in surprise. I hadn’t heard the Spartan come up behind me.
“Nobody.”
He gave me a look that said he thought I was a complete freak, then shook his head. “Come on. Logan wants you to practice shooting targets next.”
I looked around, but Logan had disappeared while I’d been talking to Vic. So had Kenzie Tanaka. They’d probably gone to get an energy drink out of one of the vending machines outside the gym, leaving me alone with Oliver. Great.
Even grumpier than before, I stalked behind Oliver over to the other side of the gym, where an archery target had been set up.
The Spartan headed for one of the weapons racks while I kept going toward the bleachers.
The four of us had dumped our bags on the bleachers when we’d first come into the gym at seven this morning. I’d only been going to Mythos a few months, and I hadn’t had the lifelong warrior training that the other students had.
Now, I was struggling to catch up, which meant schlepping over to the gym every morning for an hour’s worth of work with Logan and his friends before my regular classes started.
Out of al the kids at the academy, the Spartans were the best warriors, and Professor Metis had thought that they could whip me into shape in no time flat. It wasn’t working out that way, though.
I just wasn’t warrior material, no matter what some people—
goddess included—thought.
I slid Vic into his black leather scabbard and laid him flat on one of the bleachers, so he wouldn’t fal off. I’d already dropped the sword enough times today. Then I reached into my gray messenger bag for a mirror and brush, so I could pul my hair back into a tighter, neater ponytail, since it had come undone while I’d been sparring with Logan.
I squinted at my reflection in the smooth glass. Wavy brown hair, winter white skin dotted here and there with a few freckles, and eyes that were a strange shade of purple.
Violet eyes are smiling eyes, my mom had always said. I thought of how easily Logan had kicked my ass while we’d been training. Nope, I wasn’t smiling about anything this morning.
When I was done fixing my hair, I put the mirror and brush back into my bag and threw it onto the bleachers. In the process, my bag hit Oliver’s and knocked his to the floor because I was just that kind of total, uncoordinated klutz.
And of course the top of his bag popped open, and al kinds of stuff spil ed out, tumbling over the mats. Pens, pencils, books, his iPod, a laptop, some silver throwing daggers.
Sighing, I got down on my knees and started scooping everything back into the bag, careful to use the edge of my sleeve so as to not actual y touch anything with my bare fingers. I had no desire to see into the inner workings of Oliver Hector’s mind, but that’s what would happen if I wasn’t careful.
I managed to get everything back into the bag except for a thick red notebook. A couple of the metal rings had been bent out of shape, and they snagged on the fabric every time I tried to slide the notebook back into the bag where it belonged. I just didn’t have a long enough sleeve to bend al the metal down, and I couldn’t get a good grip with the soft cotton anyway. Exasperated, I took hold of the metal with my sleeve, so I wouldn’t scrape my skin, then grabbed the bottom of the notebook with my bare hand.
The images hit me the second my fingers touched the red cover.
A picture of Oliver popped into my head, one of the Spartan leaning over the desk in his dorm room and writing in the notebook. One by one, the images flashed by, giving me a condensed, high-def version of Oliver alternately doodling, drawing, and scribbling furiously in the notebook.
After a few seconds, the feelings kicked in, and I started experiencing Oliver’s emotions, too. Al the things he’d felt when he’d been writing in his notebook. The dul boredom of doing class assignments, the annoyed frustration of trying to understand some of the complicated homework, and then, surprisingly, a soft, dreamy fizz that warmed my whole body—
“What are you doing? That’s mine,” Oliver snapped in a harsh voice.
I shook off the images and feelings, and looked up. The Spartan stood over me, his features tight and pinched.