by J. Kenner
What she didn’t have an advantage in was the down-and-dirty interpersonal stuff. So she found Mordichai Black attractive. So he found her attractive. What was she supposed to do now? Especially since she shouldn’t be doing anything at all. This man could mean big trouble for her. Her head knew that.
Unfortunately, the rest of her was having a hard time getting with the program.
Mordi turned to her, a question in his eyes.
“What?”
“So, how did you know it was me? The cat? Or were you really planning on doing . . . that . . . to a kitten?”
She laughed, remembering the expression on his face when he’d shifted back to human form. “Touch, remember? You might have been a kitten, but you were still you—and I got a Technicolor view of your thoughts. Surprised the heck out of me, but I think I recovered nicely.”
He quirked a brow. “Isn’t that against the rules?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “One, I was caught off guard. Two, is a man who broke into my apartment by pretending to be a cat really going to throw some rule back in my face?” She held her breath, hoping she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. Because while she was totally in the right here, where her father was concerned she was way, way, way out on a limb.
Mordi, however, didn’t seem to be thinking about anything else, and looked suitably abashed. “I had planned to ply you with Indian food,” he said. “But I ended up giving it to a homeless person.”
She laughed, and he shrugged, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. Her wariness disappeared, replaced once again by a deep sense of well-being. She felt immediately comfortable with this man. Too comfortable.
“Could we go out?” he asked. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
She wanted to, she wanted to, she wanted to. “I’ve already eaten,” she said, the voice of reason and responsibility.
“Oh.”
She heard the disappointment in his voice and felt like a raving bitch. “I could . . . I mean, I have some cookies here, if you’d like some.”
What was she doing? She should be trying to discourage him, not keeping him hanging around. He was going to ask more questions. They’d both opened up about their fathers, but he more than Izzy. Now he was going to want to know more about hers. Tit for tat and all that.
Would he be able to tell if she was lying? Or, if not lying, not exactly giving him the full story?
Sweet Hera, she was an idiot. The man looked good in a suit, challenged her, and made her laugh—and suddenly she was falling all over herself?
Damn.
In the end, though, he didn’t ask her any personal questions. He just sat next to her on the couch and they watched an X-Men video. She suggested the old Christopher Reeves video Superman II, but he soundly nixed that idea. So they ended up watching Hugh Jackman and gang (hardly an unpleasant way to pass the time), laughing at some stuff, marveling at the perception of other things. Was the screenwriter perhaps a Protector? they wondered.
Two hours later, Mordi stood up to go, the picture of a perfect gentleman. He hadn’t tried a thing, and Izzy wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.
At the door, though, he paused. “Listen, Isole . . .”
She nodded, silently encouraging him.
“The next session, with my father, it’s Friday?”
“Right.”
“Afterward, maybe we could grab a bite? I feel like I owe you dinner.”
“You don’t. I’d already eaten, and we didn’t have plans or anything—so you really didn’t give away my meal.”
“All right, then. I think we should talk about the committee. Discuss the various members and make sure we agree with where they each stand, and come up with a game plan about how we can help them see the value in the renegotiated treaty.”
“Have you been practicing that, or did it just come to you?”
“Sorry. I can’t reveal that.”
She laughed.
“Seriously, Izzy. I’d like to see you Friday night.”
She licked her lips. This time, at least, she had an easy out. “I’m sorry. I’ve already got plans.”
“Oh.” She saw the displeased shift in his features and realized that he assumed she had a date.
“No, no.” She rushed to correct his impression, even though she knew she should keep her mouth shut. An assumed boyfriend was as good a defense as anything against interest from a new man. She paused, thought about it, then pressed on. “My father’s getting an award. I’m going to the ceremony.”
“Oh.” She watched as he processed the information, apparently coming back to the very reasonable conclusion that she was unattached. “Oh. Well, in that case, I’d be honored to escort you.”
She realized her palms were sweating, and wiped them on her jeans. “I, um, don’t know if that’s such a good idea. I mean, we’re working together. Should we . . . well . . . date?”
“Who said anything about a date?” He smiled, the gesture full of light and charm. “We have business to discuss, after all. I’ll be there at the session with my father, we can talk afterward, and then I’ll escort you to your father’s award ceremony.”
She met his grin, feeling lightheaded and more than a little foolhardy . . . but not caring one iota.
She knew it was bad; knew this traitor-hunter had the potential to really screw up her life. But still, she couldn’t help it. She did like him, and she did want to see him again—without Protector business hanging over their heads. They could disguise it all they wanted as “committee work,” but they both knew the truth: There was something there, in the air, buzzing between them.
It enticed her as much as it frightened her.
“Izzy?”
“Yes,” she said, before she could change her mind. “Yes, I’d love to go with you.”
13
“So what are you saying?” Zoe asked. “That she’s working for Hieronymous?”
Jason shook his head. They were on the houseboat patio, Lane next to him on the settee, the others in scattered chairs on the deck. The morning sun streaked the boat with white gold, and the steady lapping of water against the hull acted as a counterpoint to their conversation. “I’m not saying that. I’m simply saying that we don’t know. Mordi’s going to try to find out, but he may need our help. And in the meantime, our focus is on this Romulus guy.”
“ ‘Holmes says,’ ” Zoe quoted. “Weird.”
“And ironic,” Taylor added, squeezing his wife’s hand. “After all, Sherlock Holmes was one of the good guys.”
“Hieronymous thinks he’s doing good,” Hale said.
Jason raised an eyebrow, even as the rest of them turned to look at Hale. Their expressions were incredulous. It was Lane who spoke up. “You’re not serious?”
“Well, I don’t think he’s doing good,” Hale explained. “I’m just saying that I doubt the H-man is going around thinking. ‘Hey, gonna do a little evil today.’ I mean, he honestly thinks he’s doing some great favor for Protectors everywhere. He thinks mortals are scum.”
“So did you once,” Tracy said, leaning back and looking smug.
“No, I never—”
“Okay, okay.” Jason held up a hand. “We’re getting a little sidetracked here. Whatever Hieronymous’s motives, the bottom line is—”
“He’s one bad dude.” That came from Elmer, Hale’s ferret. Not exactly a pet. More like a constant—and constantly chattering—companion.
“Exactly,” Jason agreed, nodding toward the little rat.
“Bad. Evil. Vile. Major pain in the Protector patootie.”
“Okay, okay,” Jason said. “We get the drift.” To Hale, he rolled his eyes. Ever since Davy had invented the simulated-speech collar for the little guy, Elmer had been talking nonstop. His latest fascination was telling really bad jokes.
Elmer’s nonstop talk had given Jason a new respect for Hale. For years, Hale had been the only one who could understand Elmer’s incessant chattering. Jason’s son ha
d put an end to all that, and although Jason loved the little tyke, there were times when he really wanted to take his boy’s invention and drop it into some deep-sea abyss. Oops . . . how on earth did that happen?
“So where do we start?” Zoe said.
“Well, wait a minute.” Tracy, Hale’s wife, spoke up. “Zephron doesn’t know that you guys are going to be playing detective? Isn’t that against the rules?” Her forehead was creased with worry. Not surprising. She and Hale were supposed to be packing for a vacation in Greece. The idea of her husband getting dragged into an unauthorized mission couldn’t be very appealing.
“I didn’t say he doesn’t know per se. Just that we’re working under the table.”
Tracy frowned, but it was Lane who spoke up. “In other words, you’re assuming that—as usual—Zephron knows exactly what’s going on.”
Jason shrugged. “He seems to have that knack.”
“It’s the Mord-man you ought to be watching,” Elmer said in his computer-generated voice. “He’s the one who’s always working for the Big Dog. Every time you think he’s gone straight, he’s back on board with his daddy.”
“He was working as a mole, Elmer,” Jason said. “You know that as well as we do.”
“Oh, sure. That’s what he says . . .”
“Elmer.” Hale’s tone was harsh, no-nonsense.
“Harrumph.”
“Look,” Jason said. “You guys might have issues with Mordi. But he is my brother, and Zephron does trust him. And that means that until I see something to make me think otherwise, I trust him, too.”
“I trust him,” Zoe said. She half-shrugged, then added, “Well, now I do.”
“Me, too,” Tracy said.
Hale shrugged. “Like you said, we’ve all had our issues, but he is family. If he’s getting scammed by this broad, I want to help him.”
“Suckers,” Elmer said, then turned in a circle three times and buried his head under his haunches, effectively dismissing them all.
“It’s not just about helping him,” Jason said. “If Hieronymous is getting to a re-assimilation counselor, then who knows how many other Protectors he has in his pocket. Like Romulus, for example. We need to know what’s going on—not to protect Mordi, but to protect the Council. Hell, maybe even to protect the world. Think of Romulus. That—”
“What can he do from a holding cell, though?” Taylor asked.
“Who knows?” Zoe answered. “But he’s popular and well connected. He may not stay in that holding cell for long.”
Hale nodded. “She’s right. Things are happening.” He drew in a breath and turned to Tracy. “Well? It’s up to you.”
She grimaced. “Let me think. Lounge on a foreign beach with a paperback and a tall drink, or stay in Los Angeles while my husband goes out and helps possibly to save the world.” She pressed a finger to her mouth. “Gee, tough decision.”
“Okay. So we investigate.” He ignored his wife’s amused head-shake.
“And if you do find out that Hieronymous and Romulus have some huge plan brewing?” Taylor asked. “Then what are we going to do?”
“Tell Mordi,” Jason said. “Get a group together and then foil whatever plot they’re cooking.” He tried out a smile. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he added, trying to intone the words with an air of confidence. “We’ve all foiled Daddy Dearest before.”
“True,” Zoe said. “Let’s hope it was skill and not luck.”
“Or if it was luck,” Taylor added, “let’s hope it hasn’t run out.”
14
“This?” Hieronymous’s voice rose in incredulity, one hand indicating the tree several stories below him and the kitten trapped in its upper branches. “This is how you intend to examine my goodwill and veracity?”
Izzy shrugged, forcing her expression to remain stern and serious. “For starters,” she said. In truth, it was a rather odd assignment for a superhero, but with the likes of Hieronymous, she thought it best that they start small.
So here they were: she, Mordi, and Hieronymous, standing on the balcony of his penthouse apartment, looking down at Fifth Avenue and the park across the wide street, where a tiny kitten was trapped in a treetop.
She wished she could convince Mordi of his father’s sincerity. At the moment, Mordi was standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like this was one big waste of time. They hadn’t talked much about it since the other night, and she’d been glad. There’d grown an easy comfortableness between them, a feeling in the air that was decidedly absent now, and she was grateful to have shared a few hours without doubt and disbelief hanging between them.
She didn’t begrudge Mordi his doubts, of course. Frankly, had she not felt the change in Hieronymous herself, she never would have believed it. But she had felt it, and she’d never once failed where her powers were concerned. She just wished (foolish, really, since she hardly knew the man) that Mordi would trust her, even if he didn’t trust his father.
From the way he was shooting vile glances toward Hieronymous, she really didn’t think that would happen.
The ex-Outcast in question was still at the balcony, his back to them, a pair of binocs in his hand as he peered down toward the street.
“A kitten?” he said once again, his voice still reflecting his bafflement. “I’m to rescue a pet?”
“Well, yes.” Isole cleared her throat. “We’re starting small. Regulations require me to present a series of tests of increasing difficulty. Considering who you are, I think it’s best that we follow protocol to the letter. I certainly don’t want someone later raising a question as to whether you received special treatment. Do you?”
His face darkened, and she recoiled. But then the shadow passed and he drew in a breath. “You’re right, of course, my dear. I guess I’m simply anxious to get to the meat of it. I’ve been so long without helping mortals, my fingers are itching to jump into the fray. To do some real good.”
Mordi had been standing beside her through all of this, a permanent scowl darkening what she’d come to regard—from a purely empirical standpoint of course—as a perfectly handsome face. He had an air of sophistication, even despite his anger. The veneer cracked, however, as he faked a cough, the sound half-disguising a bitter curse, “Bullshit.” She glared at him and turned back to Hieronymous.
“You are helping mortals. That little girl who owns the cat is devastated.”
“Of course,” Hieronymous said. “Of course. I only meant—”
“This is absurd,” Mordi cut in. “You’re not interested in helping mortals, you’re—”
“Son.” Hieronymous’s tone was sharp, cutting, and Izzy straightened in surprise. Mordi, she noticed, had also drawn himself up. But his stance didn’t seem surprised. No, he seemed ready for battle.
Need and hatred and disappointment and love meshed together in the air between father and son, like a dense tapestry, so interwoven that Izzy couldn’t tell whose thoughts were whose, and she felt a wash of sadness for both of them.
She took Mordi’s arm, careful to touch his shirt and not skin, and tugged him back. “We’ll wait here,” she said to Mordi. Then she looked at Hieronymous. “Go on. Help them.”
His face hardened as he stared at his son. She couldn’t blame him. Mordi wasn’t giving an inch.
“The sooner you rescue the kitten, the sooner we can move on to bigger things,” she said.
He blinked, his face clearing as he smiled at her, white teeth shining brilliantly. “Of course, my dear. You’ll be watching from here?”
“Right.”
Hieronymous drew in a breath and pulled his cloak tight around him, then stepped up onto the ledge, and readied himself to jump off into nothingness. Izzy lurched forward and grabbed his hem, tugging him back before anyone down below looked up and thought they were witnessing a suicide.
He whipped around to face her, irritation flashing in his eyes. And why not? She was interrupting him once again. “You, uh, know
the rules, right?” she said.
He peered over the edge, then looked back at her. “The elevator?”
“ ’Fraid so. Regulation 876(B)(2)(a) is quite clear—Protector powers are to be revealed to mortals only as a last resort. Minimal powers, Mr. Black. Please keep that in mind.”
“Of course,” he said, then moved inside, presumably toward the elevator.
“ ‘Of course,’ ” Mordi mimicked, his tone undeniably smarmy.
Izzy ignored him, moving toward the railing and peering over, waiting for Hieronymous to appear below.
“You can’t possibly believe he’s serious,” Mordi finally said.
She sighed. “Can we stop beating a dead Gorgon?” She turned away and concentrated on the street below, waiting for Hieronymous to emerge. Where was he?
Mordi moved up beside her, his own binocs in hand. “I’m sorry.”
She turned just enough to add him to her field of vision, but didn’t say anything.
He exhaled noisily. “For the love of Zeus, at least do me the courtesy of talking to me. I’m your assistant in this, after all.”
She still didn’t face him, but she did answer. “An assistant, by definition, assists.”
He backed up against the railing, forcing himself to remain in the periphery of her vision. “You know, I may not have your empathic powers, but I’m still picking up on a little hostility here.”
“It’s not coming from me,” she said, turning to face him.
He had the good grace to at least look a little sheepish. “I don’t believe my father is interested in doing good.”
“I picked up on that,” she said. “But I do believe it. I looked.”
She spoke the words firmly, and he stared at her for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, full of suspicion.
“It’s against regulations to poke around in someone’s head without a mind warrant,” he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not against regulations if they’re applying for re-assimilation.”