by J. Kenner
“What do you think?”
The kid shrugged. “Dunno.” The frown faded, replaced by a bright smile. “You wanna wear my truth detector?”
It was Mordi’s turn to frown. “Um.”
“ ’Cause if you’re telling Momma the truth and you’re really good, the detector will know.”
“Right. Well. I mean, why don’t you just believe me without the toy, okay?”
Davy just stared at him. Under the circumstances, Mordi supposed that made sense.
Mordi twisted to look over the rail again. “Your father should be back up by now.”
That wasn’t true, of course. Jason was more than capable of staying under the water indefinitely; he could turn himself into a fish when he wanted. But that didn’t stop Mordi from hoping the man would surface immediately and save him from this interrogation.
“You’re a chicken,” Davy accused. “I’m going to tell Momma.”
“I’m not a chicken.”
The little boy crossed his arms over his chest, looking dubious. “Yu-huh.”
“Come on, Davy. I’m your uncle. You can trust me.” Faulty logic if ever there was any, but Mordi wasn’t about to let the kid hook him up to any machine.
He told himself it was only that the eight-year-old might have mucked the whole thing up—the machine might fry his brain instead of reading it—except Mordi knew better. Davy was Hieronymous’s grandchild, and the kid had inherited the Outcast’s superior inventive powers. Give him a battery, some wires, a few sticks of gum, and some string, and the kid could make just about anything.
So, no. Mordi wasn’t afraid that the kid’s machine would be off. Instead, he was afraid that he would be. He was afraid that the machine would see some deep truth that he’d kept hidden even from himself. That somehow, some way, he still wanted his dad to succeed.
He shuddered, blocking the thought. No.
“Chicken,” Davy said again, and this time Mordi privately agreed with the assessment.
He didn’t have to conjure a response, though, because a splashing sounded behind him, and then came Jason’s triumphant “Found it!”
Davy jumped, then raced to the railing to see his dad holding a red metal cylinder with plastic straws extending like spiders’ legs.
“What is it?” Mordi asked.
“My pet spider robot, Fred,” Davy said. “He makes my bed and puts my shoes away even though Mommy says that’s my job.”
“Oh. I should have known.”
Jason had climbed up the ladder, and now he stepped onto the boat, water rolling off him to pool on the polished wood decking. He handed the soggy spider-bot to Davy, who took it and raced back inside, apparently no longer concerned with Mordi’s motives.
“Okay,” Jason said, pulling a pair of sweatpants on over his bathing suit and then dropping into one of the deck chairs. “So the girl thinks Dad is legitimate. Do you think she’s legitimate?”
“What do you mean?” Mordi thought about it, shifting uncomfortably.
Jason tossed his head back and laughed. “Let me guess: She’s a looker.”
Mordi waved the words away. “All right, I know what you mean.” Heck, he should. His job was to locate, capture, and prosecute Protectors who were colluding with Outcasts. Jason wanted to know if Isole was a secret traitor. “I did consider that, but she seems sincere. Obviously delusional if she thinks our father is legitimate, but sincere nonetheless.”
“And she’s a looker.”
“That has nothing to do with it.” Except that it did, and that simple fact pissed Mordi off. He’d worked his tail off to have his probation lifted and land this position in the Council. If there was even the slightest hint that Isole Frost was turning traitor, he should be zeroing in on her like a tractor beam. He shouldn’t be blinded by her ocean-deep eyes and frosty-seeming professionalism.
Jason was watching him, and Mordi swallowed. “I’m keeping my eye on her, of course. But my preliminary impression is that she’s on the level.” He shrugged. “And she’s Zephron’s niece, too. I’d be surprised if she’d turn.” He’d done some quick research on his flight from New York to Los Angeles. The Protector commuter shuttle took only twenty minutes, so he didn’t have time to get very in-depth, but he had learned that there were those in the Council who thought she owed her position to nepotism rather than skill. That was a huge motivator to prove herself. Of course, it could also be an impetus for revenge.
“Our father, though . . .” Jason trailed off with a shake of his head. “What do you think he’s up to?”
“I don’t know,” Mordi admitted. “Nothing good.”
“Really? No ideas at all?”
Mordi scowled. “I’d tell you. I came to you, remember?”
“Sorry.” Jason did seem contrite, and Mordi relaxed.
“The only thing I can think of is the treaty,” Mordi said. “He’s always been obsessed with foiling any Council attempts to get in closer with the mortals. But I don’t know what he could have in mind specifically.”
“Me neither,” Jason said. “Keep an eye on him, though.”
“Oh, I intend to.” He took a breath; he still had one bombshell to drop. “What’s your assignment schedule like these days?”
“Free as a flounder,” Jason said. “I’m on a two-month leave.”
“How do you feel about an under-the-table assignment?” Jason’s mouth quirked. “Why, little brother . . . is there something you’ve not been telling me?”
Mordi reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a copy of the note he’d taken from Romulus. He held it out to Jason, who opened it and read it, his expression darkening.
“What’s this about?”
Mordi explained how he’d retrieved the note from his quarry, and also explained how Romulus had gotten the note in the first place.
“Clyde,” Jason said. “Son of a bitch.”
Mordi had never liked Clyde, but his distaste for the halfling-hating flunkie was mild compared to Jason’s animosity. Clyde had been Hieronymous’s right-hand man for years; and the Chief of Guards had been complicit in the scheme that had kept Jason imprisoned in a fishbowl for six long years.
“ ‘Holmes’ has to refer to Hieronymous. Clyde isn’t literary enough to think that up on his own,” Jason said, his voice cold. “They’re plotting something.”
“I know,” Mordi said. “But I don’t know what. Other than that this re-assimilation is part of it.”
“And that’s what you want me to figure out?”
“That’s right.”
Jason nodded slowly, not in agreement, really. It was just a sign that he was still thinking. “Won’t the elders assign a team? To investigate the note, I mean?”
Mordi shrugged. “Who knows? Not my jurisdiction. And they may not even believe that ‘Holmes’ means Hieronymous. I’d hope so, but—”
Jason’s face hardened. Jason would never turn traitor, that much Mordi knew. But Jason knew well enough that sometimes the deeply bureaucratic workings of the Council didn’t move quickly enough.
“All right,” Jason said. “I’ll do it.” He fixed Mordi with a stare. “And what will you be doing?”
“I’m going to be babysitting the man himself.”
Jason nodded. “So Romulus is in the stockade now?”
“Right.” He frowned. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“I’m just wondering if that’s exactly where Hieronymous wanted him to be.”
Mordi considered the possibility and decided that Jason might be on to something. “Though I’m not sure what good it will do him with Romulus behind bars.”
“Who knows?” Jason agreed. “But with Daddy-O, it’s best not to take anything for granted. Romulus has always been considered pretty upstanding. He’ll have powerful friends.”
“And who knows how many other Protectors our father has gotten to,” Mordi added.
“Exactly.”
“Which is exactly why our operation has to be off the
books,” Mordi said. “Completely unofficial.”
“I understand. I’ll let Zoe and Hale know, too. We might need them.”
Mordi rolled his eyes. “So much for low-key.”
“We can be discreet.”
“We’d better be.”
Jason reached out and brushed Mordi’s arm. Mordi stifled the urge to jerk away. “We won’t be Outcast for this,” said Jason. “It’s a technicality-type offense at best. And if we uncover a plot to mess up the treaty negotiations, we’ll be heroes.” He squeezed Mordi’s shoulders.
“No worries.” Mordi frowned. He was becoming more confident about the mission by the minute. Something else, however, still preyed at his mind.
He pushed the thoughts away and faced his brother. “So, we’ve got a plan?”
“Guess so,” Jason said. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. I’m going to go talk to Isole. Make sure she’s really one of us good guys.”
“Dirty job,” Jason said.
Mordi grinned. “But somebody’s got to do it.” He paused, then drew in a breath. “Jason—?”
“You want me to keep an eye on her, too?”
Mordi nodded. “I do think she’s sincere. Misguided, yes. But sincere.” He inhaled, then let the breath out slowly. “But I could be wrong, and we need to be smart about this. If I investigate, she’s likely to get wind of it. Can you—?”
“Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
“Nothing yet.” Instead of feeling the pride of doing a thorough job, though, Mordi only felt like a heel. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got a lead.”
He cocked his head toward the stairs. “I’m going to go tell the kid good-bye,” he said. He felt Jason’s eyes bore into his back as he headed up.
He maneuvered to the upper deck, finding Davy surrounded by piles of toys in various stages of disarray. The little boy looked up. “You want to use my truth detector.” It wasn’t a question. The kid was astute.
Mordi met the child’s pale eyes. “I want you to know your uncle’s one of the good guys.”
Davy looked at him uncertainly for a moment, and even though the kid was only eight, Mordi shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. Finally the kid nodded, then pointed toward a small chair in the corner. “Sit there.” Mordi did, and then the kid plunked a baseball cap threaded with a variety of colored wires on his head. He took the wires and threaded them into a metal cylinder that was attached to a car battery. Mordi frowned when he saw it and twisted around to look at Davy, who was fiddling with a control panel behind him. “This is safe?”
Davy shrugged. “I guess.”
Not exactly a rousing endorsement, but Mordi was still inclined to believe the kid knew what he was doing. He hoped so. “Okay. Plug me in.”
“It’s on,” Davy said. “You just gotta say something, and I can tell if it’s the truth or not.”
“Yeah? My name is Jason Murphy.”
The kid giggled. “Nuh-uh. I don’t even need the machine for that.” Maybe not, but the machine obviously knew its stuff. It made a sound like a raspberry. Mordi twisted back around and saw that a red light was flashing in time with the obnoxious noise.
“Okay, then. Last month I spent three days as a dog.” Green light. And a little trill from the machine.
“You did?” Davy asked. “A collie?”
“Labrador,” Mordi said. “I was working undercover.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not bad work.”
“Uncle Mordi?”
“Yeah.”
“Was that really what you wanted to tell my machine?” Mordi frowned, then cleared his throat.
“No. Okay. Here goes.” He drew in a breath. This was the truth, by Zeus. So why was he so nervous? “I want my father to fail. I don’t want him to enslave any mortals or have some great Outcast empire. And I don’t believe he’s turned good.”
For a moment, the machine was silent, and Mordi held his breath. Then the little trill filled the room and the light flashed green. Mordi exhaled, unreasonably relieved that a pile of metal and a tortured baseball cap had heard the truth in his words.
“Cool beans,” Davy said. “I guess Aunt Zoe’s right and you really are a good guy now, huh?”
“I guess so, kid.” He turned then to face his nephew, and as he did, he saw Jason leaning against the doorjamb. Mordi felt his face flush, but he met Jason’s steady gaze. “Just something I had to do.”
“It wasn’t necessary,” Jason said. “We trust you. Now.”
Mordi nodded. They still had a ways to go, but at least they were starting out on a solid foundation. “This one I did for me.”
And his gamble had panned out. Davy’s machine had confirmed what Mordi already knew.
There was still one truth left, though. One that he hadn’t challenged with the machine—the simple statement that Mordichai Black no longer cared about his father’s approval, much less his love.
That, he thought, was a truth best left unexamined.
11
Later that day, Mordi stood outside Isole’s Greenwich Village brownstone and pondered his current dilemma—how to wrangle an invite inside. He knew he shouldn’t be here; a Protector’s home address was considered confidential information. The Protector could choose to list it on the Internet Information Directory, or could simply list a holopager number without an actual street address. Isole, apparently, was the shy type, because she’d included only her number. Fortunately, Mordi had learned a bit from his father about hacking computer files. Apparently, his genes were good for something.
Of course, since her address wasn’t public, Isole probably wasn’t going to be happy to see Mordi appear on her doorstep. In an effort to forestall her wrath, he bought a bouquet of carnations from a street vendor. Then, just in case she’d prefer something edible, he popped into an Indian food restaurant and bought enough to feed a party of seven.
Having gone through those procrastination measures, he had no choice but to take the plunge, buzz her apartment, and see if he could talk his way inside. He didn’t have long to ponder the question; she shot him down almost instantly.
“Go away.” Her voice sounded tinny and thin through the building’s intercom.
He stepped back so that he was in full view of the security camera, then held up first the flowers and then the food. Then he moved back to the intercom and punched the button. “I come bearing gifts.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Flowers.”
“I’m allergic.”
“No, you’re not.”
She sniffed. “I’m developing an allergy.”
“Isole . . .”
“Call me Izzy,” she said, and he perked up, assuming that giving him her preferred name was a good sign.
He assumed wrong.
“We need to talk,” he said after she told him again to go away. “We’re working together on two different projects. I think it would be a good idea if we got to know each other.”
“I don’t see the point,” she said. “Besides, I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m writing a letter to the president of the Society of It’s None of Your Damn Business,” she snapped.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll see you at the office.”
“Good. Good night.”
He stood on the stoop for a moment, wondering what to do with all that food, and half-expecting her to poke her head out of an upstairs window and tell him she’d changed her mind and to come on up. Why not? That always seemed to happen in the movies.
Apparently he was not in a movie, however. Her head did not appear; and she didn’t run out of the front door telling him to wait, she was only kidding.
Time for a new approach.
He passed the food and flowers off to a woman pushing her life’s possessions in a shopping cart. Then he ducked into an alley, found a dark corner, and emerged as an orange tabby cat. He did a figure eight between the hom
eless lady’s legs, and she fed him a bit of chicken. Yum.
It took some wrangling, but he finally managed to hop from street level to the fire escape. Izzy’s apartment was on the second floor, so it was simply a matter of springing to the next platform, then sitting there, meowing through the window until she noticed and let him in.
Hopefully she wasn’t serious about the allergies . . . and hopefully she wasn’t allergic to cats.
Lacy white curtains covered her windows, but they did little to bar the view, and he watched her move through her living room in a fluffy bathrobe, a towel wrapped on her head and a steaming mug in one hand. She looked relaxed and comfortable, not at all like the woman he’d encountered at the office. This was the woman behind the cold mask. This was the woman he wanted to know better. So far, he’d only caught glimpses. Now, he wanted to see the whole woman.
The urge to simply sit there and watch her was almost overwhelming. Fortunately, chivalry took hold; he was here to talk with her, not to ogle her outside her apartment.
With that in mind, he meowed softly. Nothing. He tried again, this time a little more loudly. Did she move? Yes. But not toward him. She was heading even further away, toward the kitchen.
Time for desperate measures. He backed up, then lifted himself onto his haunches, pressing his front paws against the window. Then he scratched, mentally cringing at the sound of claws against glass. Unpleasant, yes. But definitely effective, because now she turned around and stared right at him, her eyes going wide and her mouth opening into a little O.
She eased to the window, obviously afraid she was going to spook him, then tapped gently on the glass. He meowed and rubbed up against the window, trying to make it clear that he wasn’t going to run and she should just hurry up and get this business over with.
Moving slowly, she eased the sash up. As soon as the gap was big enough, he leapt inside her apartment. He probably should have done this from the beginning. After all, he was supposed to be investigating her. If she was up to no good, she wouldn’t do it in front of Mordi. With a cat, however, she might be herself.
She was still cooing at him, but now she plucked him off the table where he’d landed and pressed him against her chest. She made a startled little sound, but recovered quickly and started stroking his belly. Sweet Hera, this was better than ambrosia . . . and it would take a stronger man than him to change back now. Not in the midst of this total ecstasy.