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VISIOCRYPTION
SOURCE: HADES
The ability to hide, mask, or cloak an object. Duration of effect and size of object affected varies depending on strength of powcr. Effect is temporary and does not affect the physical characteristics of the object.(See visiomutation for permanent changes of appearance.)
DYNAMOTHEOS STUDY GUIDE * Stella Petrolas
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WHEN I WALK THROUGH THE TUNNEL and out onto the stadium field the next morning, Griffin is waiting for mc next to the soccer goal-sure, in Greece they call it football, but my dad played football. The sport with a round, black-and-white ball will always be soccer to me. Griff smiles that heart-melting smile, gives me a quick kiss, and says, "I missed you, kardia tis kardias mou."
Until that moment I have every intention of letting the whole Griffin-and-Adara-in-thc-bookstore thing go. Not every guy is a cheating jerk like Justin.
But when he says he missed me, I wonder, Did he really?
I can't stop myself from asking, "How was the trip to Serifos?"
"Oh," he says. "We had to reschedule. The freezer malfunctionedand flooded the cellar. Aunt Lilli and I spent the morning rearranging the stockroom."
So he hadn't left the island yesterday. "Is that why we're running in the morning again?"
"Didn't I say that?" He bends over, reaching for his toes.
No, he didn't say that.
Joining him in the stretch, I ask, "What did you do in the afternoon?"
I feel I like the Inquisition.
He's not avoiding eye contact, I tell myself. He can't exactly look me in the eye when he's hanging upside down and pulling himself into deeper extension.
"I stopped by the bookstore." He spreads his feet and twists to reach for one ankle. "Wanted to see if they had anything on endurance conditioning and nutrition."
Of course it was something innocent-he was researching our training.
I smile as I mimic his stretching, mentally whipping myself. Clearly, I need to get a handle on that jealousy monster-which Nicole insists has red eyes, not green. Sometimes I wonder how she knows so much about mythological beasts. Other times I don't want to know.
"Did they?" I lift my foot behind me and grab my ankle, stretching my quads.
"No." He smiles and says, "But Iona said they would order some for us."
Why am I so eager to assume the worst about Griff?
As the daughter of a psychiatrist, I do not go in for the therapy thing. After a lifetime of psychoanalysis, I'm immune. But I'm starting to think that maybe I need some help on my trust issues. I mean, I shouldn't be so quick to doubt Griffin, Especially not after what we went through to get together.
We're fated by an oracle, after all.
If the prophecy says Griffin will "find his match in a daughter of victory"-aka the goddess Nike, aka my great-grandmother-then our relationship, our future is secure, right?
The red-eyed monster needs to take a hike.
"So what's our training plan for today?" he asks, interrupting my self-exploration.
I give him a wicked grin. "Steps."
"Excuse me?"
I nod in the direction of the stadium stands. "We're going to run steps."
Hie looks warily up at the stands.
The stadium is a smaller version of the Roman Colosseum-or maybe the Colosseum is a bigger version of the Academy stadium?– but it's still several stories high. From field level to the top row of bench seats is probably around one hundred steps. I don't know what Griffin is worried about. This is nothing. It's my dream to run the steps of the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building. Stadium steps are no big deal.
"All right," he says, without enthusiasm. "Let's do it."
After a quick four-lap warm-up and another round of stretching, we tackle the steps. There are ninety-six, to be exact, and I know this because we run them a dozen times. I count them aloud each time.
As we turn around for our final climb, I begin counting down. "Ninety-six, ninety-five, ninety-four…"
"How many more?" Griffin gasps.
"Ninety, eighty-nine, eighty-eight," I pant, keeping my count. "Last one."
"Thank the gods," Griffin gasps as we keep climbing.
I manage a smile that probably looks more like a wince. Griffin doesn't notice-he's too busy trying not to die.
"Sixty-three, sixty-two…" I manage, though my lungs and my quads and my everything are burning. Every last muscle in my body is screaming, desperately begging me to stop this insanity, to just drop down and die like a normal person.
But I'm not a normal person,I tell my body. I'm a runner. Pain is my fame.All this bodily rebellion tells me I've let my endurance go. Cutting back on my running time for the last few months to work on controlling my powers has made my running suffer-and it hasn't done wonders for my powers, either.
A wave of endorphins washes over me, bringing that familiarfeeling of invincibility. With crystal clarity, I know that somehow-I'm not sure exactly how, but somehow-everything will work out.I'll get a hold on my powers. I'll keep my race training on track. AndI'll learn to trust Griffin . . .somehow.
A girl can't spend her whole life suffering the aftershocks of one bad boyfriend.
"When we reach the top," Griffin wheezes between sucking breaths, "just push me over the edge."
"Not on your life," I wince-smile again. "Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…"
He grunts, but keeps taking step after step.
We're so close.
The muscle burn is overwhelming. I concentrate on the lactic-acid buildup in my quads, embracing the pain and knowing that it means my muscles are trying to work more efficiently, trying to keep up with what I'm forcing them to do. I'll pay them back later with a long soak in a hot bath.
"Three," Griffin says, probably trying to hurry the countdown.
"Two." I can almost feel the recovery that will begin as soon as we reach the peak.
"One." He bursts up onto the top level of the stadium, raising his fisted hands in the air at our success… and then dropping them immediately when the exhaustion overtakes the thrill.
"We did it!" I join him and stop long enough to squeeze a quick hug around his waist.
"Let's never do this again," he gasps.
"Never again," I agree as he turns and starts the final descent. Then I smile. "Until next week."
I can hear his groan from a dozen steps away.
Before following him to the stadium floor, I hesitate, casting a glance out over the parapet to appreciate the view from this far up.
The island of Serfopoula stretches several miles to the east, covered in barren rocky patches and thick pine forest, interspersed with stretches of shrubby plains. To the north, alush green valley peeks out between rolling hills. As I turn to descend one last time- for today, anyway- I think about how little of the island I've actually experienced. Since the school and the village are on the west end, I've only really seen that part. The only beaches I've run are on this end. I wonder if the beaches on the eastern shore are the same silky white sand?
"I think I'm going to die," Griffin says as we reach the field and he collapses on the grass. 'No. I think I want to die."
"Don't be silly," I say, pacing a circle around his carcass. "Besides, we have to cool down."
"I can't move."
"You have to." I focus on my breathing as I reach down and grab his wrist, tugging him back to his feet. "You won't be able to walk tomorrow if you don't."
Despite his groans, he follows me into a jog around the track.
After one lap at a casual pace-and on flat ground-my breathing has almost returned to normal and the burn in my quads has ebbed to a comfortable ache. Trust me, after this many years of running, a dull ache is comfortable. It's comforting.
"If I didn't know you adored me," he says as we start our second lap, "I'd think you were trying to kill me."
"Just imagine what I would do to someone I don't like."
Someone like Adara.
No. I shake my head. I will not let her sneak into my thoughts, into this time with Griffin. My time with him is limited enough thissummer, between his job and my camp and the looming test and whoever is sending me on a wild-goose chase for the missing record of my dad's trial.
Why can't anything on this island be simple? At Pacific Park, the most dramatic thing that ever happened was a social nobody winning homecoming queen. One year at the Academy and suddenly I'm a goddess, dating a real-life hero, and hunting for a Mount Olympus record book.
"What do you know about the secret archives?" I ask absently.
Griffin stumbles, "The what?"
"The secret archives of Mount Olympus," I repeat. "Come on, I know they're not really a secret."
"Oh, those secret archives."
"Are there other secret archives?"
"Not that I know of," He laughs. "What do you know about the secret archives?"
"Not as much as I'd like," I shrug as we round lap two. "I know they contain the records of Mount Olympus and the remains of the Library of Alexandria."
"Really?"
"And they have seriously limited access."
"I don't know much more," he says. "What do you want to know?"
There are so many possible questions, How far back do the records go? What else do the archives hold? Who files the documents? But there is only one question I care about.
"I want to know how someone would steal one of the records-"
Griffin stumbles again. "You don't want to-"
"-and why they would steal the record of my dad's trial."
"Someone stole that?" he asks as we slow to a walk. "How do you know?"
"Because when Nicole and I went looking for it yesterday, it was gone."
"So that's how…" He shakes his head, scowling, and then starts over. "That's how you knew about the archives."
I'm pretty sure that's not what he started to say.
"I don't know why someone would steal your dad's record," he replies. "There's a rumor about a secret entrance to the library. If someone wanted to get in and out of the secret archives unnoticed, that might be how."
Great. A rumor of a secret entrance to the secret archives. How is that supposed to help me? I feel like I've been dropped into the middle of a Harry Potter book. Next, some evil genius is going to be plotting to kill me.
We finish our cooldown laps and make our way through the tunnel to the campus quad. As we reemerge into the morning sun, I hang back a step to admire Griffin in his fresh-from-a-workout glory. His nicely tanned arms and legs are glistening with sweat, the moisture catching the low-angle sun like a mirror rippling with every move of his lean muscles.
When he realizes I'm not at his side, Griffin turns, catches me ogling, and his mouth spreads in that cocky grin I love so much.
"Enjoying the view?" he teases.
"Maybe." I saunter up to him, then-unable to keep up the coyact-wrap my arms around his neck and tug him close until our foreheads touch. "You have a problem with me looking?"
Shaking his head slowly against mine, he hums, "Huh-uh."
Then his hand cups the back of my neck and he pulls my mouth the few inches to meet his. I love the feel of his soft lips against mine. Nine months of kissing him whenever I want and I still can't get enough.
I slip my arms farther around his neck, stretching myself into him and up into the kiss. When he drops his hands to press against my lower back, shivers race down my spine and over my exhausted muscles. He's mine, all mine. No one else gets to kiss him like this.
An image-a memory-flashes into my mind. Of Griffin. Of me watching him across the crowded school cafeteria while he is locked in exactly this embrace. With Adara.
I jerk back.
It feels like a bucket of ice water emptied over me.
Removing myself from Griffin's arms, I take a step back.
"I. uh.,." The stabbing pain around my heart is worse than any lactic-acid buildup. I know it isn't fair, holding something from the past against him. But is it really in the past? I can't think. I need to get away from him so my brain can return to seminormal function. "Gotta go."
"Yeah," he says, breathing heavy. "You'd better hurry if you're getting a shower before camp."
Right. Camp.
I glance down at my sweat-soaked I RUN THEREFORE I AM CRAZYT-shirt and shorts. For a second I consider going as is-and taking every opportunity to brush my stinky self up against Adara. But then I remember my dignity-and her e-mail last night about not wearing shorts. As much as I'd like to completely ignore her instructions, I don't want to wind up bit by a snake or a hydra or some other creepy-crawly just to spite her. With my luck, today would be fight-a-mythological-monster day.
"You're right," I say before I get sucked into those bright blue eyes for a lifetime or two. "I need a shower." Pressing a quick kiss to his mouth, I ask. "Maybe you can come by after you get back from Serifos?"
"I'll have to help Aunt Lili put everything away." He gives me a lopsided grin. "But I'll try to steal away. Why don't we meet at the dock at seven for a sunset walk on the beach."
"We could always fit in another training run." I tease.
Griffin groans. "Are you trying to kill me?"
I glance at my watch and realize just how late I am.
"Of course not," I say, backing away across the quad. "If you were dead, who would I train with?"
"Today we are going to do a team exercise called Navigator," Stella explains as I try to slip unnoticed into the group assembled behind the maintenance shed. She glares at me. I'm not thatlate. A minute or two. Five at the most.
"We have divided you into four teams-three teams of three andone team of four." Adara throws me a glare of her own, like I intentionally ruined her even division of teams. She gives me too little credit for inventiveness-like giving her an odd number of campers is the worst thing I could think of-and too much credit for interest in her. I have better things to do with my mental faculties than make her life miserable. It may be a bonus effect, but I have plenty of my own miseries to worry about.
"Each team will be assigned a supervisor, either Miss Orivas, Stella, Xander, or myself." She flips over a page on her clipboard and reads aloud. "The teams are as follows…"
As Adara reads the names on the list of teams, I glance around at the ten-year-olds. They are all dutifully wearing pants and either sneakers or hiking shoes. She lists the members of the first three teams, those supervised by Stella, Adara, and Miss Orivas. The girls line up behind their assigned leader.
"The remaining four campers-Tansy, Muriel, Gillian, and Phoebe," Adara says, with an extra-sugary-sweet grin at me, "are assigned to Xander."
"Each supervisor will now explain the exercise," Stella says. "The teams are not allowed further communication until Navigator is over."
As Stella, Adara, and Miss Orivas lead their girls in separate directions for the debriefing or whatever, Xander doesn't move from the spot where he's comfortably leaning against the maintenance shed. My three teammates settle into the grass at his feet.
He glances at me and raises a brow.
The rebel thing doesn't do it for me. I move to stand behind theolder girl-I think her name is Tansy-and cross my arms. As if I'm going to sit at his feet.
"Navigator," Xander begins, "is an exercise in strategy, teamwork, and most of all, trust."
Again with the trust thing? We've already done that.
He pushes away from the shed and jerks some pink papers from his back pocket. As he hands them to Gillian he says, "Hidden in the woods behind us are a dozen team flags. Three for each team."
Tansy twists around to hand me one of the papers. It's an odd-looking map, with a series of twisting trails, bushy kindergarten-looking trees, and a dozen A's marked in evenly distributed spots. There's a map legend at the bottom and the I's are dotted with little hearts. Adara's handiwork, no doubt.
Although, with Stella's crazy crush on rebel boy, she might have sunk to heart-doodling, too.
"Are we to find the flags?" the third girl on my team-what was her name?-asks.
"Let him finish, Muriel." Gillian says.
"Yes, Muriel," Xander says, not a flicker of emotion in his lavender eyes, "we will find the flags. The trick is finding the rightflags."
Whatever that's supposed to mean.
Fifteen minutes later, I'm traipsing through the woods behind the ten-year-olds, with Xander bringing up the rear. This is the dumbest game I've ever played. Like I don't have better things to do than hunt for stupid flags in a stupid forest. I could be visiting Serifos with Griffin or helping Nicole with her research project or figuring out who is sending me mysterious messages.
"You're falling behind."
I don't have to glance over my shoulder to know Xander is right behind me. "And your point is?"
"This is a team effort." Twigs crack beneath our steps. "Maybe, since running is an individual sport, you're not familiar with the concept."
Like he has a clue. Sure, each race is an individual runner against other individual runners, but there's also the overall competition. Every race is worth team points. A different number of points for each scoring place-the number of scoring places determined by how many runners are in the race. If there are thirty runners, then usually the first three finishers get points for their team. These points accumulate over the course of the meet, and the team with the highest total at the end wins the overall.
I'm never racing only for myself.
But I don't expect him to understand. Stomping harder across the forest floor. I retort. "And just what teams have you been on?"
"I never said I was a team player."
"Then why are you here?" I ask. He seems more like the type to take a solo motorcycle trip across China than to spend his summer babysitting tweens and dynamotheosrejects. "You're not exactly oozing enthusiasm."
"Let's just say I owe Petrolas a favor."
"Because Damian readmitted you after your expulsion?"
I slap a hand over my mouth. The question slipped out before I knew it was coming. I totally want to know, of course, but I totallydon'twant to get zapped to Siberia. Xander definitely gives off a cross-me-and-you'll-never-be-heard-from-again vibe.
I brace myself for subarctic temperatures.
"Not exactly," he says as we reach a wide spot in the trail-if the barely visible, less dense path is a trail. Picking up his pace, he passes me. "And I didn't say whichPetrolas."
I'm left watching his back as he catches up with my team. He has definitely cornered the market on enigma. I hope Stella goes for the deeply layered type.
"I found one!"
The piercing little-girl shriek echoes through the woods. I follow the sound of yelps and giggles to where my team and Xander have gathered. They're pointing at a white flag hanging from a low tree branch.
"This is one of ours," Tansy insists. "I'm sure of it."
"Remember," Xander says, "if you choose the wrong flag, then you'll lose a point and give the rightful team a two-point bonus."
Note that rebel boy said "you," not "we." And he thinks I don't understand the team concept.
Though no one appears interested in my opinion, I evaluate the flag.
According to Xander's instructions, all the flags on the course took identical. White. We can't trust appearances to know which one is ours. As soon as we touch the flag, it will change colors-to black if it belongs to us, to red, blue, or yellow if it belongs to Stella, Adara, or Miss Orivas. But we can't know for sure until we touch it.
"You have to feelthe flag." Xander leans casually against a tree. "See beyond the surface." He looks at me. "If you can."
I scowl at him. In a perfect world, the tree would be swarming with ants.
Maybe if I concentrate, I can-
"I think we should grab it," Gillian says, taking a step toward the tree.
Out of the corner of my eye I see her reaching… for a redflag.
"Wait!" I dive in front of her, pushing her hand out of the way inches before she could touch the still-white flag.
"What are you doing?" Gillian cries.
Muriel crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.
"What, Phoebe?" Tansy asks, seeming truly interested in my opinion. From the murderous looks on Gillian and Muriels faces and the total disinterest on Xander's, she's the only one who wants to hear what I have to say. "Don't you think this is our flag?"
I glance at the flag again. It's still white. I have no reason to think Gillian's wrong-especially since I'mthe one with the defective powers. She's probably decades ahead of me in the whole powers-control thing. But for that instant I was so sure it-
Red. For another split second the flag was red.
"No," I shake my head. "This isn't ours. This flag is red."
"Whatever," Gillian says, reaching for the flag again.
Tansy gasps. "I see it, too."
Gillian and Muriel stare at her like she's betrayed them.
She points at the flag. "Look."
They both turn and squint. Gillian's mouth drops. Muriel huffs and stomps away. "Let's go find our flags." She ducks under a pine branch. "I am notlosing to Tressa Boyd."
Gillian hurries after her. As Xander passes me, he says, "Nice catch, Castro."
I just keep blinking, not quite believing what I just did. When I looked at the flag, I saw the white mask or whatever. When I was thinking about something else, though, only catching sight in my peripheral vision, I could see the true color.
"That was amazing," Tansy says, her voice laced with a sense of awe. "You didn't even have to concentrate or anything."
No. I didn't. In fact, concentrating made it worse.
Stella's exercise the other night proved that my powers come from my mind. But how am I supposed to control them if focusing doesn't help?
"We'd better hurry up," Tansy says. "I bet Gillian tries to grab the wrong flag again. If you're not there to stop her, we'll lose for sure."
I let Tansy lead me up the path, but my mind is still thinking about my powers. And how I only have less than two weeks to figure out how to control them when trying to control them sends them out of control.
At this point, I really shouldn't be surprised by being tossed into such a vicious circle. Try to control my powers, and they go berserk. Train more, control less. Stay on at the Academy to learn how to use my powers, but be forced to pass a powers test first. Lately, my whole life is one big exercise in contradiction.
I shrug. It's not like I actually did something to succeed. "No big."
"It is a big," she insists. "Most neos are lucky to find one. They almost never identify enemy flags. You've earned your second merit badge."
She hands me another round patch. This one has a red outer ring, a black background, and the center picture looks like a magician's wand with little sparks coming out the end. I guess it has something to do with masking appearances or making something invisible. Making the colored flags look white.
Big whoop.
I glance around to make sure everyone else is gone. I don't want to get caught confessing to the evil stepsister.
"But what good does it do me?" I ask when I'm sure we're alone. "If I try to use my powers, they go wacky. It's only when I'm not thinking about it that they come out right."
"Hmm." Stella taps a french-manicured finger on her lips. "There has to be a way to reverse that. Or at least harness it."
I can see the gears turning, her mind working to figure out the solution.
"Maybe you're overthinking, overanalyzing." she suggests. There's an exercise designed to-"
"Forget it," I say, walking away. I'm so not up for Stella's full attention right now. After six hours of indirect powers usage in the company of ten-year-olds-except-as I found out, Tansy…she's twelve-my mind is fried. "I can't think about this anymore right now."
"We can try that exercise tonight," she calls out.
Following the path around the quad, I pass the girls' dorm. I'm thankful I don't have to live there. Sharing my bathroom with Stella is bad enough. I can't imagine sharing with an entire floor full of girls. Like Adara. I feel sorry for Nicole-she is so not the slumber-party type, but she's on the same floor as the cheer queen and three of her cheer minions.
As Nicole puts it, she's trapped in cheerland. This is her fourth summer in the dorms. Maybe she's built up a defense against Aphrodite's descendants.
Or, knowing Nicole, maybe she's placed some kind of curse on her door so they can't get into her room.
I'll have to ask her.
Detouring from the path, I decide to see if she's home. Maybe she can shed some light on the anonymous e-mail.
Her room is at the end of the first floor, with a great view out over the quad. Even if I didn't know which one was hers, I'd be able to guess-it's the only one with a sign that says KNOCK AT YOUR OWN PERIL just below a skull and crossbones. Braving the warning-but making sure to knock on the door itself, and notthe sign-I rap my knuckles on the smooth wood surface.
No response. If she were here, I'd at least get a threatening "Who is it?"
I'm not ready to go home and I don't want to be alone. Classes should be out for the day. Maybe Troy is in his room.
I head back out and toward the boys' dorm and climb the front steps and the two flights of stairs to his third-floor room. My quads cry out a little at the climb, reminding me that recovery time is a good thing. When I reach the room with a giant foam guitar on the door, I knock. Three seconds later, Troy pulls it open.
"Phoebe," he says with huge smile. "What are you doing here?"
"Camp just ended," I say. "I was heading home and thought I'd stop by."
"Get your butt in here, Castro," Nicole barks.
Troy swings the door wide so I can see Nic lounging on the bean-bag in the corner. She's just sliding a big leather book into her messenger bag.
She waves me in. "We've been waiting for you to show up."
"What's up?" I ask
"I don't know what Nic's doing here," he teases. When she casts a scowl his way, he grabs the guitar off his bed and sets it on the stand next to his desk. "I was just about to play for some stress relief. My brain was not made for organic chemistry."
"I don't want to interrupt." I do, actually, but it seems way rude to say that. Even if I'm desperate for some reprieve from my own troubles.
"No worries." He drops into his dorm-issue desk chair and motions me to the bed. "You're stress relief, too."
"Thanks," I say, sinking onto his black-and-white-checkered comforter. "I don't feel much like stress relief today."
"Hard day at camp?" Nicole asks, pulling a bag of butterscotch candies out of her bag. She thrusts the bag in my direction.
Troy growls a little and frowns at the candy.
I lean over and take one. "Yes. No. I don't know." I twist open the cellophane wrapper. "It's more than camp, I guess."
Popping the butterscotch between my lips, I let the smoothly sweet taste melt over my tongue.
"Like what?" Nic asks.
Oh, everything. It's that I can only control my powers when I'm not trying to. It's that I'm afraid my boyfriend is getting back with his ex-or that I'm having an overreaction of jealousy. It's that I'm stuck at home with Stella, with her taking me on as her pet project. It's that I'm suddenly doubting what I learned about my dad's death, my boyfriend's loyalty, and my own sanity. It's a million things and nothing.
Not that I say any of that. Don't need to expose my friends to the insane ramblings of my brain. They might never recover.
"Like this." I lift one hip and pull two pieces of paper from my back pocket.
Nicole snatches them from my hand.
After unfolding them, she says, "They're blank."
"I know," I slide the butterscotch against my cheek so I can talk. They're not supposedto be blank. They're supposedto be e-mail printouts. I slip the butterscotch back onto my tongue and mutter, "Thtupid, curthed e-mails."
"They wouldn't print?" Troy asks.
I shake my head. When I received the second e-mail last night,almost identical to the first, I wanted a printout so I could I analyze them. Maybe find a clue to who sent them.
Forty-seven attempts later, all I had was blank paper.
"Huh." Troy's brows scrunch together. "Who were they from?"
"The same person who sent the note," Nicole suggests.
"Probably." Unable to resist, I crunch the butterscotch. Someday my teeth will be dust. "The sender's address was blocked."
"Blocked?" Troy's eyes get all wide. This was to your Academy e-mail?" When I nod., he shakes his head. "The Academy e-mail system doesn't allow blocked senders."
I shrug. As if I can change what happened.
"Show me." He leaps up from his desk chair and waves me over. "Log on to your e-mail."
With a heavy sigh, I push off the bed. It's not that I don't want to find out who sent the message, and how they managed to block the sender andkeep it from printing. I am just running low on motivation.
When I'm slow to move, Troy takes my shoulders, urges me into the chair, and shoves me closer to the desk. Grabbing the mouse, I click the Academy e-mail logo and enter my user name and password.
"See." I point at the blocked messages, still at the top of my inbox.
Troy leans over my shoulder, squinting at the screen. "I can't believe it. Academy e-mail is impenetrable. No one can bypass the security system without major repercussions."
"What about last year," I ask. "when Griffin messed with my e-mail? Every time I deleted his message a new one popped up."
"That's different." Troy rubs a hand back and forth over his shorthair. "Anyone can create a simple hack on their own computer to automatically resend a message. But this messes with the Academy server. It's impossible."
"Maybe," I say, thinking. Clearly not."But that doesn't change the fact that-"
"Let's take this to Urian," Nic says, "He'll figure it out."
"She's right. The kid's a genius." Troy jerks the desk chair back, with me in it. "Let's go."
He hurries out into the hall. Nicole shrugs, like we both knowhe's overreacting, but follows him through the door. When I getinto the hall. I see Troy knocking on a door three rooms down.When there's no answer, he rolls his eyes and knocks again, thistime with a knock-knock… knock knock-knock-knockpattern.
"Password?" a muffled voice says through the door.
"Chimera."
No answer.
"Shoot," Troy whispers. "That was yesterday's password." To the door, he says. "Scylla's strait."
Nicole rolls her eyes.
The door swings open silently.
"Don't," Troy whispers through clenched teeth, "laugh."
We walk into a room straight out of Star Wars.Complete with crossed lightsabers over the desk, black curtains blocking out the window, and a life-size Han Solo cutout in the comer.
A giggle bubbles its way to the surface. Troy cuts me a harsh look and I stifle my humor. But seriously, a life-size Han Solo?
"State your purpose?"
Turning toward the voice, I see a short, dark-haired buy pushing the door closed. I can't tell for sure-like I said, the window is blacked out and the only light in the room is coming from the glow of a computer monitor-but I don't think I know him.
"Academy e-mail," Troy says.
"Familiar," the dark-haired boy says, leaving his post at the door and sliding into the chair in front of his computer. "Situation?"
"Blocked sender." Troy moves farther into the room and sits on the unmade bed, on the edge nearest the desk.
"Impossible." Dark-haired boy clicks rapidly on his keyboard.
"Not-impossible." 'Troy says, leaning forward so he can see the monitor. "I've seen it."
Nicole leans close to my ear and whispers, "Urian's a little psycho, but he knows computers better than anyone."
Dark-haired boy stops typing. "Additional inconsistencies?"
"The message won't print."
Dark-haired boy grunts and starts typing faster than ever. Images flash across the monitor at warp speed.
I feel like I've entered nerd-ville.
I stick to my spot just inside the door. From what I can see in the flickering light, the rest of the room looks like a hurricane, tornado.,andtsunami took turns messing with the contents. I'm suddenly very glad I had to wear pants and closed-toe shoes for camp today. Who knows what's living in those piles.
"Access codes?" dark-haired boy finally asks.
"Phoebe," Troy says, "tell Urian your user name and password."
"No way," I say. I don't know this guy. I've read about those identity thieves who hijack your e-mail and use it to send spam about discount prescription drugs and pirated computer programs.
"Urian's all right," Nicole says.
I stand my ground. "I don't know him."
"Phoebe, this is Urian Nacus." She nods at the dark-haired boy. "Urian, Phoebe Castro."
Urian spins in his chair faster than an Olympic sprinter. "Castro?" he asks, brows raised. "The aponikos?"
The what?" I asked, thinking I might need to get offended.
"Descendant of Nike," Troy says quickly, as if he can sense I'm upset.
Urian leaps to his feet and bows politely. "A pleasure." Flashing me a smarmy smile, he takes my hand-which I didn'toffer-and kisses my knuckles.
"Uh, thanks," I say, retrieving my fingers.
I glare at Troy over Urian's head. What has he gotten me into?
"Please," Urian says, waving at the flickering computer screen. "Key in your user name and password. Your access codes shall remain your own."
After giving Troy one more who-is-this-guy? look, I plop into the desk chair, and access my e-mail. A split second later, my in-box is on the screen.
"That was fast," I say, impressed.
"I installed a signal enhancer," Urian says, leaning over my shoulder to read the screen. "It quadrupled my connection speed."
Figures. He probably spends all his time downloading episodes of Herculesand Xena.
Before Urian the Curious can read all my other messages, I click open the blocked e-mail.
"There it is," I say, nodding at the screen.
Urian studies it for a minute. His bushy eyebrows keep scrunching and unscrunching, as if he's physically processing with his forehead. Weird
"May I?" he asks, nodding at the chair.
I shrug and get up.
"First, I need to access the Academy mail server," he says. A new window opens up on the computer. "The original file might still contain the metadata from the-" he smacks his mouse down on the desk. "Blast! It's blocked, as well." More furious typing. "The source file didn't even log the originating IP address."
Before my eyes permanently roll back in my head from trying to follow the computer-speak, I ask, "What does that mean?"
"In plain English?" He glances up at me. "Whoever sent this is very, very smart."
"Or very, very powerful," Troy says. "Bypassing Academy e-mail security is anything but easy."
"True." Urian squints at the screen. "This isn't a simple hack job. It's going to take me a while."
"Sometime before midnight Tuesday would be nice," I say. "I'd like to know who I'm meeting."
"You're not seriously going?" Troy asks.
As if there was any doubt?
"Of course I'm going," I say. "What other choice do I have?"
"Um… not going."
"Troy, I have to find out what happened to my dad."
"We knowwhat happened to your dad. He got smoted. End of story."
"Not," I snap, "end of story. At least, not anymore. I can"t just let this go."
"Fine," Troy crosses his arms over his chest. "I'll go with you."
"Chill, Travatas." Nicole says. Then to me she says, "I think what Tarzan here is trying to say is that whoever pulled off this e-mail stunt-and snuck into the secret archives-has to be pretty powerful. And pretty devious. You shouldn't meet this person alone."
"No." I can't believe she's siding with him. "The e-mail says I have to come alone. I'm not going to blow this."
Troy glares at me, looking like he reallywants to say something more. But, instead, he turns to Urian and asks, "Can you find out before then?"
"One hundred and twenty hours, give or take?" He looks like he's crunching numbers in his head-my brain hurts just thinking about it-and then finally says. That's cutting it close. Fifty-fifty chance."
"Great, I say.
"I copied the source file into my e-mail account," Urian says. "But I may still need to access your-"
"No way." He may be helping me out, but I still only met him like two minutes ago. Besides, a girl needs her privacy.
"Not a problem," he says with a grin. "My computer recorded your keystrokes. If I need access, I have your codes."
"Great," I say, less enthusiastically than before.
"Let's meet here on Tuesday night," Nicole suggests. "Eleven o'clock?"
"Excellent," Urian says.
"Fine by me," I say, still annoyed at Troy. Since when did he become my guardian and protector?
"See you Tuesday," Troy says as we leave.
"The countdown has begun," Urian returns.
Geek melodrama. I roll my eyes.
"And, Urian," Nicole says, "you might try doing laundry once in a while."
As we step into the hall, she pulls the door shut with a slam.
"Phoebe," Troy says as we walk back to his room, his voice low and serious, "if Urian hasn't figured out who sent the e-mail in time, I willgo to the courtyard with you." Before I can argue, he adds, "You're my friend and I couldn't stand it if you got hurt."
My argument dies on my tongue. It's hard to be mad at concern like that. But that doesn't change what I have to do.
"If the computer genius hasn't figured it out," I say, "you can walk me to the courtyard. But I'm going in alone." When he starts to argue, I say, "I appreciate that you're worried about me, but I won't let anything jeopardize finding out the truth about my dad."
I can tell he still wants to argue, but I can also tell that he gets how important this is to me. He nods. Reluctantly.
I just hope I'm not doing something stupid. Again.
When Nic and I walk out of the boys' dorm, the sun is riding low in the sky. I check my watch. It's six o'clock. If I'm quick, I can runhome and grab some dinner before I have to meet Griffin at the dock.
As I step off the front stairs, about to say good-bye to Nicole, movement to my left catches my eyes.
Griffin.
I smile automatically and am about to call out to him when I realize something very important. It's Griffin. Going into the girls' dorm. And Adara is standing on the front step to greet him.
Suddenly I'm not so hungry anymore.