Troy’s jaw drops. “They didn’t tell you?”

“What,” Nicole says, rolling her eyes, “like you’re surprised? You know how Petrolas is about security.”

“I know, but-” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it.

Join the club. “Let’s just say this has been a summer of shocks.”

“What did they tell you?” Nicole asks.

“Pretty much that the school was founded by Plato, moved here ages ago, and protected by the Greek gods. Oh, and that all the students are related to them.”

She snorts, clearly not impressed with how little I know. “Leave it to Petrolas to give you the history without any real, useful info.”

“Like what?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous.

I’m not sure I want to know how much more I need to know.

“Any use of powers that breaks school rules,” Troy says, “like cheating or skipping class or altering a teacher’s memory, is forbidden and earns serious detention time.”

“No one wants a Petrolas detention,” Nicole says, sounding grim.

“They make the Labors of Hercules look like kindergarten homework.”

“You should know,” Troy teases. “You’ve done more detention than anyone else in our year.”

“Are you volunteering to take my place next time, Travatas?”

Troy turns white. “N-no, I mean, I was only-”

Nicole throws a roll at him.

I laugh because this reminds me so much of the sparring matches between Nola and Cesca. For a second I feel like I’m back in L.A. with my best friends. Until Nicole says, “And whatever you do, don’t go into the last stall of the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.”

“Why,” I ask, afraid of the answer, “does it open a portal to a parallel universe, or something?”

“No,” Nicole says with a laugh. “It backs up all the time and makes the Physics room smell like a sewer.”

Troy hands me a roll and I toss it at Nicole.

“Don’t worry,” he says when we all get done laughing. “Nic and I will teach you the ropes. You’ll be a world-class social navigator before we’re done.”

“We’ll at least make sure you don’t run your ship up on the rocks,” she adds. “Lunch is the perfect chance to see all the little gorgons in action. Where should we start?”

The pair of them look around the dining hall, searching out examples for my education.

“How about with you?” I suggest. “What, um, gods are you related to?”

Nicole points at Troy. “Travatas is around fifty generations removed from Asklepios.”

“Who’s Askilopus?” I ask.

“Asklepios,” Troy corrects. “The god of healing.”

“That’s neat,” I say.

“Right.” Troy rolls his eyes. “I’m just dying to follow in that millennium-long line of doctors and nurses.”

Talk about pressure. I guess maybe that’s not so great, after all.

Turning back to Nicole, who is looking around the room again, I ask, “What about you-”

“That’s the Athena table,” she announces. “They’re all brainiacs, like Tyrovolas.”

Troy leans closer and whispers, “Nerds.”

Like I couldn’t tell. As if the thick glasses and pocket protectors weren’t clues enough, they’re huddled around the table and bickering over trading cards. The cards flash and sparkle with every movement. I have a feeling these aren’t your typical Pokemon.

“Those girls.” Troy nudges me, pointing to a bunch of blondes standing near the door. “They’re the cheerleaders.”

Where does this guy think I’m from? Siberia? Southern California is the cheerleader capital of the world-well, second maybe to Texas-and I have no problem identifying them. The blue and white uniforms are a dead giveaway. Even in street clothes, the matching hair ribbons mark them as the cheer squad.

But, Troy is cute and I don’t want to make any enemies on the first day-Stella is already enemy enough-so I just ask, “Whose are they?”

Troy frowns, confused, but Nicole understands.

“Aphrodite’s.” She does not hide the disgust in her voice, rolling her eyes as she adds, “You’d think she was the patron goddess of athletics instead of love, for all they throw her name around.”

“Athletics,” Troy explains, “fall under the patronage of Ares.”

Looking up, I follow the direction of his gaze to a table in the center of the room. While I’m watching, the cheerleaders approach the table and fill some of the empty seats.

One, the blondest of them all, walks up behind a boy. His back is to me, so all I can see is his black curly hair. He stands up to embrace Blondie, settling his mouth over hers and smoothing his hand over her butt.

Holy crap!

Next to me, Troy says, “Looks like Griffin and Adara are on-again at the moment.”

“Who?” I ask absently.

“Griffin Blake and Adara Spencer. They get back together every summer,” Nicole says. “Never lasts more than a week into school.”

Griffin Blake. The name rolls through my mind like gentle thunder. He is a god-okay, bad choice of words, but even with his face hidden behind the cheerleader he is the most beautiful specimen of boyhood I have ever seen.

After a brief fantasy about his luscious hair, I take in the rest of him, starting with his height-all six-foot-plus of him. (Wait, do they use feet and inches in Greece? Maybe I should say all two meters of him.) Tall and broad-shouldered, but with the lean, sleek athletic build of a runner. Which instantly appeals to me, of course.

There’s something vaguely familiar about him.

His coal black hair curls over the white collar of the navy and sky blue striped rugby shirt he wears. Lifting his head from kissing Blondie, he turns to laugh at something someone at the table says.

It’s him! The guy from the beach.

Those full and soft lips spread into the most beautiful, open smile I have ever seen. So much more than that half smile he had given me that morning. And I know, absolutely 100 percent know, that one day I want him to smile at me that way.

Then I see a girl at the table-one of the lesser blondes-pointing a finger in my gawking direction. Griffin’s gaze turns on me, sees me openly staring at him, and erupts into laughter.

Winning that smile is going to be much harder than I thought.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” I turn back to Nicole to find her glaring at me.

“Trust me,” she says with her customary bitterness. “You want nothing to do with Griffin Blake.”

“Why not?”

“Because Nic and Gri-” Troy begins.

“Shut it.” She gives him a warning look and then turns back to me, her bright blue eyes steady and serious. “Because no girl should leave the Academy with a shattered soul.”

Without another word, she drops her gaze to her food and resumes eating. I look to Troy for answers, but his attention is fully on his plate, too.

Nicole’s warning doesn’t make any sense. Sure, he’s with the cheerleaders and the jocks-normally a formula for making a jerkbut when we met on the beach this morning he was totally nice. He even got me home in time to clean up before school.

Nicole must be mistaken.

Griffin Blake is a really nice guy.


“Welcome to the Academy track and cross-country team tryouts,”

Coach Zakinthos says. “Some of you are familiar with the process, but for new students I will explain.”

It may be my imagination, but I think he is talking only to me.

Everyone else seems bored by his little welcome speech.

We’re sitting on the soccer field at the center of a big stone stadium that’s on the far side of the campus from Damian’s house. It looks like a mini version of the Coliseum in Rome, complete with rows and rows of stone benches. We’ve already done group stretching and some stuff to get our blood flowing, like jumping jacks and push-ups-while Coach Z paces back and forth. His white and blue track pants whoosh with every step.

The apparel aside, he looks like he’s never seen the athletic side of a sporting event. I guess being part-god is no guarantee of physical perfection. Approaching ancient, over fifty at least, he has a beer gut to rival diehard football fans. A light jog looks like a stretch, let alone actually making it on a run.

Maybe he coaches discus.

“Everyone will select up to five events and will compete in those events for a position on the team. The top three finishers in each will automatically earn a slot, but the final roster rests at the coaches’ discretion. In distance running, there’s just one race. Six boys and six girls qualify. Any questions so far?”

He looks right at me. There are at least sixty kids sitting on the field, but his question is only for me. I throw a sideways glance at Griffin, sitting near the back of the group with Adara between his legs and surrounded by the rest of the Ares clique. His piercing blue eyes are trained on me.

I start to smile, but as soon as he notices me looking, he scowls and looks away. Boys can be so strange.

When I don’t answer, Coach Z glances at his clipboard. “There are twenty-five events to choose from. Throwers stay here with me.

Jumpers go with Coach Andriakos. Hurdlers with Coach Karatzas.

Sprinters meet Coach Vandoros at the starting line. And distance runners, Coach Leonidas is waiting for you at the entrance to the tunnel.”

Around me, everyone gets up and heads off toward their coaches.

I know I am going to the tunnel, but I hold back, waiting to see where Griffin goes.

Adara, her arms wrapped around his neck, gives him a quick kiss before bouncing off with the rest of the sprinters. He turns and sets off at a jog.

Toward the tunnel.

Omigod.

Heart thumping in my chest, I follow close behind. From the second I saw him on the beach I thought he looked like a distance runner, but now I know it’s true.

That’s one thing we have in common.

“Ah, Miss Castro,” Coach Leonidas says as I walk through the tunnel, “you are a distance runner.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Tell me about your background.”

Griffin is in front of me and he turns to hear my answer.

“Well,” I say, trying to focus on running and not the gorgeous hunk watching me with the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen, “I ran cross-country and long-distance track for three years at my old high school.”

“How’d you do?” Griffin asks.

I can’t tell if he’s teasing or asking, so I answer, “I won the Western Regional Championship twice.”

“What about the third year?”

This time I can tell he’s making fun-only to impress his obnoxious friends, of course. Why else would he be such a jerk when he was so nice to me this morning?

Well, while wanting him to smile at me someday might include a laugh or two, I don’t actually want him laughing at me. It’s a fine line. “Freshman year I came in second.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but Coach Leonidas interrupts. “Wonderful,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll bring a lot to the team.”

“Thanks, Coach Leo…”

Okay, so Coach Z said his name, but I can’t remember how to pronounce it. Everything in this country is a tongue twister.

“Call me Lenny,” he says. “Everyone does.”

“Thanks,” I say again, “Coach Lenny.”

“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way,” he says, “let’s get to the running.”

Everyone cheers-still full of the excitement of the first day of the season and not yet worn down by miles and miles and miles of running.

I cheer, too. After all the embarrassment and inferiority I’ve faced today, I’m ready to show them all what I’m really good at.

“We’re going to start out with a nice, easy warm-up before we run the qualifying race.” Coach Lenny looks happy, like he loves running and thinks it’s great luck he gets to make a living doing it.

“Follow me.”

He turns and heads out of the tunnel, into the afternoon sun.

Now Coach Lenny looks like an athlete. There’s no trace of belly, beer or otherwise, on his wiry frame-he’s not hiding one, either, because his white tank and blue running shorts leave little to the imagination. He sets the pace-the twenty kids who’d assembled in the tunnel fall in behind him-a gentle run that’s not about to get anyone sweaty. I focus on the footfalls of his sneakers, counting out the rhythm in my mind and letting it sink into me.

The steady rhythm matches my heart rate.

I am vaguely aware that our pace is increasing. As we build up speed I stay focused on Coach Lenny’s sneakers, never letting him get more than a few feet ahead of me.