anything. Just comforts me until I get my emotions under control.
“I think,” I finally say around the knot in my throat, “I’m afraid to find out that he was given a choice. That the gods asked him to choose between football and—”
Goddess Boot Camp Page 18