“So?” I read upside-down that the title of the printout is “Castro Results.”

“And, like you said, your performance in the race was . . .” He reads over the report. “. . . Supernatural.”

“Listen,” I say, sniffling, “I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do to make me feel better, but I know I didn’t win the race fairly, so if you could get to the point—”

“Phoebe, you’re a descendant of Nike,” Mom says. “You have godly blood.”

I feel my jaw drop and I think I make a sound like, “Gah ung,” but everything else blanks out.

For about twelve seconds.

Then I’m fully conscious, mind racing. “What do you mean ‘a descendant of Nike’?” I twist around, staring up at Mom and trying to capture the thoughts jumbled around in my head. “Nike like the running shoe.”

“Not exactly,” she says with a huge grin. “Nike like the goddess.

The goddess of victory.” “What!?” “Here,” Coach says, handing me the folder. “Read this.” I look down at a newspaper article. The familiar headline reads,

“Football Star Mysteriously Dies on the Field.” It’s an article about my dad’s death. I don’t have to read it—I have it memorized.

At last night’s playoff game between the Chargers and the Broncos, San Diego star running back Nicholas Castro collapsed on the three yard line, ball in hand. The former USC all-star was only nine feet from the winning touchdown. Though he was rushed to Cedars-Sinai hospital for treatment he was declared dead on arrival. Doctors could find no obvious cause of death and have ruled it undetermined.

“So?” I shove the article back at him.

Why is he bringing Dad into this?

“Your father did not die of natural causes.” Mom’s voice is whis

per soft. “What?” I gasp. Damian leans across the desk and takes my hand. “The gods

smote him because he broke the rules.”

“What rules?” I stare at him, furious that they’re saying all this stuff about my dad. “What are you talking about?”

“The primary rule among descendants choosing to live in the nothos world is they may not use their powers overtly to succeed in that world. The risk of exposure is too great.” Damian’s face is full of sympathy. “Your father used his powers to further his football career. On national television. He knew he would be punished.”

None of this makes sense.

Dad was part god?

I’m part god?

Dad died for football?

“Oh honey,” Mom soothes, squeezing me tightly. “As soon as Damian told me I knew you’d be upset. Hell, I was upset. The fact that your father never—”

“Did you just swear?” I asked between threatening tears.

“Did I?” she repeated. “I suppose so. I’m just so mad that in all the years we were married, you father kept this secret from me. That he kept it from you.”

“Wait?” I interrupt. “When Damian told you?” This is déjà vu all over again. “How long have you known?”

I’m having flashbacks to the whole you’re-going-to-a-schoolfor-the-relatives-of-Greek-gods thing. A sharp pain starts at the base of my skull and slowly spreads across my entire head. Why do people keep withholding major details of my life from me? Do I seem incapable of handling astonishing news? I would think that by now I’ve proven myself pretty rational in the face of unbelievable information.

I glare at Mom, daring her to lie to me.

“Damian told me his suspicions a few days after we arrived,” she admits. “Until he received a genealogical report on your father a few days ago we weren’t sure.”

“And you didn’t tell me about his ‘suspicions’ earlier—why?”

“Damian wanted to. But I stopped him.” She brushes my hair out of my eyes. “Once I knew what this world would be like, I wanted you to have a chance to find your own home at the school. If you had known—if others had known—you would have been judged solely on your association with Nike.”

“Instead I was judged as the only nothos. As a kako with bad blood.” No. Even as I say this, though, I realize it’s not true.

Sure, at first that’s what happened. But Nicole never thought any less of me for not being godly—in fact, I think she liked me better for being nothos. I may go down in her estimation now. Troy never cared, either. Oh crap, I have to apologize to him. And Griffin . . . well, he was a little more work. No matter what he thought of me, though, he never called me kako. I smile—Griffin liked me before he even knew it.

Plus, all my hard work paid off. I won the race. Even before the whole glowing incident I was leagues ahead of every last racer from the Academy.

“Wait a second,” I say, realizing something. “Coach, you said I didn’t cheat—that I couldn’t have because my powers were grounded. If that glow was my powers, how is that possible?”

Coach shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“That was certainly a surprise,” Damian says. “Even with your heritage.”

“From what Damian told me,” Mom says, moving around to his side of the desk and leaning her hip against his chair, “this is the

most exciting part.”

More exciting than the whole I’m-a-descendant-of-Nike thing?

“A general grounding of powers is usually sufficient to prevent any adolescent descendant from using them,” Damian explains.