Stella turns on her stern face. “I really think this is more important—”

“No.” As if anything is more important to me than running. “I’ll do whatever it takes to learn to control my powers, but I am not giving up running. The Pythian Games trials are less than two weeks away and I plan on qualifying. I can’t do that if I don’t train every day.”

She looks like she wants to argue. Or like she’s reading my thoughts.

Read this: No, no, no, no, no.

“Fine,” she says, exasperated. “How about after dinner? You will be home for dinner, won’t you?”

“Sure,” I say, even though I wonder how dinner will go when it’s just the two of us. We had plenty of dinner-table battles when our respective parents were there to intercede. Who knows what could happen when we’re alone. Hesper might have to intervene.

“And if you’re late,” she says with a wicked smile, “I might reconsider my decision to not seek vengeance for my wedding hair color.”

An image flashes in my mind, an image of me with hot-pink streaks in my dark brown hair. At this point, I’m not sure if the image is a result of my overactive imagination or if there’s some power that lets her plant it in my mind—I need to read that study guide—but either way it’s not very appealing.

I give Stella my best glare. “Oh, I’ll be there.”

“Did you have your talk with Adara?” I ask Griffin as we start our run. I swallow my irritation, trying for innocuous. After dwelling on my reaction all afternoon, I finally decide I have to face it head-on. I can’t pretend it never happened, but I will give him a chance to explain.

“Yeah.”

That’s it. No details.

“Was it something about school?” I probe. No response. “Or summer?”

“No.”

We jog in silence for several long seconds. Just when I think he’s not going to offer anything more, he says, “It’s a personal thing, Phoebes. Adara’s going through some stuff and I’m helping her out. There’s nothing to it.”

“Oh.” His sincerity makes me feel like a jerk. “Okay.”

I never wanted to be one of those jealous girlfriends, so I’m just going to let this roll off my back like trash talk on the racecourse. That doesn’t mean I like it any better than I did two hours ago. But maybe that’s my problem, not his.

Besides, I don’t doubt his commitment. He can withstand her advances.

This time, the silence is comfortable. We’re training on the cross-country course today, a course we’ve run so many times we could make it blindfolded.

My thoughts drift—like always—to this kind of Zen-like state where my mind disconnects from my body. Not really, of course, but there’s a distance that lets me think about whatever—usually Dad—and then link back in to check on my body. It’s hard to describe, but it’s what gets me through the long races. Only this time, instead of thinking about Dad’s smoting and whether he knowingly made that choice, my thoughts jump ahead to my own situation. To my out-of-control super-superpowers, to the test I have no idea how to take, to the camp where I will be spending my days for the next two weeks, the camp full of ten-year-olds, (sometimes) evil stepsisters and archenemies, and enigmatic rebel boys who are supposedly there for my sake—whatever that means.

“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.”