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

by J. Kenner

Okay. She really needed to get herself under control here.

  One more deep breath.

  Then another.

  Okay. Okay. Yes. Right. Things were improving. Her skin wasn’t quite so clammy, her breathing was normal, and her heart was no longer racing.

  Try again.

  Yes, she was going to be underground, but the secret Protector headquarters under the Washington Monument had existed without incident since the 1970s. Certainly it would manage to hang in there a few more years.

  Yes, the air was circulated and the room was window-less, but the staff was comprised primarily of superheroes. If the fans quit turning, she was quite certain that at least one staff member could bore through the earth and concrete and lead them all to safety.

  Yes, she had horrible claustrophobia, but she’d been fighting it for years, and she could fight it again today. She’d never once heard of a Protector with a debilitating phobia, and Izzy didn’t intend to be the first. She took enough ribbing for being a halfling, and even more for being raised by a mortal father who hadn’t even introduced her to her heritage through her mother until junior high.

  And, of course, there was that whole business about the Council accepting her halfling application even though she’d never mastered levitation.

  Determined, she lifted her chin. She’d been tormented enough. She had no intention of giving her colleagues any additional ammunition by showing that she was scared of an elevator. She’d never lost her cool at the office, and she didn’t intend to start now.

  By the time the metal box ground to a halt and she stepped out into the polished lobby of the Venerate Council’s D.C. headquarters, Izzy had completely pulled herself together. The steel doors of the elevator were polished to a shine, and she caught her own reflection. Shoulders back, spine straight. Suit perfectly pressed. Eyes clear and focused. Hair swept away from her face and pinned up in a no-muss/no-fuss style. All in all, the picture of professionalism.

  Footfalls clattered on the marble floor, and a young Protector rounded the corner, clipboard held in front of him like a shield. “Oh, good. You’re here. Right on time. Shall we? Elder Bilius is ready for you.”

  “Excellent,” she said, lifting her chin and making sure to put the appropriate note of authority in her voice. “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  The guide straightened, and from his scent she could tell that he was used to responding to authority—and that now he saw her in that light. Good.

  He turned briskly and led the way, marching down the hall with purpose. Izzy followed, her footfalls echoing as they passed through hallways lined with file cabinets and cubicles, each cubicle staffed by a mortal busy entering information into the vast Protector databases. There were dozens of mortals working as salaried employees of the Council (the health insurance was an especially nice perk). Other mortals worked with the Council on a project-by-project basis, most often employed by the Mortal-Protector Liaison Office to concoct some sort of cover story to keep all Protectors’ activities secret.

  Did a battle break out at Sea World, with Outcasts and Protectors streaking through the sky, throwing fire and talking with the cetaceans? Did a Protector leap from a Los Angeles skyscraper, then rescue a small boy from wandering into oncoming traffic? No problem. The MLO’s mortal stringer would figure out a plausible explanation. And by the time the story was run in every major newspaper, even the eyewitnesses would begin to think they misremembered.

  Needless to say, being a spin doctor for the MLO was a highly popular job.

  She could use one of the spin doctors’ talents now, that was for sure. As it was, she still hadn’t decided what to do about the little bombshell her father had let drop yesterday.

  He was actually working with Hieronymous Black!

  She’d followed him and Mr. Tucker back into the house, asking just enough innocuous questions to confirm that her father had no idea that Hieronymous was a Protector, much less that he was an Outcast, currently wanted by the Council as a result of a lifetime of heinous acts culminating most recently in the kidnapping of a halfling child.

  No, all her dad knew was that the man had money (Hieronymous did) and that he had great insight into her father’s inventions (Hieronymous was big into inventing things).

  She’d almost opened her mouth right then to tell her father just who Hieronymous was. After all, her father had a right to know that he’d been working with villainous scum determined to end the mortal race. But in the end, she hadn’t said a word. Right as she’d opened her mouth, Mr. Tucker had started his spiel about the success of her dad’s newest inventions, and how honored they were to name him Inventor of the Year after he’d spent a lifetime struggling, and her father’s eyes had sparkled and he’d held Izzy’s hand and squeezed.

  Her powers might not work on her father, but at that moment, she hardly needed them. This was what her father had been living for. How could she take that away from him?

  She couldn’t. She’d opened her mouth—once, twice, even three times—but no words had come out. Nothing except congratulations.

  “Zephron will be in right after your meeting with Elder Bilius,” the guide said.

  Izzy’s head snapped up in surprise, but she only nodded curtly, taking care to make sure her expression held no hint that her mind had wandered . . . or that she was now worried. She’d had no idea her uncle was coming by. Did he already know about her father?

  The guide was still standing there, as if he was expecting some sort of reaction from her. She waved her hand in a manner she hoped looked unconcerned, as if he’d just delivered old news and he should really quit boring her. “I thought I asked you to hurry,” she said, just a teensy bit amazed that she managed to pull off an authoritarian tone. She really was getting good at this professional-woman-on-the-go thing.

  His face flushed and he hurried off. She followed, her mind occupied by the irony of her current situation. Here she was playing the totally together counselor when the truth was, she could be Outcast at any moment.

  Her stomach twisted with the thought, and she wanted to go home and hide, the covers pulled high over her head. But there was no escaping the truth. Her father had entered into a commercial arrangement with a known Outcast . . . and Izzy was aware of the situation. Regulations were crystal clear. Failure to immediately report such Outcast intervention in mortal affairs was an outcastable offense.

  She had to report it.

  But reporting it would devastate her father.

  Her stomach twisted some more and the hall seemed suddenly very cramped.

  The guard stopped, and Izzy almost plowed into his back, her professional façade starting to falter. “Conference room,” he said, looking at her with a slightly furrowed brow. “Elder Bilius should be here soon.”

  “Right.” She nodded in dismissal. “Thank you for the escort.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, but in the end he simply left, pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as she heard the latch click, she relaxed, rolling her shoulders and glancing around the austere room dominated by a huge mahogany table surrounded by twelve chairs. The walls were bare, painted stark white and seeming to reflect back the overly bright lights, giving the conference room an other-worldy quality, as if its occupants had stepped into a cloud.

  She’d been here twice before, and each time the room had intimidated the hell out of her. The first time, she’d been thirteen, a gawky halfling doing nothing more than visiting a newly discovered relative, to say nothing of a newly discovered heritage.

  The second time, she’d been less self-conscious and certainly less confused, but the intimidation factor had still been there. She’d been twenty-five, and the purpose of her visit was to go over her halfling application for admission to the Council. Zephron had told her she’d been accepted despite her pathetic failings, and the bright light of the room had seemed like the light of a hundred angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus in perfect har
mony.

  That had been an amazing day. She’d been so certain that her application would be rejected. But Zephron had brushed off her doubts and quelled her feelings of inadequacy, telling his niece simply that her skills were needed.

  Needed. She’d practically preened. To be part of the Venerate Council: that esteemed, secret organization dedicated to protecting mortals and making the world a better place. From the moment she’d learned of her heritage, that had been all she’d ever wanted. She’d fought hard, worked hard, and she’d gotten in. Her peers might turn up their noses and whisper of nepotism, but Izzy knew that she’d worked her tush off.

  She deserved to be on the Council. She deserved her job. And she couldn’t muck it all up by failing to disclose a known incident of Outcast Intervention in Mortal Affairs.

  She had to speak up. Right here. Right now.

  She knew that, and yet . . .

  Frowning, she circled the table, her arm outstretched so that her fingertips brushed the polished surface of the walls. Her hands were probably leaving fingerprints, but she didn’t care. For that matter, she barely realized what she was doing; she was too caught up in the memory of her father. In the recollection of that light in his eyes.

  It was a light she rarely saw, and she would do anything to make sure it didn’t fade. Including staying quiet.

  Breaking a rule, yes. But hopefully she wouldn’t get caught. After all, it was for a very good cause.

  And she’d be careful. She’d keep a sharp eye on her father. If it looked like Hieronymous was up to any nefarious activities, then she’d report him and simply say she’d just found out.

  Until then . . . well, so help her, she was going to keep silent. If that’s what it took for the light to continue to burn in her father’s eyes, then she’d stay quiet forever.

  The door opened and Bilius strode in, a forest-green cape billowing behind him as he walked. He didn’t look at her, merely perused a tablet held in front of him. Izzy stood on tiptoes, trying to appear unobtrusive, but also trying to see what the document said.

  She couldn’t see a thing.

  He snapped the tablet down to his side and looked at her, his pale gray eyes seeming to absorb the light in the room. His face was harsh, all lines and angles, and she had to remind herself to stand up straight and not cower like a little girl.

  “I want you to know I did not support the decision to promote you,” he said without preamble.

  “Oh.” She reached out, steadying herself against the wall. She blinked, fast and hard. She would not cry.

  He stared at her, as if expecting her to say something else. Well, he was going to be damned disappointed, because she was truly at a loss.

  Finally, he sighed, then lifted his tablet again. He made a tick mark, and she imagined him putting a check by Humiliate Isole Frost.

  She frowned, then sniffed, picking up subtle hints of Bilius’s emotions. He hid his feelings well, but still she caught the edges: no-nonsense professionalism and a deep contempt. Contempt for her, of course. By now, she really ought to be used to it.

  Bilius focused on her for a few more minutes, as if once again waiting for her to speak. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. He glowered, but finally spoke. “As I said, I do not approve of this promotion, but there is no doubt that your record—on paper, at least—supports it.” Izzy bristled, her entire body tensing at the suggestion that somehow her work record had been forged.

  “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I have only your record to work with, and the ultimate decision regarding promotions is, unfortunately, not up to me.”

  Great. She’d be reporting to a man who had absolutely no interest in seeing her succeed. This just kept getting better and better.

  “The decision for upcoming assignments has been made, and you have been selected to evaluate a somewhat challenging candidate. Were it up to me, I would not leave the responsibility for such a vile Outcast in your hands.”

  She frowned, the scent of his contempt for this particular candidate almost overwhelming. The stench of his distrust seemed to fill the air; this was not an Outcast that Bilius wanted re-assimilated. Of that, she was certain. Who, though, could the Outcast be?

  She was just about to ask when the elder continued. “The responsibility is too great to entrust it to someone with less than perfect credentials,” Bilius said, as Izzy’s cheeks burned with shame. “It is not, however, up to me. For that matter, I will not be your supervisor for this endeavor.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, sure she’d heard wrong. Bilius’s absence was simply too much to hope for.

  “My duties have become increasingly time-consuming as the treaty negotiations heat up. I am, therefore, temporarily stepping aside at the request of the Inner Circle of Elders.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Zephron will be the interim director of the Re-Assimilation Program.”

  “Oh.” This was good news. She tried to keep her face passive. “I understand.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think you do.”

  “Um.” She focused on the floor, not sure what to say but decidedly relieved.

  “Keep in mind that I am only stepping aside temporarily.” She looked up and saw the steely glint of his eyes. “I will be returning.”

  She swallowed. “Of course,” she said, then nodded deferentially. But as soon as he left and the door closed behind him, she let out a little cheer.

  Her mini-celebration was cut short by the return of reality. Bilius might be temporarily handing over command to Zephron, but that didn’t change the one inescapable underlying fact: Her own supervisor didn’t believe she was worthy of this new job.

  She sighed and rubbed her temples, all her insecurities returning to ride roughshod over her ego. When she’d received word of the promotion, she’d thought she’d finally found a place where she fit in and where they believed in her on her merit. Where they weren’t whispering behind her back and saying she didn’t really belong.

  Apparently, she’d been wrong.

  A tear clung to her lashes, then fell, landing with a plop on the polished wood. Before she’d been accepted into the Council, she’d had to make a decision, just like every other halfling. She’d had to formally choose to join the Council, and she’d had to formally reject the process of mortalization.

  She had done so, of course. She’d been awed by her uncle when she’d first met him, then blown away by the very existence of Protectors and their mission to protect and aid mortals. How could she have turned away from something both heroic and exciting? She couldn’t, of course—but now she had to wonder if maybe she would have been happier living her life as a mortal after all.

  Certainly her colleagues seemed to think she was no better than a mortal.

  No. She was not going to think like that. Her record was stellar—so stellar that Bilius couldn’t even believe it was true. But it was. And she’d show him. She might only have herself to rely on, but in the end, she’d show him. She’d show them all.

  The door opened, and Zephron strode in, moving with the grace of one much younger than his long white beard would suggest.

  “Uncle Zephron!” And then, remembering that this was an official meeting, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Zephron, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  She thought she saw a faint twitching at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes turned serious. “Bilius has many qualities,” he said, “but tact is not one of them. You earned this promotion. Don’t let his ramblings sway you to think otherwise.”

  Even though she’d been thinking that very thing only moments before, right then she was having a hard time believing in herself. So much for her bold plan to “show them all.”

  Apparently Zephron didn’t pick up on her discomfiture, though. He was smiling at her, a broad, open smile that was almost paternal.

  “What?”

  “Your skills as a Level I Re-Assimilation Counselor exceeded even my expectations. You have a gift, my dear
. As we all do, of course, but yours is particularly strong in this area.”

  She felt her cheeks warm under the praise. “Thank you.”

  “And while your excellent performance may have resulted in this promotion, I’m afraid it will also put you a bit on display. And perhaps even earn you some enemies.”

  “So I noticed. Though I suppose I should be used to it by now.”

  His eyebrow twitched. “Gossip is only gossip, my dear.”

  “Even when it’s founded in truth?” The words came out more biting than she’d intended, and she took an involuntary step back, focusing on her shoes rather than on her uncle.

  His heavy sigh drew her back to him, and she looked up, noticing how deep the lines on his face had become in the years since they’d first met. “We’ve had this conversation several times now, Isole. I thought you finally understood.” She shrugged, feeling like an impudent child but unable to help it. Though she loved him, being with her uncle—the High Elder of the Council, a man who seemed practically omnipotent—always brought her own failings into stark relief.

  A tender smile touched his lips. “We all have our weaknesses, Isole. Even me.”

  She grimaced. “I thought I was supposed to be the mind reader.”

  “Perhaps you’re just too transparent,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Or you’re too good.” She tilted her head back and sighed with frustration. “I can’t even levitate.”

  “Did you know that I am completely incapable of discerning the approach of most mosquitoes?”

  She blinked, then gaped at him, entirely confused as to where the conversation was heading. “You’re what?”

  “Six hundred hertz,” he said. “I have a deaf spot for that particular frequency. I simply don’t hear it.”

  At that, her eyes widened. “You? A weakness?”

  He chuckled. “Shocking, I know. But, yes, it’s true. Mosquitoes have sought and claimed my blood on many occasions . . . and I was unable to stall their nefarious advance.”

  Now she was laughing outright. “You’re making fun of me.”

  He moved closer, pulling her into his embrace. “No, child, I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we all have our weaknesses . . . and we all have our skills.” He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she met his eyes. “You are here because of your skill. There is no other reason.”