by J. Kenner
Really, the things he put up with in order to nurture his plan!
That very plan had germinated with the instigation of the Re-Assimilation Act. And as the treaty negotiations drew closer, Hieronymous had realized that he had no time to lose. He had to be re-admitted into the Council’s fold; that much was imperative if he wanted to thwart the treaty negotiations.
But how to pull off such a feat? Fortunately, since he was a super genius, determining the best method of infiltrating the Council was a task easily tackled. He would re-assimilate, of course, taking care to ensure that his assigned counselor didn’t pick up on any little clues that perhaps Hieronymous was not as sincere as some of his predecessors.
That very same counselor who was now making Hieronymous’s brain hum.
Isole Frost. Harold’s daughter. A halfling, desperately attached to her mortal father. A daughter who would undoubtedly do anything to protect her father. Anything at all.
He’d intended to use her all along, of course, but in a much reduced role. During his planning, she’d been a Level I Counselor, and he hadn’t even dared to dream.
Now that the impossible had come to pass, Hieronymous knew exactly what he had to do—or rather, what Izzy had to do. She would, too. If anyone understood the subtle art of persuasion, it was Hieronymous. He’d simply explain in small, easy-to-understand concepts that if she chose not to recommend him for re-assimilation, she would also be choosing to hurt her father.
He didn’t doubt the decision she’d make, not even for an instant.
He glanced at her: still speaking to her colleague, her voice calm and assured, without even an inkling of what was in store for her.
Ah, by Zeus, the empath-balm had to be one of his most brilliant inventions. And he, of course, was a brilliant, brilliant man.
For just a moment he considered laying the plan out for Isole the moment she put down the phone. He longed to see her face as she realized that her innate abilities had been thwarted, and then watch surprise turn to anger, then fear, then resignation as he explained why, exactly, she would agree to help him.
And what, exactly, he needed her to do.
But no. Better to bide his time. Allow the Protector and mortal presses to cite him as a hero as he did good deed after good deed after nauseatingly good deed. He would put the pieces of his plan into place even as he built her trust, letting her sink deeper and deeper into believing in him. Only when all the pieces were in place would he drop the bomb.
His plan was, quite simply, perfect. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.
The thought had barely settled in his head when the door to Isole’s office burst open and Mordichai marched in. His son. And for the first time, Hieronymous had to admit the possibility that, perhaps, possibly, something could go wrong after all.
9
His father? Mordi blinked, certain he must be seeing things. What the hell was his father doing in the Council headquarters? In Isole Frost’s office? And why weren’t the security guards dragging his sorry carcass off to the catacombs?
“Excuse me. Uh, Mordichai? Hello? Hello?” Isole stood behind her desk, glaring at him. Although he’d been enthused by the prospect of seeing her again, apparently she didn’t share the sentiment.
For that matter, his own enthusiasm had waned dramatically when he’d seen her companion. Bumping into his father had not been on the day’s agenda.
A holopager blipped on her desk—her conversation put on hold—and she had her arms crossed over her chest as she stared him down. “Would you like to explain what you’re doing here?” she continued. “You’re interrupting my session.”
“Session? Who cares about your session?” He pointed an accusing finger at his father. “What’s he doing here? And why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“Son, please.” Hieronymous held his hands out in a gesture of supplication, his voice filled with the kind of warmth Mordi had always hoped to hear while growing up, but never had.
“ ‘Son,’ ” Mordi repeated. “You remember that so easily when it suits your purpose, don’t you?”
Isole’s forehead creased—she was probably concerned about fisticuffs—and her perfectly pressed suit was starting to look a little rumpled. She held up a hand. “Gentlemen . . . please.”
Mordi and his father both stayed silent, and Isole nodded approvingly, then switched the holopager back on, set in non-image mode, and told the caller she’d have to call back later. After disconnecting, she turned to Mordi. Her eyes were stern and no-nonsense, but he couldn’t help but admire her efficiency.
“All right, Mordichai Black,” she said, all traces of her pleasant phone voice erased. “I’ll ask you again—what are you doing interrupting my session?”
“Some session,” he said. “All I saw was him sitting there and you talking on the holophone.”
One perfectly arched eyebrow lifted a millimeter or two. “Considering you walked in unannounced, I hardly think you’re in a position to criticize my job performance. But if you must know, I had to take a call regarding another case.”
“Re-assimilation not working out?” he asked.
She didn’t answer; just closed her eyes and sighed, probably counting to ten. The woman worked in counseling, after all. She probably knew all the tricks for holding her temper.
And he was trying to play with her temper, though he really didn’t know why.
No, that was a lie. He did know, and he didn’t like the reason. He was attracted. She was not. Wounded male ego. Simple as that.
Still, it was a ridiculous subject to attack her with. Of all people, Mordi believed in re-assimilation. He’d never been formally Outcast, of course, but he’d still gone through his own mental re-assimilation.
He cast a sideways glance at Hieronymous, hoping his face didn’t reflect the extent of his pain.
Oh, yeah. He’d been re-assimilated, all right. And he never intended to turn back.
Isole sighed and opened her eyes. “Just tell me what you’re doing here.” The harsh tone was gone from her voice, replaced with an almost sickly-sweet timbre. Frankly, Mordi missed the edge.
“I was assigned to assist you with a re-assimilation assessment. I guess Zephron thought—”
He broke off, suddenly realizing what was going on—and why Zephron had wanted to talk to him before he came barging in here. “Him?” he asked, pointing an accusing finger at his father. “He’s seeking to re-assimilate?” He laughed, the sound harsh and cold. “Oh, come on. Tell me another one.”
“I assure you, he’s quite sincere,” Izzy said.
Mordi glared at her, then focused again on his father. Hieronymous, no fool, was staying quiet.
“Funny,” Mordi said, looking her straight in the eye. “I was told you were good at your job.”
“Believe me,” she shot back. “Your sources are quite accurate.”
Mordi snorted. “I’m thinking not.”
Pure ice burned in her eyes, and she circled the desk. “You were sent to assist me?”
“That’s right.”
“Fine. Then let’s start with the ground rules. There are only a few things I require from an assistant. Not insulting me or challenging my competence tops the list.”
The comment was so unexpected, Mordi didn’t answer. “And as for the rest of the rules, I think it’s best we discuss those in the hallway.”
“And leave him in here? Alone with confidential Council files?”
She grimaced and, for a second, Mordi thought she was going to argue again, insisting stupidly that Hieronymous was really good at heart, that he was simply a misunderstood little Outcast who’d seen the error of his ways. Blah, blah, blah.
She turned toward his father. “I apologize, but apparently I have a few administrative things to take care of that are going to eat into our session time. Why don’t we call it a day and continue at our next meeting?”
Hieronymous inclined his head, the picture of civility. Mordi fought the urge to punch him. “Cer
tainly, my dear. My apartment, you said?”
“That’s perfect.”
She buzzed for an escort to lead Hieronymous back up to street level, and they all waited in an uncomfortable silence for the uniformed security agent to arrive.
Moments later, the knock sounded on the door and Hieronymous stood. He nodded briefly to Mordi, murmuring the single word “Son,” and then he stepped out into the hallway.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Isole rounded on Mordi, the professional veneer dropping to reveal a fiery temper. “Who in Hades do you think you are?”
“Who am I? I’m the guy who knows better than anyone that Hieronymous Black has no interest in being a good guy. Believe me. It’s not his style.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “That, sir, is not your call to make.”
“It is if everyone else is blind to the truth.” He could hear his voice rising with frustration and tried to tamp it down. He wasn’t going to get anywhere by ticking this woman off.
“Look,” she said, and he could tell from the tight lines of her face that she, too, was trying to keep a leash on her emotions. “You clearly have a conflict of interest. It’s not professional. And I refuse to have anyone on the team who might interfere with or compromise my work.”
“Your work? What about the fact that the man is a raving loon, and he wants you to give him carte blanche to wander the halls of Olympus, not to mention the rest of the world?”
She took a step toward him, obviously seething. She was a head shorter, and now she tilted her head back as she faced him. “My job does not mandate me to rubber-stamp candidates, as you seem to believe. I’ll analyze his sincerity on a number of different levels. I am an empath, after all. I’m uniquely skilled in determining your father’s motives.”
Mordi blanched. An empath? What exactly did that mean? And—more importantly—did it mean that she’d picked up on how attracted he was to her earlier in the day? The possibility mortified him. His father had spent a lifetime messing with his head; Mordi really didn’t need this woman poking around inside it, too.
“If—and only if—I find that Hieronymous Black is both sincere and psychologically cut out to be a law-abiding productive member of the Council, will I enter a recommendation that he be reinstated.”
She started in on the specifics of the tests and Mordi tuned her out, schooling his features into an expression of interest while he examined her face, alight now with fury. He realized that he’d been wrong about her looks. He’d thought she had a patrician nose. Instead, it was slightly rounded at the end and just a little too small for her face.
It was a damn cute nose, though, he thought, then immediately quelled the thought. He wasn’t here to think about Isole Frost’s nose, or any other part of her anatomy. He was here to—
What the hell was he here to do?
He must have frowned, because Isole cut off her diatribe, propped a hand on her hip, and said, “What?”
He shrugged, lifting his hands in silent surrender. “Nothing. Just listening to you.”
He didn’t think she believed him—considering her powers, she probably knew he was lying—but he gave her points for not calling him on it.
“At any rate,” she said, “all I’m saying is that this isn’t the case for you. Conflict of interest and all that.”
“Sorry. Not buying it. Zephron knew damn well who you were working with, and he assigned me to you.” Even as he spoke the words he knew he had to be right. This was what he was here to do.
He stood a little taller, bolstered now with purpose. “I’d say it’s pretty clear Zephron wants me on this case. Probably figured the Council needed someone to play devil’s advocate to your Pollyanna certainty that Hieronymous is nothing more than a high-strung guy who took a wrong turn in life.”
Her jaw worked, as if she was grinding her teeth, and a little muscle near her eye twitched. Clearly, Isole Frost was doing her damnedest not to explode right then and there. “I do not need a babysitter,” she said, her voice too calm for comfort. “And I am not a Pollyanna. I’ll have you know that I’ve entered a recommendation against re-assimilation at least as many times as I’ve—oh, blast it all!”
He started. “What?”
“Why in Hera’s name am I explaining myself to you? You spend your days hunting down traitors.”
Mordi gaped. “I didn’t realize you knew what I did.”
“You’re serious?” She seemed genuinely perplexed. “How could anyone not know? Every time you nail a new Outcast, they splash your picture up on the Council Web site—not to mention running some article with a major photo op on the front page of the Daily Protector. And on top of that, you happen to be the formerly loyal son of one very notorious Outcast.”
“So you admit he’s notorious.”
“I admit he was. Yes.” She stared pointedly at him. “So were you.”
Well, hell. He couldn’t argue with that. Or rather, he could. He could say he’d reformed. And she’d turn that argument right back around in his face and point out that Hieronymous was trying to reform, too. He didn’t know much about Isole Frost, but he knew she was quick.
He liked that in a woman, though at the moment he didn’t particularly like her. So much for first impressions filled with lust and longing. That was the trouble with relationships—the bloom wore off the rose far too quickly.
He tried a different approach. “You’re right. My job does put me in the public eye a lot. But it’s the behind-the-scenes stuff that matters here. I know a traitor when I see one.”
“Do you? Or are you just predisposed to find the bad in everyone?”
She tossed the words out, merely another volley in their ongoing argument. Mordi didn’t think she even realized she’d scored. But she had, and he fought to keep his emotions and his face in check, to not let her see what was in his head.
Because she was right. He was predisposed to find the bad in everyone, himself most of all. He knew how hard he’d fought before finally and firmly entrenching himself on the good side of the line in the sand. And he really couldn’t believe that Hieronymous was strong enough to win that battle. Or more important, that Hieronymous had any desire to.
He shook his head. “You know what? Let’s just drop this. I’m here. I’m helping you. That’s the end of it.”
He expected another argument, but instead she just pushed a button on her desk. After a second, a voice sounded through the intercom. “Yes, Ms. Frost?”
“Cancel my appointments for today.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
She clicked off and faced Mordi. “I’m leaving. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“I’ll go with you. We should talk.”
“We probably should,” she agreed. “But we’re not doing it now, and you’re not coming with me.” She moved around her desk, gathering her things, ending finally by snapping a leather portfolio closed and tucking it under her arm.
“I’m not going to go to Zephron about you,” she said, “although I’m sorely tempted. You’re right. He must have had a reason for assigning you, so I suppose you’ll be of value at some point.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But this is my job and my case. You’re here to assist me. Got that? Because if you don’t, I will talk to Zephron, and we’ll let him sort out what everybody’s roles here are.”
“No problem,” Mordi said. “Sounds great.”
She frowned, and he was certain it didn’t sound great to her. Not by a long shot. But considering Zephron had made the assignments, she really didn’t have a choice.
Mordi stayed silent, not willing to press his luck. He was pretty sure Zephron wouldn’t take him off this case, but he wasn’t absolutely positive.
His father was up to something. Something bad. And whether she knew it or not, Isole Frost was wrapped up in it.
Until Mordi could figure out what his father had planned—and put a stop to it—he wasn’t about to risk gett
ing booted off this case.
On the contrary, he intended to stay very, very close. And if that meant keeping Isole Frost happy, well, that was a mission he was more than willing to accomplish.
10
“He’s applied for what?” Jason bobbed in the water, only his head breaking the rippling surface.
Above him, Mordi frowned, leaning over the houseboat’s railing and staring down at his half brother. “Re-assimilation,” Mordi said. “You know. He wants to rejoin the Council. Be a good guy. All that jazz.”
Jason snorted. “And you believe him?”
“No, I don’t believe him! But it’s not up to me. This girl—” He cut himself off, waving a hand at Jason, who was silently treading water. “Will you get up here? How am I supposed to talk to you if you’re bobbing around like a buoy?”
“You look like you’re talking just fine,” Jason said. But then he held up a finger. “Give me one second. Davy dropped one of his gizmos off the boat, and I told him I’d find it.”
As if called by the mention of his name, Davy came charging out the patio door, bare feet pounding on the wooden deck as he yelled, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Did you find it? Did you?”
“Not yet, kiddo.” And then, to Mordi: “Hang on.”
Down he went, slipping under the dark surface, which smoothed over him, not even a few bubbles to show that he’d once been bobbing there. Frowning, Mordi leaned farther out, trying to find some sign of his brother. Nothing.
Well, hell.
While Jason did his fish-man thing, Mordi leaned against the railing, feeling the eight-year-old’s eyes boring down on him.
Mordi shifted uncomfortably. He liked Davy just fine, but they’d had a decidedly iffy relationship, what with Mordi having attacked and kidnapped him at various times over the last few years. He hadn’t seen the kid for a bit.
“Mommy says you’re a nice guy now.” Davy squinted at him. “Are you really?”