I knew that I was different.

Sure, I thought I was different in the way any eight-year-old thought. In the random, bubbly, cheerful type of different that was exactly the same as any other girl my age. But I didn't realize exactly how different I was until I started running track.

I could fly down that dusty old track in record speeds, wearing down Nike after Nike as I spent hours in that little raceway a block from my house in the Californian woods. My father was a runner himself, but never as fast as I was. In fact, nobody was as fast as I was. My two-minute mile was, by far, the fastest in recorded history.

For reasons I didn't know of, Dad refused to call in a personal coach or some official to record my historic time, and now I knew. At the time, however, I didn't understand.

You see, we were rich. There's no sugar coating it. I'm not a rags-to-riches sob story. Dad would buy me so many different pairs of running shoes, and for a few months, we decided to see which lasted the longest. The result were a sleek-looking pair of Nike shoes that cost a lot more money than we would've liked. Dad never complained, though, and for that I was grateful. I had a guilty conscience.

After a year or two of running, Dad took me to the little school gym nearby. We lived in a heavily wooded area of California, and the school was a small private thing. I always wondered how Dad had gotten so much money, but you couldn't tell that we were a rich family unless you saw my shoes. Dad told me that it was inherited by his father, and I had believed him. I had never met Grandpa Christopher, but based on his portrait hanging in the hallway, he wasn't as humble as us.

Dad taught at the school, so he had a key to the gym whenever we needed it. And we used it quite a lot.

When it would rain, I would hit the treadmill. I spent days in that gym, working on my body. Even at the age of ten I knew that I had to make the most of my physical gifts, and I certainly did. I never got bulky, but my body was a cord of tight muscle, and I loved it.

I was jogging back to my house when my life changed forever.

The impact hit my shoulder first, and then the rest of my body. A massive black dog the size of an SUV growled on top of me, its claws gripping my arms and ripping through my biceps.. Not enough to kill, but enough to scar.

I gasped with pain, and my mind reeled. I screamed as the dog attempted to sink its teeth into my head, but I twisted away at the perfect time and it instead swallowed a mouthful of dirt.

I rolled as its grip loosened, and my right arm made contact with the ground through my torn-up shirt. I sucked in a breath as pain paralyzed my body and my limbs stiffened. Sinking my fingernails into the dirt, I tried to pull myself away, but the dog landed on top of me.

It took the air from my lungs, and I was reminded of when I first started running. It was my second week on the track, and I ran, and I was screaming with delight when I stumbled and fell at thirty miles an hour.

Dad has sprinted down the track, and at first I thought that everything was okay, and then I saw how twisted my wrist was. I had scrapes all over my body, but other than a broken wrist, everything really was okay. Dad had taken a deep breath and set my wrist before we went to the hospital, and I had to wear a cast for a few weeks before being able to move my wrist freely once again.

When the dog attacked me, I felt no adrenaline rush. Just a wave of pain.

The dog had clawed open my calf when my father had come out of nowhere, wearing his normal carefully pressed outfit. In fact, he looked just the same as he always did, save for the golden sword in his hand.

He cut the dog and his grip on the sword twisted, allowing the dog to whip around and make three shallow cuts on Dad's cheek, my blood still on his claws. It barked and Dad finished it off with a neat cut along its throat.

He threw away his sword before kneeling beside me. His eyes were pained and full of sorrow, and I knew it wasn't because of the crippling wounds in my arms, although he had taken off his shirt and was pressing it into the cuts.

I was sobbing now, tears chasing one another down my face, a twisted race to see who could reach my chin first. And my father had ditched his shirt, instead pressing his bare hands into the wounds on either arm, screwing up his face as he whispered to himself, chanting words silently until the blood had stopped and the only thing left were two thin, pale scars.

That was my first experience with the gods of Olympus, and I'd never forget it. Dad had hastily took me back to our house and stuffed a duffel bag with two changes of clothes, four-hundred dollars, and a long bronze knife.

We were driving to the little airport nearby when he began to speak, his words breaking and trembling.

"I'm so sorry, little girl," He cried, tears silently racing down his cheeks. "I wish I could explain. You're going to visit your family, okay?"

I nodded, still shaking and curled up in the back seat of the car. "What's happening?"

Dad shook his head. "It's much bigger than you and me, Jane. Much, much bigger. And you're not safe here. I wish I could tell you, Jane. I'm so, so freaking sorry."

There was something about his voice that made me shut up. He never cried, not even when he told me about my mother and got a faraway look in his eyes. Sure, his eyes had gotten misty and watered a bit, but he had never cried in front of me before.

Therefore, within the hour, I was in a little private airplane with a girl in silver who held my hand. She looked about sixteen, but her eyes were so much older.

I landed in New York and was at Camp Half-Blood that night. The girl had explained everything to me on the plane, telling me that my mother was a very important woman and that I was going to a safe place. That my mother was more than an important person, she was a goddess. The goddess Artemis.

Dad had raised me on Greek Mythology, telling me stories of Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Athena, Hephaestus, and all of the gods. Especially Artemis.

He would tell me about her divine beauty, how her auburn hair was so smooth and soft, how she was short but with a body like mine, not bulky but definitely fit. He spoke of her in a dreamy voice, his eyes becoming unfocused and a smile dancing on his handsome features. He spoke to me of his time hunting, how he felt so close to Artemis in those times, as if she was alive and next to him.

And now I realized that it wasn't as if she were alive. She was alive, and had hunted with my father.

I protested that she couldn't be my mother, than she was a virgin goddess. But the girl shook her head, a small smile on her face.

"No, darling. She had never loved a man before your father. That's why you can run so fast, that you can do the things that you do." She squeezed my hand reassuringly. "You are so strong, darling."

Strong I was. Strong enough to run a mile in under two minutes, strong enough to survive even momentarily a hellhound's bite.

But not strong enough to hold myself together.

I cried to the girl, who held me close. I cried for my father, who had been forced to separate himself from me. I cried for the old track that had been my best friend. And most of all, I cried for the mother I never had.