“Of course I ca—aaaack!”

Another step forward—and another tumble immediately into Griffin’s arms. What did Nicole do, zap away my ankle muscles?

“Here.” Griffin comes up behind me, scoops down, and lifts me into his arms. “I’ll carry you.”

“No, really, that’s not nec—”

“Yes,” he interrupts. “It is.”

While it is not totally unappealing to be in his arms, this is not how I’d always imagined it would be. Wait—I mean this is not how I’d fleetingly thought it would be when we came up with this plan.

I never wasted my time imagining Griffin and me doing anything. Promise.

Anyway, here I am, cradled in his arms as he makes his way back through the woods. I feel like some fairy-tale damsel in distress being rescued from a dark forest full of ogres and trolls.

But Griffin Blake only acts like a fairy-tale hero when it suits him.

“Why are you being so nice?” I ask.

His blue eyes glance down at me. “I’m not.”

I give him a look that says, “Um, hello!”

“All right,” he relents, then mumbles, “I hrmphoo.”

“What?” I know he’s weird, but I am sure he is capable of intelligible speech.

“I said . . .” He closes his eyes—I glance ahead on the trail to make sure he’s not going to trip over a tree root or anything—and clenches his jaw. “. . . I have to.”

“What do you mean you have to?”

I stomp down on the little part of me that wants him to say, I can’t help myself because I love you, Phoebe. Talk about delusional.

“It’s in my blood,” he explains. And leaves it at that.

Like that clears everything up.

“I don’t get it.”

He growls and I can feel it in his chest.

“Listen, if you’re going to do the silent thing the whole way then just—”

“Hercules is my ancestor.”

“Isn’t Hercules Roman?”

“The name is,” Griffin says. “But most people have never heard of Heracles. Even the gods stopped using that name centuries ago.”

“I thought you were descended from Ares.”

“I am,” he grumbles. “On my great-grandmother’s side. Hercules is on my father’s line.”

“And . . .”

“Descendants of Hercules are compelled to act heroic when someone is in need.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. He really is helping me because he can’t stop himself. This is priceless.

I can see this definitely working to my advantage.

“You can’t, however,” he says when I can’t stop laughing, “abuse the privilege. Only genuine situations of need qualify.”

“What?” I ask, suppressing my giggles. “Is there some kind of contract? Qualifications and exceptions to your heroics?”

His jaw clenches again and he doesn’t answer.

In fact, he stares straight forward and doesn’t even look down at me. I must have touched a nerve or something. Great, now I feel guilty for teasing him—the guy who tried to zap me off the cross-country team in the first place. I have no reason to feel bad for him.

But I do.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “I shouldn’t make fun of stuff I don’t understand. This hero thing is pretty serious, huh?”

He nods once.

“How many of you are there?”

Grim faced, he keeps staring off ahead—we’ve made it out of the woods and are now crossing the lawn below the school. Thinking he’s so mad he’s not going to answer, I drop my head back against his arm and relax. Might as well enjoy the ride.

“One.” His blue eyes glow as they meet my brown ones. “Just one.”

“You’re the only descendant of Hercules?” Wow. That must be a major burden. “How is that possible?”

“There is only one child born to the Herculean line each generation.”

“Then what about your parents?”

The glow in his eyes disappears. “They’re . . . not around.”

“Not around? Are they traveling or something?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Okay. I have no idea what he’s saying—what I’m supposed to get from his cryptic responses—but I get the feeling he’s not going to elaborate.

“So, um . . .” I try to think of something to talk about, to break this tense silence. “. . . where are you—”

“You’re friends with Nicole.”

I’m not sure if I’m more shocked that he’s actually speaking or that he’s speaking about Nicole. Especially after what she told me about their past.

“Yes,” I answer carefully.

“She and I—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if she told you, but—”

“She told me.”

I expect him to ask what exactly she said, to deny her accusations and defend himself. Instead, he surprises the crap out of me by asking, “How’s she doing?”

“Um, she’s . . . okay, I think.” Thinking back to her teary revelation this morning, maybe she’s not completely fine. At this point I don’t think I can lose any points by being completely honest. “She doesn’t like you very much.”