by J. Kenner
Mordi had thought his brother a fool.
Now he saw Jason standing with his wife Lane, Taylor’s sister. Both were chatting with Tracy and the dark-haired woman.
He inched toward Taylor, who, having been relieved of his infant burden, was sucking down a beer. “Who is that?”
Taylor followed the direction of Mordi’s finger. “That’s Maggie. Nick’s wife.”
That figured. As far as he could tell, everyone at the party was quite attached, bound to husbands and wives, starting families. They were each loved, and they each had someone to love.
Mordi grimaced. He hated sappy sentimentality, and yet here he was, being all sappy and sentimental. But the truth was the truth, and he’d never known that kind of love. Never had another human being—mortal or Protector—who cared about him above all others. And how could he, with the stigma of his father hanging over his head? Even free of the man, Mordi was still haunted by his presence.
“Mordi?”
He jumped. Zoe had come back and now had a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged away from her touch. “I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to Jason.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, just headed across the room until he was standing outside the little circle of people, slightly behind Jason. After a second, his brother realized he was there and turned.
“Well, well, the prodigal brother.”
Mordi searched Jason’s face, looking for a hint of emotion. There wasn’t any, and he started to take a step backward. This was a mistake. After all, he and Jason had had the roughest patch of all, and if—
“Where the hell are you going?” Jason’s fingers clamped down on Mordi’s shoulder.
“Nowhere,” Mordi said.
Jason studied him.
Mordi stood a little straighter. Since the first moment he’d met Jason, his brother had intimidated the hell out of him. Well, no longer. “I’m leaving,” Mordi said. “Where in Hades did it look like I was going?”
To his surprise, Jason started laughing. “Hopping Hera, Mordi—you are so damn touchy.”
Mordi started to argue, but then stopped himself. He was too damn touchy. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
Jason looked him up and down for a moment, then stepped back to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So I guess congratulations are in order.”
Mordi squinted. “Are they?”
“I skim the Web site,” Jason said. “You’ve brought in thirteen traitors in as many months. Not a bad record.”
“I’m proud of it,” Mordi said.
“I’ll bet.”
Mordi frowned, not certain if the sarcasm he heard in Jason’s voice was real or imagined. “What do you mean by that?”
Jason shrugged. “I just wonder if you’re not trying too hard.”
A chill ran down Mordi’s spine. He ignored it. “I’m a Protector,” Mordi said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” Mordi said. “Really”
“So you’re not out to prove that you don’t care what Daddy Dearest thinks of you? You’re really past all of that.”
“Of course I am,” Mordi said. “I don’t care what he thinks about me at all.” But that was a lie. He did care. He cared one hell of a lot. He’d simply pushed caring aside.
He sighed. He knew he’d made the right choice, taken the right path.
Why, then, was it always so damn hard?
5
Izzy stood in the cafeteria line, bouncing a little as she checked her watch. She’d flown back to Manhattan from D.C. the night before, and she hadn’t yet even made it into her own office. She’d received an e-mail from Zephron that morning, sticking her on some committee (as if she had time for that!), and she’d raced from her apartment in the Village all the way to the Council’s headquarters under the U.N. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. She was starved. And if the line didn’t start moving faster, she was going to be late.
Greedily, she eyed the last lemon poppy-seed muffin, safe and snug in the display case. She was eighth in line, and mentally she tried to calculate the odds that the muffin would still be there when she reached the counter—taking into account the fact that she was definitely picking up on some strong poppy-seed-muffin vibes from somewhere ahead of her.
No idea. Math had never been her strong suit.
Maybe she could shout out that she wanted the muffin and ask them to set it aside for her. Might not work, but it was worth a shot.
Besides, she was ravenous, and if she didn’t get the lemon poppy-seed, she was stuck with zucchini (bad) or chocolate (worse). While she liked chocolate just fine, the idea of a chocolate muffin grossed her out. Cake, yes. Muffin, no. Some things were just plain sacred.
Inspired to lay her claim, she lifted her hand, trying to catch the clerk’s attention. No luck. But the seven Protectors in front of her and the five behind all noticed.
A few turned away immediately, making a point of not looking at her. Two started whispering together, and though her hearing wasn’t anything special, “that’s the one” drifted unmistakably toward her.
She blinked, lowering her hand. She couldn’t even stand in a stupid food line without getting stared at and whispered about. And she sure as Hades wasn’t going to ask that the muffin be set aside now. Zeus forbid it look like she were the recipient of some special muffin privilege.
She could hear it now. “Zephron’s her uncle, you know. Not only did he get her on the Council, he arranged it so that the cafeteria makes special meals for her. Veal when we have chicken. Eggs Benedict while we choke back dried-out pancakes. Lemon poppy-seed muffins while we’re stuck with those chocolate abominations. Privileged, undeserving little bit—”
“Ms. Frost?”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. She was sixth in line, the muffin was still there, and a familiar-looking man had sidled up next to her. She squinted, blinked, and then everything clicked into place.
“Patel! I didn’t recognize you. You look great.”
“Thanks.” He held out a hand to shake, then, obviously remembering the rules and who he was talking to, awkwardly tugged it back and shoved it into his pocket. “Re-assimilation will do that to a person. I feel like a new man.”
“You look like one.” He did, too. Where once he’d been a bit amphibious, now he seemed lean and trim. He gave the appearance of a man freshly scrubbed, and she caught the scent of his aftershave: an odd brand that reminded her of newly minted pennies. Unusual, but charming in its own way.
His face, once sheltered, now seemed more open. Happier. There was still a shadow behind his eyes, but she supposed that living six years as an Outcast would do that to a person.
Patel had been her very first re-assimilation, and one of the first group of Outcasts who’d applied after the passage of the Outcast Re-Assimiliation Act. She hadn’t been surprised that he’d slipped so easily through the system. He was the ideal re-assimilation candidate, the kind of Outcast for which the act was passed in the first place.
He’d broken the rule against public defamation of the mortal political process—an Outcastable offense but (in Izzy’s opinion, anyway) nothing to get too worked up about. He’d been repentant, but it was a third offense, and the Council’s three-strikes rule was set in stone. Examples had to be made, and Patel had been out.
“I’ve been assigned to Elder Armistand,” he said. “Personal assistant.”
“No kidding? That’s great.” They moved forward in the line. Only four people ahead of her now, and the muffin was still there. “I’ve actually got a meeting with him in a few hours. I’ve never met him. What’s he like?”
“Oh, he’s fabulous,” Patel said. “Efficient, organized, no-nonsense. I’ve been doing a lot of work toward the treaty renegotiation.” He shrugged. “The man knows politics.”
“I suppose so,” Izzy said. “He hired you.”
Patel blushed a littl
e. “Well, I like to think my re-assimilation essay played some role, but mostly I think you’re right.”
Izzy shrugged. There really was no sense sugarcoating the situation. Armistand had supported the act from day one. What better way to prove it was working like a charm than to hire the re-assimilated?
“And I get access to the elder spa,” he said. “So that’s cool.”
Izzy bit back a grin. The elders and their staff had access to exclusive spa facilities on Olympus. She’d been there once, as Zephron’s guest, and it had ruined her for every other spa experience.
From what she could see, Patel was taking full advantage of the facilities. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds, had a tan, smelled faintly of massage oil, and had been thoroughly cut, styled, and blow-dried.
Jealousy crested, and she made a mental note to schedule an appointment to have her hair trimmed and her nails done at Frederic Fekkai. Not Olympus, but not shabby either.
The line moved. Two people ahead of her now.
Patel shifted backward, clearly about to take his leave. “Anyway, I saw you and I just wanted to say hi and to tell you that I’m doing well. And it’s all due to you. Thank you.”
And then, even though she knew she shouldn’t, she reached out and took his hand, hoping that the gesture looked casual, as if she was so moved by the spirit that she simply forgot the rules. But it was a stupid rule, and she had to know. Had to be sure. He was her first and now, with Hieronymous’s re-assimilation dogging her, she just needed to know—with absolute certainty—that Patel was doing right.
That she’d done right.
His thoughts filled her, spilling into her head so quickly that she almost stumbled under the weight of him. Honor, commitment, honesty. Those things pervaded his brain. He was walking the straight and narrow, all right.
Izzy felt her smile broaden as she pulled her hand away. “It was great to see you,” she said. “I’m so glad you stopped to say hi.”
And then he was gone and she was the first in line. And, damn it all to Hades, the lemon poppy-seed muffin was gone.
6
Elder Armistand had a stern face and an even sterner voice. Didn’t matter. Even faced with the threat of Armistand’s disapproval, Mordi was completely unable to concentrate on the elder’s words. His attention was too taken by the woman sitting next to him.
It had been a long time since he’d been attracted to a woman. The complications in his life had left little time for romance, and Mordi had learned to simply quit looking. Why risk that tender tug at his heart if there was no way he could follow through?
And how could he? Even now that he was a full Protector, he still carried the stigma of his blood. He wasn’t exactly eligible bachelor material, that was for sure.
This woman, though . . .
From the moment they’d been introduced, he’d been intrigued. Something about her manner, about the way she held herself. Something suggested to Mordi there was more to Isole Frost than she was letting him—or anyone—see.
Armistand had introduced her as Zoe’s replacement. And now she sat beside him, looking prim and proper in a white linen suit, her blond hair pulled up into a perfectly coiffed knot. Her face was angular, all shadows and lights, and her piercing blue eyes reflected strength and an innate professionalism.
In sum, she was starkly beautiful and utterly distant. She’d given Mordi a quick glance when she entered, nodded briefly, then taken her own seat across from Armistand. Now she was taking copious notes, showing not the slightest bit of interest in him.
For the best, he supposed. She’d got his attention, that was for sure. But unless she was the world’s best actress, she wasn’t nearly as fascinated as him. Besides, getting involved with any woman would be a mistake. And considering this woman was showing absolutely no interest in him, he supposed that he was in no danger of having to extricate himself from a romantic entanglement.
Too bad.
He must have sighed, because suddenly both Armistand and Isole turned to look at him.
“Are we boring you?” the elder asked from behind the broad expanse of his oak desk.
“Sorry, sir. Something in my throat.” He brushed his neck for effect, and Armistand grunted, then focused again on his notes. In the upholstered guest chair next to Mordi, Isole lifted an eyebrow, her expression suggesting that she saw right through him.
Armistand flipped two pages, grunted again, then looked back up, his gaze landing first on Isole, then moving quickly to Mordi. “So we are clear, then? You understand the role you’re to play?”
Mordi’s stomach twisted, and he had the sudden sensation of being back in boarding school, thrust to the front of the room to work a quadratic equation when he’d spent the entire class trying to surreptitiously levitate a pencil on the schoolmaster’s desk.
“Mr. Black?”
Mordi swallowed. “Of course, sir. The Council—”
“—wants to reassure the mortal representatives that Protectors can be assimilated into mortal culture and that we are no threat,” Isole said, sitting forward slightly and not looking at Mordi. “Because of our heritage as halflings, Mordichai and I are already somewhat integrated into mortal society. We can provide a good face, if you will, for the Council and, hopefully, smooth the negotiations.”
She sat back then and recrossed her legs. He tried to catch her eye, wanting to signal his thanks, but she studiously avoided him.
Armistand’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Ms. Frost. However, I had meant to inquire of Mr. Black.”
Her eyes widened, and she lifted her hand, pressing her fingers lightly over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t even think. I was just so excited about being a part of this endeavor that I—”
Armistand cut her off with a wave of a hand, his expression softening. Clearly, he bought what the girl was selling.
For someone who’d just embarrassed herself, though, she had managed to not even raise a hint of blush. Considering how fair she was, that was quite a feat indeed, and Mordi suddenly realized what was going on. She hadn’t jumped in out of excitement. She’d jumped in to save his butt.
Maybe she was a little intrigued by him after all . . .
“Mr. Black?”
He cleared his throat. “I think Ms. Frost did an excellent job of summarizing our role. I’d only like to add that it’s an honor to be able to assist the Council in this matter.”
Armistand’s face didn’t soften as it had for Isole, but neither did he challenge Mordi again. Not being a fool, Mordi took that as a victory.
“Very well.” Armistand closed his portfolio. Apparently, the meeting was over. “We’ll expect to see you at the next committee meeting. Plan to make a good impression on the mortal representatives. And it would probably be a good idea for you two to meet with the mortal liaisons beforehand. My assistant will make the necessary arrangements and e-mail you the date and location. That will be all.”
Isole stood, and Mordi followed her lead. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then turned to leave, holding the door open so that Isole could precede him through.
He’d expected her to wait for him, but apparently she had other intentions. By the time he pulled the door shut, she was already halfway down the hall, her heels clicking on the polished stone floor.
“Ms. Frost,” he called, picking up his pace so that she wouldn’t reach the elevator and disappear. “Isole!”
She stopped, and he saw her shoulders sag just slightly. Then she turned and faced him, irritation lining her perfect features. “I have an appointment in five minutes,” she said. “Will this take long?”
Taken aback, Mordi stopped cold. “Don’t worry. I won’t take up too much of your precious time.”
“Then I’d suggest you get on with it.”
Mordi grimaced. So much for his fantasy that he might actually connect with this woman. She practically dripped icicles. “I got the impression that you meant what you said to Elder Armistand—that this project
was high priority.”
“I did mean it,” she said, apparently unruffled.
“Then perhaps you could demonstrate it,” he said. He gestured to himself. “We’re both working on this project. Perhaps you could eke out a few minutes to discuss our game plan?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, Mr. Black. If you’re not interested in paying attention during the Elder’s presentation, I hardly intend to play tutor now.”
He felt his face warm. “I appreciate you covering me in there.”
“Believe me, Mr. Black,” she said, “I acted entirely out of self-interest. If you look like a fool, then so do I. So do all halflings.”
“All the more reason for us to talk and plan what we’re doing next.”
She licked her lips, the gesture softening her ice-cold demeanor. She avoided his eyes, managing instead to look everywhere else in the hall. For a moment, he thought she would agree. Then she shook her head, looked him straight in the eye, and said with cold clarity, “I don’t think so. We’re just supposed to be our normal, charming, half-mortal selves. I think I can handle that without a game plan,” she said.
“Charm is on the agenda?” he snapped back. “I’m thinking you may need to practice.”
He immediately regretted the words. Not that they seemed to bother her. Isole Frost simply glanced at her wrist-watch, then turned away. “My appointment,” she said. And then she was gone, leaving Mordi to wonder what the heck had just happened . . . and why in Hades he was attracted to such an ice princess in the first place.
It really was a conundrum, and he was frowning, his mind filled with thoughts of Isole Frost, when his holopager beeped. He flipped it open, his frown deepening when Phelonium Prigg appeared on the display. Simpering little beaurocrat twit.
Mordi nodded, hoping his disdain didn’t show on his face. “Yes?”
“The High Elder has asked me to inform you of your newest assignment.”