“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?”

We all agree, and Griffin and I grab our sweatshirts from the drinking fountain—way too heated up to put them on.

As we walk toward the stadium, I slip my arm through Griffin’s. He smiles down at me and then presses a quick kiss to my nose. Everything with Griffin feels completely back to normal. Now if I could just get the rest of my life there.

ORCS AND STORM TROOPERS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

“Knock on the door already,” Troy says.

Shaking my head—I need to stop trying to understand the descendants of Hephaestus . . . they are beyond normal comprehension—I rap twice on the door. Nothing happens.

Nicole pounds repeatedly on the smooth wooden surface. “Open up.”

“Not like that,” Troy says, snatching her hand away from the door. “How I showed you.”

I take a deep breath and hold it. Having a secret knock is a little extreme, I think, but clearly Urian is not answering the door for anything else. Repeating the pattern Troy taught me, I finish knocking and then step back—as if the door might explode or something.

“Password?” Urian’s voice is muffled by the still-closed door.

I can’t bring myself to say it.

“Holy Hades,” Nicole snaps. “Just let us in, Nacus.”

No response.

Troy elbows me in the ribs.

I clench my jaw and grind out, “Ares wears pink underpants.”

Griffin would so kill me if he heard me utter those words.

The door swings open and Urian waves us inside. I’m not sure I want to go, but Troy pushes me in ahead of him.

“What did you find out?” he asks Urian as he closes the door behind Nicole.

Urian drops into his desk chair and grabs his mouse. A few clicks later, he says, “Nothing yet. My bot is still scanning the Academy server. It’s at ninety-eight percent, so it should be done soon.”

“Okay then,” I say, turning and trying to scoot around Troy to reach the door. “Thanks for trying. See you later.”

“Not so fast.” Troy grabs my shoulders before I can escape. “You have an hour until midnight. Maybe Urian’s search program will find something by then.” He looks me straight in the eyes with a very serious older-brother-like intensity. “Sit.”

While I appreciate the whole looking-out-for-me thing, I don’t need a babysitter. And I don’t need to sit around in the dark when I could be staking out the courtyard or something.

“Chill, Travatas.” Nicole shoves against his chest until he steps back.

“Like I said in my note,” Troy says, giving Nic a narrow-eyed glare. “I’m not letting you go to the courtyard until we know who you’re meeting.”

“As if you could stop me,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m starting to get annoyed. “What note? I never got a note.”

“The one I tucked in your pocket while you were running this morning,” he argues—not the best move at the moment. “I saw your sweatshirt hanging on the water fountain when I was on my way to your house.”

“There was no note,” I repeat.

Since I’m wearing the same sweatshirt I took with me this morning, I slip my hands into the pockets. Empty.

“See,” I say, pulling the pockets inside out. “Empty.”

“No, that’s not the—”

Knock, knock, knock.

We all freeze at the loud banging on the door.

Well, most of us freeze. Nicole reaches for the handle.

“Don’t move,” Urian whispers, grabbing Nic by the wrist. “They’ll go away.”

They don’t.

Knock, knock, knock. Louder this time.

Nic glares at Urian—like he is the dirt stuck to the gum attached to the bottom of her combat boot—until he releases her. Actually, his hand snaps back like she gave him a 220-volt shock. I wouldn’t be surprised.