“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.”