Goddess Boot Camp(2)

I’m back to my regular running schedule, training for the Pythian Games trials, which are just two weeks away, and wondering whether my next powers screwup will be the one that lands me in Hades.

Some days I wish I’d never learned the truth. Life would be so much less complicated if Mom had never met Damian. Right now, I’d be back in L.A. with Nola and Cesca, enjoying my last summer before college by spending hours on the beach. Maybe finally learning how to surf from some hottie surfer boy who would totally fall in love with Nola and—

“Phoebe!”

I shudder at the sound of Damian’s voice echoing through the house. He sounds really, really, really upset.

“Yes?” I answer as sweetly as possible from the relative safety of my bedroom. Not that walls hinder his ability to read minds—or sense fear.

I watch the door nervously. I know it’s a bad sign when I see water streaming under the crack, flowing into the grout lines between each tile and pooling in the depressions of the age-worn ceramic surfaces.

“Trust me,” Damian says from the other side of my door, “you do not wish to make me open this door myself.”

I leap up from my desk chair and, neatly avoiding the rivulets lacing across my floor, pull open the door. “Damian, I’m—”

My mouth drops open and my apology sticks in my throat.

Normally impeccably-dressed-in-a-suit-and-tie Damian is standing there wearing board shorts, Birkenstocks, and a shark’s-tooth necklace. Oh, and he’s soaking wet.

“Omigods, Damian,” I blurt, staring instantly at the floor—I do not need to see my stepdad’s bare chest, thank you very much. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, um . . .” I wave my hand up and down in his direction, still averting my eyes. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I was just thinking about how much I miss L.A. and that I’ve never learned how to surf and now that school’s out I could go if I didn’t have the Pythian trials and my stupid powers weren’t—”

Damian holds up his hand and takes a deep, deep breath. He lets it out super slow, with a little bit of a growl from the back of his throat. And then he takes another. And another.

I’ve really done it this time. I mean, the palm tree in the living room had been bad enough, but he is clearly beyond furious at the moment.

Instinctively I inch back a step . . . right into a growing puddle. The sloshing sound of me smacking into the water breaks his deep breathing.

“I am not angry with you,” he says, carefully enunciating each word. “Truly.”

I’m not convinced.

He runs a hand through his wet hair, sending a fresh spray of water droplets everywhere.

“Oh, for Hera’s sake,” he mutters. For a second I’m nearly blinded by a bright glow, and when I open my eyes again, Damian is back to his dry, fully clothed self. The puddles are still there. “Let us speak in my office, shall we?”

I hang my head and follow Damian through the house. Why do these things keep happening to me? I mean, you’d think after all these months I’d have improved a little. At least enough so that things wouldn’t go haywire when I’m just randomly thinking about completely non-powers-related stuff.

“Please.” Damian gestures at a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Sinking into the soft leather—hard-core-hippie Nola would have a field day with the cruel and unnecessary use of animal hide—I try to clear my mind of all thoughts. It’s thinking that gets me into trouble. If I could go the rest of my life without thinking, then—

“I know you are using your powers neither carelessly nor intentionally,” Damian says as he lowers into his chair. “But in the several months since your powers first manifested, your control has not improved. In fact”—he pinches the bridge of his nose like the idea of my uncontrolled powers gives him a headache—“it may have gotten worse.”

Worse? My heart sinks. I’ve been spending hours upon hours working on controlling my powers. All right, some of those hours—okay, many of those hours—were spent with Griffin. And maybe we don’t always spend every second on my training, but hey, a girl can’t focus on work all the time when in the presence of such a god. Can she?

“I don’t blame you, Phoebe. We both know that, since you are the third generation removed from Nike, your powers are stronger than most. It is not surprising that you are having difficulty controlling them.” He smiles kindly and my stomach kind of clenches.

I don’t need pity . . . I need help.

“I don’t know what else to do,” I say, trying not to whine. I am so not a whiner. “I’m sorry. I’ve been working hard. Maybe I just need a little more time.”