Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  Reading mortals was forbidden, too, and the regulations spelled out specific censures for any mind-reading Protector caught in the act. Izzy knew she shouldn’t have meddled in Burt and Janey’s romance, but some rules were meant to be broken. And considering how happy Burt now seemed, she could hardly regret her breach of protocol.

  Her finger slid over the trackball as she scrolled through the boards, looking for a reference to herself. Nothing. Well, good. Maybe nobody was gossiping about her. After all, her skill had earned her the promotion. Not her family connections.

  She repeated the thought, trying to make herself believe it. She knew she was good; knew her talents were real. Unfortunately, that didn’t necessarily mean that she should have been admitted to the Council in the first place.

  No.

  She pushed the familiar doubt from her mind. So what if she’d received special dispensation? All halfling applications were scrutinized, and they’d let her in because she was good—not because the High Elder happened to be her uncle.

  Besides, that had been a long time ago. She’d pulled her own weight since then, and this promotion was no exception. She was going to ace this job, and she was going to prove to one and all that her uncle’s confidence was justified.

  No matter what, she’d—

  “Fire! Fire!” The unfamiliar voice filtered through her mishmash of thoughts, and she shot to her feet, realizing that the banging and pounding had stopped, replaced by an ominous silence. Her father!

  Jumping Jupiter, was he okay? What had he done now?

  She raced to the back door and threw it open, revealing a stocky little man who vaguely resembled a hamster. She had no idea who he was, and she really didn’t care. “Fire? Where?”

  “Down there!” He stabbed at the air, pointing up rather than down, but it didn’t matter. Izzy could see gray puffs of smoke rising into the air. The house was built into a hill and, as she leaned over the railing for a view of the basement window, there was a horrible clatter as the window blew out in a flurry of glass and flames.

  “Daddy!” Izzy shrieked. Without thinking about the hamstery stranger, she bounded over the railing, jumping the two stories to the hard and dusty ground. She landed in a crouch, dropped into a roll, then sprang to her feet, never missing a step as she raced for the door.

  She might not fight bad guys in the field, but at the moment her semi-rusty Protector skills were serving her just fine, thank you very much.

  As she reached the now-decimated basement window, she heard the sound of someone slipping and sliding down the craggy slope behind her. Hamster-man, no doubt.

  She didn’t bother to see if her guess was right. Just waved away the dust and smoke and peered inside the workshop.

  She’d expected a huge conflagration. Instead, she saw a lot of smoke, some charred feathers, and other unrecognizable bits of flotsam and jetsam smoldering in the various corners. Glass bottles, plastic flasks, screws, nails, wires of all colors. Even a collection of deep purple fountain pens, scattered like Pick-up Sticks in a puddle of green goo.

  And, thank goodness, her father was there, too, huddled in the corner, worrying at a large metal box with an oversized screwdriver. His white hair stood straight out in all directions, and black streaks marred his face, giving him the appearance of a rather baffled, and somewhat incompetent, soldier in camouflage.

  As far as Izzy could tell, he hadn’t yet seen her. For that matter, he didn’t even seem to realize there’d been a fire. Much less that bits of trash were still smoldering around him.

  “Daddy!”

  He looked up, blinked owlishly behind his thick glasses, and then smiled. “Izzy, my girl, I think I’ve finally got it!”

  “Got it?” She swiveled, her gaze taking in the workroom that looked more or less like the aftermath of a tornado. “Got what?”

  “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Far too complicated to go into now.” He climbed to his feet and started dusting himself off, for the first time squinting around the room. “Hmmmph. Going to have to find something less flammable than gunpowder for the starting reaction, that’s for sure.”

  He wasn’t talking to her, and so Izzy just watched as her father patted himself down.

  “Pencils, notes. Ah, yes. Here. Now then.” He frowned.

  “Where are my glasses?” He swiveled, his gaze sweeping in an arc over the floor.

  “Daddy . . .”

  “Just a minute, sweetie. I’m looking for my glasses.”

  “They’re on your head, Daddy.”

  “They are?” He looked cross-eyed, obviously focusing on the bridge piece. “So they are!”

  She shook her head, fighting a smile. Her father was a dear, and not really that absentminded. He just had a tendency to lose himself in his work. After two or three hours away from the basement, he’d be good as new.

  “Come on, Daddy. Let’s make sure this fire is out and then head upstairs. I’ll fix you lunch, and you can tell me what happened.”

  “Oh, no, no. I couldn’t go now. I’m right on the verge!” Izzy looked dubiously at the collection of wires and circuits on his worktable. “Uh. Yeah.”

  “It’s just a matter of tweaking the design, so I don’t overload the transmitter or the receivers. Oh, Mr. B is going to be delighted. Just delighted!” He actually clapped his hands together, and Izzy couldn’t help but grin.

  “Who’s Mr. B?” she asked.

  “Oh, my dear, you’re going to love him. He’s been an inspiration. An absolute inspiration. We’ve been working together now for a year, and I swear, the man has insight into my work that’s simply—”

  “Help! Get it away from me! Help!”

  “Oh, my goodness gracious, the servo-bot!” her father cried.

  Izzy swung around in time to see what she’d thought was a pile of tin cans and rubbish grab Hamster-man. Apparently the thing was some sort of robot, and now it stood tall, tin-can head twisting this way and that, as one hinged arm swung upward, Hamster-man dangling from a viselike grip that served as a hand.

  “Help me! Put me down!”

  The servo-bot (whatever the heck that was) didn’t seem inclined to cooperate. Instead of releasing the poor man, it simply started spinning—going round and round on the roller-skate wheels that served as feet—while its poor prisoner screamed and screamed for the metallic creation to put him down.

  “No, no,” her father shouted. “Mr. Tucker, please don’t speak. The voice reactor node is damaged. The bot thinks you’re saying ‘around.’ ”

  “I am not,” cried the little man. “Put me down!”

  But that just got the bot riled up some more, and around and around he turned, while Mr. Tucker’s complexion shifted through various shades of green.

  “Daddy!” Izzy cried. “Where’s the control? Shut that thing off before Mr. Tucker gets hurt.” Even as she spoke, she was racing to the far side of the room, toward the spinning robot and the flailing Mr. Tucker. Ideally, she’d use her innate Protector power of levitation to lift the robot off the floor and stop him from spinning. Then she could get Mr. Tucker loose before putting the robot safely out of harm’s way.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have any innate Protector power of levitation. That was her dirty little stigma—the fact that she’d been admitted to the Council even though, as a Protector, she was truly subpar, unable to pass an examination of even the most rudimentary Protector skills.

  “It’s not functioning,” her father yelled from behind her. “Ah, blasted thing!” She could hear him whacking the controls against something hard, curses flying from his lips.

  In front of her, the bot was still spinning and Mr. Tucker’s eyes were beginning to bulge.

  Well, she might not be an ace at levitation, but she still had strength and agility in her repertoire, and it was time to put them to good use. But as she started to jump into the fray, the bot’s head began to spark, the little flashes dancing around his head like lightning bugs.

  “The C
PU,” her father hollered. “It’s flammable. One of those sparks catches, and—”

  Kabloom!

  The bot’s head shot straight off, but losing his head didn’t mean losing his grip, and the now headless and flaming robot was still holding tight to Mr. Tucker.

  “That’s just the beginning,” her dad cried, still banging away at the remote. “Oh, dear, oh dear, where did I put that fire extinguisher?”

  Just the beginning? And then Izzy realized. The bot was writhing in a mass of electricity, shaking as if being attacked by a thousand electric eels. The entire thing was going to blow, and if the force of the first explosion was any indication, Mr. Tucker was going to be in serious trouble when the even more massive robot torso lit up like a Roman candle.

  With no time to waste, Izzy stood stock-still in the middle of the room, ignoring all the sound, and especially ignoring Mr. Tucker’s screams to please get him down now. She couldn’t afford the distraction. Couldn’t afford to mess up. She had one shot and one shot only.

  And then she heard it. A faint electrical crackle as the CPU ignited. She wasn’t ready—hadn’t let her power fully fill her—but hopefully she was ready enough.

  With one quick movement, she lashed out, sending a shower of icy sparks flying from her fingertips. Her aim was dead-on . . . and her timing was perfect. Just as the bot started to explode, Izzy’s ice storm enveloped it, essentially dousing the flames and leaving nothing but the gentle sizzle of steam rising to fill the room.

  “I . . . what . . . who . . . help . . .” Mr. Tucker’s weak cries filtered through the haze, and Izzy picked her way to him then pried open the bot’s viselike hands so that the little man could fall, uninjured, to the ground.

  “Oh, good job, Izzy.” Her father rushed up behind her, clapping his hands. Then he reached down and helped Mr. Tucker to his feet, and began shaking the little man’s hand vigorously. “Mr. Tucker. So very, very good to finally meet you. As you can see, things can get a little out of control here in the lab. But that’s the exciting life of an inventor.”

  “I, yes. Yes, I see that.” Mr. Tucker squinted at him. “You are Harold Frost?”

  “Of course. Of course. And this is my daughter, Izzy.”

  She wiggled her fingers in a little wave. “Hello.”

  “But who . . . how?”

  “Another one of my inventions,” Harold lied. “Izzy’s testing my, um, my . . .”

  “Freezing beam,” Izzy said helpfully. “Top secret. Government. Very hush-hush. Do keep it quiet.”

  Mr. Tucker nodded, looking absurdly proud to have been rescued by a top secret device. “Of course. Of course. But what a pity it’s a secret. Something like this would liven up the speech considerably.”

  Izzy frowned. “Speech?” She looked between her dad and Mr. Tucker, finally settling on the newcomer, who smelled of self-importance. “Who are you?”

  “Why, I’m here to interview your father, of course. The ceremony is just days away!”

  “Ceremony?”

  “But of course. Your father is receiving the prestigious Thomas Edison Award from the North American Inventors’ Association. Of course there will be a ceremony. In Manhattan, no less. The chairman asked me to speak to your father and then write a speech for the presentation.”

  “Daddy!” Izzy threw her arms around her father, who managed to hug her back with equal enthusiasm while still maintaining a humble aura.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, wishing her skills worked on her father so that she could simply see into his soul and share his joy. Her entire life, her father had been trying to make something out of himself and his inventions. She knew the last year had been really good for him, but she’d had no idea he’d done so well. And to now be receiving such a prestigious award, it was . . . well: “It’s fabulous, Daddy. I just can’t believe it.”

  “I wanted to tell you, sweetie. But I thought it would be more fun to surprise you. No one knows. Just me and Mr. B.” She frowned. That was the second time her father had mentioned this person, and she had no idea who he was.

  Mr. Tucker apparently wasn’t at a similar loss. “Ah, yes.” He pulled a notepad out of his front pocket and flipped a few pages. “Your mysterious benefactor.”

  “Not so mysterious,” Harold said. “More inspirational.”

  “Who?” Izzy asked.

  “About a year ago, I met the most remarkable man,” her father said. He gestured toward the door, then started walking that way, leaving the broken remains of the bot and his other experiments behind. “Let’s go have a spot of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Daddy!” Izzy stayed rooted to the spot. “Just tell me now.”

  Her father adjusted his glasses. “Well, there’s not much to tell. He’s provided me with some financial backing, which, as you know,” he said, turning to Mr. Tucker, “is so very important.” He turned back to face Izzy. “But mostly he provided me with a sounding board. Someone to discuss my theories with. He always said he wasn’t an inventor himself, but I don’t believe him. The man has a remarkable head on his shoulders. Remarkable.”

  She was still confused. “So, this man just popped in and gave you money? Why?”

  “Well, because he supports my work, of course.” Her father grinned. “And he’s commissioned me to invent a few things for him, too.”

  “Things? What things?”

  “Oh, this and that.” Her father waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that Mr. Black has been a wonderful support.” He turned back to Mr. Tucker. “I’d have to credit his inspiration on equal par with my daughter’s support. Be sure and mention both of them in that speech, will you?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Tucker said, taking notes furiously. “And you’ll need to write a speech, too. The members will want to hear from you after you’ve accepted the statue.”

  “A speech,” her father murmured, practically preening. Izzy barely noticed. Her brain had stopped back when her father had said two nerve-wracking little words—Mr. Black.

  “Daddy?” she asked, then realized that her throat hadn’t worked quite properly. She tried again. “Daddy?”

  “Hmmm?” He and Mr. Tucker had moved a few feet closer to the door, and now they stopped and looked back at her. “Yes, dear?”

  “Uh, this Mr. Black. Is he . . . that is, do you know his first name?”

  “Oh, of course,” her father said. He turned back to Mr. Tucker. “But that reminds me. He insists on being an anonymous benefactor, so you’ll have to call him Mr. B in the speech. Not Mr. Black.”

  “Mr. B,” Mr. Tucker said, scribbling furiously. “Right.” They started walking again.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. His name. Fascinating, really. It’s Hieronymous. You hardly ever hear a name like that, you know.”

  No, Izzy thought, as her blood ran cold. She didn’t suppose mortals did hear a name like that very often.

  She did, though. Because Hieronymous was the most notorious Outcast of the whole Protector race.

  And for some reason, Hieronymous Black was helping her father.

  She had no idea what was really going on, but she did know one thing—whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  2

  Mordichai perched on top of the Empire State Building. The wind had kicked up, and even now in the middle of August, the air this high was chilled. Mordi hardly noticed, though. His favorite propulsion and invisibility cloak was wrapped tight around his shoulders, a barrier against the elements and a shield against prying eyes.

  Of course, this high the only prying eyes would be the tourists with their zoom lenses peering straight up or passengers in low-flying aircraft looking to see if King Kong was home. For a moment, he amused himself by picturing the faces of those passengers if he decided to shape-shift into the giant ape, hang on to the building’s spire, and beat his chest.

  He bit back a grin. Fun to think about, but probably a little too flamboyant for a stakeou
t. Better to sit quietly and invisibly up here and wait for his quarry to appear below.

  And so he waited. And waited. And waited some more. He was thrilled to no longer be on probation, to be a full-fledged 100-percent member of the Council. But he had to admit that on some days a life of legitimacy could be exceedingly dull.

  Not that Mordi had any regrets. He didn’t. He’d walked away from his father and from the Outcast life, and he wasn’t about to look back. A little tedium was worth the price for knowing that now, finally, he was doing the right thing. And besides, the moments of tedium were usually counterbalanced by unexpected flurries of pure adrenal excitement.

  He stifled a yawn. At the moment, some of that excitement would be most welcome.

  Forcing himself to focus, he once again aimed his binocs at the street below. There’d been many a time when he’d envied his cousin Zoe, whose superpowers included super senses, but never more so than times like these, when he was on a stakeout and could really, really use super hearing or super vision.

  Lacking either, he instead adjusted the high-powered binocs, aiming them at the street. For three days, he’d been following Clyde, an Outcast who was wanted by the Council for violating not only the strict prohibition against Outcasts using their powers, but also for seeking to inflict harm on a mortal.

  Several mortals, actually. Before he went on the lam, Clyde had been Hieronymous Black’s right-hand man, doing much of the bigwig Outcast’s dirty work.

  It was Hieronymous’s firm opinion that mortals were a substandard race, and that Protectors who sought to protect them were short-sighted and foolish. In Hieronymous’s mind, Protectors were like gods, and those measly little mortals should bend to his will. If the mortals didn’t like that plan . . . well, then too bad. Hieronymous would have no trouble at all simply exterminating their entire race.

  Mordi stifled a shudder, recalling some of Hieronymous’s more extreme plots. So many times the brilliant Outcast had almost succeeded. Scary, really. And now, with the Council and the mortal governments renegotiating the Secret Mortal-Protector Treaty of 1970 . . . well, Mordi supposed it was a good thing that mortals didn’t know just how many times they’d come that close to extinction or enslavement. If mortals knew how much some Outcasts had it in for them, and how possible it was that any Protector might turn Outcast, they’d probably be supremely leery about signing a treaty with any of super blood—even the good guys.