Mom and Damian have been married for months now, but their lovey-dovey talk is still going strong. An image of what exactly my mom is packing in those three suitcases is about to pop into my mind. It has lace and sequins and—I shudder—feathers.

“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing Griffin and Nicole by the arms and hurrying them out the door. “With any luck, they’ll be done packing when I get home.”

As Griffin and I round a rocky outcropping on Serfopoula’s north-shore beach, I’m thinking about Dad. That’s not so unusual. I think about Dad a lot when I run. Lately, though—ever since I found out I was a descendant of the goddess of victory and exactly how Dad died—my thoughts have been a little different.

Before I found out, running usually brought back memories of training with him. Of running on Santa Monica beach in the early-morning hours and getting ice cream when we were done. Of him shouting encouragements: “Feel the victory inside you, Phoebester.” (Yeah, victory has a completely different meaning now.)

Since finding out, running makes me think about how he died. About how, even though he knew there would be consequences for using his powers, he loved football so much he was willing to risk it. To risk us.

I still can’t believe he loved football more than me and Mom.

“How we doing?” Griffin asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I shake my head back into the moment.

“That’s our halfway mark for today.” I point at a low-hanging tamarisk tree at the edge of the beach.

“What’s our time?”

Lifting my wrist, I check my watch. It reads 1:42 P.M. Not good.

“Crap.” How could I be so stupid? “I forgot to start the stopwatch.”

“No problem.” He flashes me a quick smile. “We can start logging our pace tomorrow. Today can be a warm-up.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say, matching his strides with every step. It’s not like me to mess up a training session like this. “Every time I get to the starting line lately, it’s like my brain goes to mush.”

“You’re worried about your powers,” he says as we reach the tree and turn to run back the way we came. “Understandable.”

“Yeah,” I agree, although he’s only half right. “I know.”

I am worried about my powers . . . but not for the stupid test. Whatever consequences I’ll have to face if I fail the test are pudding play compared to smoting. That’s irreversible.

“You’ll pass,” he insists. “Just like you made the cross-country team last year. Just like you got your B average. Just like you master everything you go after with your whole heart.”

“This isn’t exactly the same.” It’s not at all the same. “I can’t pass this test by running faster or studying harder.”

“You’ll find a way.”

“But what if I—” Aargh, I’m tired of worrying about this. “Forget it. Let’s just focus on the running, okay?”

He’s silent for a long time and I think he’s going to let it go. Which is what I want. Right? Except something inside me is willing him not to forget it. Then he asks, “What’s really bothering you, Phoebes?”

“Nothing, I—”

“It’s your dad, isn’t it?”

My shoulders tense. I haven’t really talked about this with anyone since I found out. Not even Mom. She seems just as willing to keep the topic buried as I am. But maybe I need to talk about this. About him.

Finally, after what feels like hours of tension, I say, “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Tell me.”

As our sneakers push into the pristine sand, I try to form the sentence. Try to figure out how to express what I’m feeling. How can I tell him that I’m terrified every second that I’ll cross some invisible line and pay the ultimate price for my mistake? Everything I come up with sounds wrong, childish. Like a scared little girl.

“I—” I want to tell him. Really I do. I want to bare my soul and have him tell me everything will be all right and I won’t get smoted to Hades if I screw up. But what if? What if he can’t reassure me? What if he can’t make a promise he knows he can’t keep? I don’t think I can face a confirmation of my fears. “I can’t.”

“That’s okay.” His voice is soft and quiet, like our footfalls in the sand. “I’m here when you’re ready.”

And just like that, with one little promise, I feel a million times better. Knowing he’s there for me makes the fears fade into the background. Even if it’s only for a little while.

Thanks. I don’t have to say the words out loud for him to know.

“So,” he says, in a cheerful, let’s-get-past-this-dark-moment tone. “Tell me more about our training schedule.”

I flash him a quick smile, thankful for the distraction. Knowing my luck, the more I worry about the whole smoting thing, the more likely I am to accidentally smote myself.

“It’s a tiered program,” I explain, launching into the more comfortable topic. “We build up our mental and physical stamina on an accelerated schedule, increasing the workout a little each day. By the time race day is here, 26.2 miles will feel like no big thing.”

Because the long-distance race in the Pythian Games is marathon length—and the trials are just two weeks away—we have to train hard and build our endurance quickly. Griffin has never run anything longer than a cross-country race, and even though I’ve run in marathons before, I’ve never raced a marathon. Running to finish and running to win are two totally different things.