by J. Kenner
“I already looked,” Zoe said. “Gone.”
“Then how?”
Zoe shook her head. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I really wish I knew.”
Mordichai stepped back from the whale’s pool, certain Shamu was shooting him dirty looks. “I think he’s on to us,” he whispered, knowing the tiny microphone hidden in his molar would transmit his voice back to his father.
A burst of static, and then a rhythmic tap, tap, tap registered in his earpiece. The sound was crystal clear, and Mordi could imagine Hieronymous sitting behind his enormous desk, fingers drumming its surface in that damnably irritating manner he had.
“He?” Hieronymous asked. “If you are referring to that beast of a whale, then I don’t understand the cause for concern. What is he going to do? Perform tricks so fascinating that all the Council will gather to watch?”
Mordi licked his lips, his mouth unbearably dry. He glanced toward little Davy, tied up nice and tight and dangling from a wire strung over the whale’s pool. Before kidnapping the boy, Mordi had shifted, taking the form of a Sea World employee and then sneaking up behind Zoe and Deena to capture and stash them safely out of the way. Then he’d ushered the audience out of the stands, claiming Shamu was going to have to miss this performance.
Next, Hieronymous had kicked up the tempo of the storm, using the vile weather to keep the patrons in the rest of the park occupied while Mordi did his father’s dirty work and trussed Davy up like a turkey.
Despite Davy’s predicament, the boy wasn’t crying. Good for him. Mordi always had liked the kid, and now he felt even more affinity. After all, Davy was a halfling, just like Mordi himself—only Davy didn’t know it yet. Being a halfling could be tough. Worse, the poor kid was about to be kidnapped, holed up in one of Hieronymous’s sterile “guest” rooms, and scared out of his wits. He wouldn’t enjoy that.
Lane, the boy’s mother, wasn’t going to be happy about the arrangement either. Too bad. Mordi rather liked her. They’d had their little run-ins, but Mordi liked to think she’d forgiven him.
He sighed, then addressed his father once again. “I’m just not certain this is the best—”
“Not certain? Not certain?” Hieronymous’s howl blasted Mordi’s eardrum. “Did you hear that, Clyde? My son isn’t certain.”
Mordi cringed as he imagined his father drawing himself up to his full height and stomping about his Manhattan penthouse apartment. Clyde, his father’s Chief of Guards, would be stomping right along behind him.
“My offspring. Fruit of my loins. And he’s not certain.”
In the background, Mordi could hear Clyde snicker and add, “He is a halfling, sir.”
“A fact I’m well aware of,” Hieronymous answered. The derision in his voice was inescapable. “He is also, however, my offspring. And one must take what one can get.”
Mordi straightened, telling himself that his father’s cruel words didn’t matter. Maybe once, a long time ago, Hieronymous’s opinion could have hurt him, but not anymore. Not anymore.
He took a deep breath for courage. “I just meant that the timing might not be right. We haven’t had a chance to plan, to consider all the variables.” And he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to check in with Zephron and update him.
Sometimes, being a mole was very, very complicated.
“This boy is the key to my plan,” Hieronymous snapped. “I’ve been observing him, biding my time, for weeks now. And I consider it a stroke of supreme good fortune that I learned the boy would be here today. And, then, to learn this morning that the Council has ordered the boy’s father to whisk the little tyke away to boarding school . . .” He trailed off, and Mordi imagined his father’s icy smile, the evil twisting of his hands. “I couldn’t have asked for a better situation.”
“But if you only want Davy, why don’t I just grab him and run? Why go to all this trouble?” He gestured toward the child dangling above the water, knowing Hieronymous could see him. The Outcast’s penthouse apartment was lined with monitors. One was always devoted to some financial program, but the remaining eleven varied from surveillance to entertainment. Often Hieronymous indulged in a variety of films. Superman II was his favorite; he identified with Zod. And he had other films he would watch repeatedly. But today, of course, Mordi was certain at least one monitor displayed this scene at Sea World—courtesy of Hieronymous’s skill at illegally tapping into Council-controlled satellites.
“Fool,” Hieronymous hissed, and behind him Clyde snickered. “Why simply take the child when we have the opportunity to do so much more?”
“More?” Mordi inquired, almost afraid to ask.
Hieronymous hissed. “I am surrounded by unimaginative idiots.” He shook his head. “I will explain only once. Do try to follow.”
Mordi gritted his teeth but remained silent. After almost thirty years, he’d learned when to keep his mouth closed.
“All the pieces have come together. I will acquire the boy, of course, but in doing so, I will ensure that the Council—and the mortal world—believes it is his father who absconded with the little brat.”
Mordi nodded. He understood. Jason had escaped from Hieronymous’s clutches, and Daddy Dearest was definitely one to hold a grudge. “But the Council will never believe Jason took his own son,” he said.
“Nonsense. Your shapeshifting abilities will ensure the success of my plan. At least in that regard you are good for something.”
Mordi’s jaw clenched against the all-too-familiar insult.
“The mortals cannot see the boy’s current predicament,” Hieronymous continued. “And with the evidence we leave, the MLO will put a spin on the incident so that most mortals will believe this was a child kidnapped by his father. This will be a simple child-custody abduction, a dispute so common among members of that inferior breed.”
Mordi nodded. His father was right; no matter what actually went on at the park, the Mortal-Protector Liaison Office would put a spin on it for the mortal press. The press liaisons at the MLO were damn good at their job, too. They had to be. Heck, they’d been covering up Protector activity—and Outcast uprisings—for years. So far at least, the bulk of the mortal population was none the wiser—except, of course, for the readers of the National Enquirer, whom no one believed anyway.
“But,” Hieronymous continued, “the Council will know the ‘truth.’ They will see a video replay, since I remotely reprogrammed the recording system on their North American satellite. They will see Jason taking his child. They will believe he did it so that he can thumb his nose at the Council. Thumb his nose at propriety itself.”
“I understand,” Mordi said. And he did. His father’s plan was nefarious. As usual. When the man put one of his plots into motion, he always pulled out all the stops.
Of all the Outcasts in the world, Hieronymous was the most ambitious. He wasn’t content to sit in exile; he wanted to crush both mortals and the Council. He wanted to be supreme ruler, and his enthusiasm was magnetic, drawing other Outcasts to him like flies to honey.
Mordi knew better than any just how compelling his father could be.
Hieronymous continued, “As I said, the plan is perfect. Not only will I get the boy; the Council will think our young Jason has defied them and pledged his allegiance to me.” He chuckled, a low, ominous sound.
Mordi had no idea why his father was so intent on destroying Jason. True, the Protector had escaped from one of his father’s infamous cells, but others had escaped Hieronymous’s clutches before. And yet Mordichai had never seen Hieronymous pursue his quarry with such vengefulness. Something else was going on, something personal, and Mordi had no idea what it was.
Under the circumstances, though, it didn’t matter. At the moment, he didn’t have any choice but to go along with his father’s plan. To do otherwise would blow his cover. And while Mordi didn’t have any clue why Hieronymous wanted the boy, one thing was certain: whatever the reason, it couldn’t possibly be good.
Jason fran
tically searched the park, but he couldn’t find any sign of his son. He wanted to leap from the tower, to search, to turn over leaves and ransack buildings until he found the boy, but he couldn’t. Right now, the lives of about fifteen people trapped in the Sky Tower were in his hands.
Beneath him, the tower pitched and swayed with the raging storm, and the trapped mortals screamed again.
In one fluid motion, he dove from the Tower, hoping like heck that the propulsion properties of his cloak hadn’t short-circuited when the invisibility feature had gone kablooey.
They hadn’t, and he gathered speed, zipping toward the lagoon, the closest body of water he could find.
If this were a movie, he’d simply hover beneath the Sky Tower, the bulk of the structure’s weight resting in one hand while he fought off an army of bad guys with his other. Not likely. He was strong, but not that strong. Maybe a few Protectors could pull off a stunt like that, but not him. No, his powers were subtler. He liked to think of them as classier. But he could still get the job done.
He broke the surface of the lagoon in a perfectly executed dive, the familiar feel of the water boosting his confidence. Almost immediately he flipped, turning 180 degrees until he was aimed back toward the surface. Without even pausing, he pushed off from the lagoon’s sandy bottom to spring up and out of the water, determining his plan of attack as he did.
When he surfaced, the tower was listing even more to the left, pressed down further by the weight of several wide-eyed mortals who’d shifted to watch his plunge into the water. A sharp, cracking noise ripped the air; this time not thunder but the sound of metal twisting and breaking. A cacophony of sounds followed, topped by the frightened screams of the mortals in the tower.
Jason tuned out the noise, hearing nothing except the sounds of the water in which he dipped his fingers, dragging his hand through the storm-roughened surface of the lagoon. He took a deep breath, knowing he couldn’t hurry the process, his body tense nonetheless. Around his fingers, the water molecules shifted, spinning and humming as they conformed to his will.
Almost . . .
The structure groaned, the noise mimicking a cry of human pain.
Almost . . .
Jason held his breath.
Just a little more . . .
In front of him, the Sky Tower gave one last gasp of protest and lost its valiant fight. Down it went, plunging toward the solid earth below.
Now!
With lightning speed Jason drew up his hand, then splayed it sideways, sending a solid stream of water shooting out from the lagoon toward the falling tower. The timing was perfect and, with a few yards to spare, the stream slipped under the tower, cushioning its landing. Slowly the water melted away. Soon it would dissolve completely, leaving the tower to settle gently on the ground.
The mortals inside had grown surprisingly calm. Instead of screaming or fainting, most were simply goggle-eyed, staring and pointing at their salvation as if they’d never seen anything like it. Jason supposed that was true. Water rarely solidified and moved of its own accord. And even if the adults had watched James Cameron’s The Abyss—Jason’s all-time favorite movie—chances were they’d never actually seen a solid column of water up close and personal.
He suppressed a grin, pleased with his solution: subtle and classy, if a little bit wet.
Of course, the mortals were going to ask questions, but the MLO would put a good spin on his work. A freak miniature tidal wave, maybe? And that was their problem, not his. Right now he needed to go check out the rest of the park.
Jason frowned, suddenly realizing that the storm had ceased. The sky was perfectly blue, not a single cloud marring it.
Thank Zeus, he thought, then immediately cringed, realizing he had nothing to be thankful for. There was only one reason for the storm to have ended so abruptly, and it wasn’t good: while Jason was occupied with the Tower, Hieronymous had gotten what he’d come for.
Damn. Where in Hades was his backup? If he’d had some support, maybe they could have saved the mortals and prevented Hieronymous from finding the mysterious talisman he’d sought. As it was, Sea World was eerily quiet, so Hieronymous had probably gotten what he’d come for.
Jason’s stomach tightened as he remembered Davy. His boy was somewhere in the park. And even if squashing Davy wasn’t on Hieronymous’s agenda, Jason was certain that the Outcast leader would have no qualms whatsoever about doing so if the opportunity presented itself.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Jason leaped—in such a hurry to get to his son that he didn’t even check to make sure his cloak was still functional. Fortunately, it was. He adjusted its controls, and power surged around him, shooting him forward, across the park toward Shamu’s theater. As he soared over the building at the back of the enclosure, the pool came into full view—and so did Davy.
Jason shuddered. His father had outdone himself this time. Davy was strung up above the pool, tightly bound with sturdy white rope. The only thing missing from the horrifying picture was sharks swimming below—though that, considering Jason was on friendly terms with all the sharks in the park, could have come in handy.
But, no; the water was clear with the exception of the lovable orca Shamu pinioned to the bottom of his pool by some particularly strong-looking cables.
Jason exhaled, fighting to stay calm and professional. But it was hard. Hieronymous had both his son and his friend. Both were okay for the moment, but one of the first things they taught young Protectors was that when evil madmen string up children above a deep pool of water, it’s rarely for a nice reason.
In this case, of course, Jason knew the reason: revenge. This was retribution against him for not joining forces with his father.
His gut tightened, his hand clenching in anticipation of his own revenge. One way or another, he would make Hieronymous pay. And the more Hieronymous fought back, the worse it would be for him in the end.
Jason took two steadying breaths, focusing on the immediate problem of rescuing his son and Shamu. What happened? he called to the whale.
No answer.
Jason swallowed, fearing the worst. Unlike some species, orcas didn’t stay down for long, usually maxing out at fifteen or so minutes. And orcas needed to be conscious to breathe. If Shamu had been knocked out . . .
I’m okay. The whale’s voice was weak from under the water but understandable. But I’m trapped.
What happened? Who did this? Is Hieronymous here? Jason spewed out his questions machine-gun style, one right after the other.
Someone else . . .
Who? Jason looked around wildly. Where is he?
Dunno. He was here, and then he was gone. Confusion filled the whale’s voice. He said something about me being on to him, and then he talked to himself about how this wasn’t the right time; then the next thing I knew, those squid guys were strapping me to the bottom of the pool.
Jason grimaced. Henchmen. He’d suspected that they’d be here doing Hieronymous’s bidding. The slimy, slithery creatures were a pain, but he could handle them.
Protectors knew the truth about what mortals thought was only a bedtime story: creepy, crawly creatures really did roam the earth, often disguised as humans. For centuries, the Council had been tasked with locking in ancient catacombs those things that went bump in the night. When released, though, these “Henchmen” were loyal to a fault. And Hieronymous had used them on more than one occasion.
I’ll get you out of there, Jason promised, still not sure exactly how to do so without endangering the whale or his son. There was, after all, only one of him. And this was probably a trap. From what Shamu said, there was at least one Outcast and two Henchmen. Probably more.
From his perch atop the staff dressing room, Jason cursed, his mind going a million miles a minute. How could he do this?
A bolt of lightning streaked across the perfectly clear sky, followed by a clap of thunder so close it shook the stands. Jason’s eyes went to the stage at the front of the orca’
s pool. There, a man had appeared front and center, his back to Jason.
Jason noted the invisibility cloak now crumpled at the man’s feet, and he tightened his jaw, desperate to attack—but not so desperate that he forgot his training. Until he either understood the situation or assessed that Davy or Shamu had to be saved immediately, he was going to wait and watch. Most likely, the Outcast would make a mistake he could use to his advantage. He ducked down, flattening himself on the rooftop. His lack of his own invisibility cloak was an irritation; hopefully, it wouldn’t become a liability.
The masked man nodded toward Davy, his polite gesture to the boy contrasting his decidedly evil intentions. “Please forgive the pyrotechnics,” he said, his voice polished and proper, with the hint of an accent. “They were necessary to serve my purpose.”
Definitely not Hieronymous, but . . . the voice was somehow familiar. Clearly, Hieronymous had directed one of his Outcast flunkies to this task, while the big dog himself called the shots from somewhere else. Jason snorted; that was just like the H-man. Never quite willing to get his own hands dirty. That was why he was still allowed to roam freely, because there was never enough evidence to imprison him.
“Not that you care about my motives, of course,” the masked Outcast said. “But there are other ears listening and other eyes watching. I’m betting on it.” As he spoke, his hand drifted to his ear, and he nodded ever so slightly.
Jason frowned, wondering what the Outcast was up to. The reference to other eyes and ears had to mean the Council; even if they weren’t monitoring at the moment, this whole afternoon would be played back from the recordings the Council’s satellites made on a daily basis.