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

by J. Kenner

  The accusation and threat had infuriated Jason then, and it still bothered him now. Not a lot he could do about it, though, so he kept searching for the elder.

  Dionys wasn’t in his office, and the assistant on duty suggested Jason check in the library.

  Jason passed a statue of Zeus, arms wrapped around Hera, then another of his closer relative, Poseidon. Another long corridor, and then finally he reached the double doors of the library. He pushed in, received a stern glare from the librarian, then padded softly toward the back.

  He found the elder in a small alcove, seven leather-bound volumes open in front of him, the musty smell of ancient paper and ink filling the air. Dionys was making notes, carefully copying information from the volumes onto sheets of lined parchment with an ornate purple fountain pen. Jason waited for the elder to notice him. And waited. And waited.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. Dionys looked up, wire spectacles perched in front of clear blue eyes, the edges crinkled with age.

  “Ah, young Jason, is it? What brings you back to Olympus?”

  The elder’s tone was conversational and warm, but even so, Jason fought a fresh wave of anger. He took five deep breaths and focused his thoughts. This wasn’t about him anymore. Dionys had apparently moved on; so should Jason.

  “I was hoping to receive dispensation to speak with Romulus,” Jason said. He left it at that. If the elder needed a reason, he had a story contrived and ready to go.

  “Dispensation?” The elder looked up, his expression amused. “That’s certainly not necessary. Romulus has been released on bail.”

  Jason blinked. “Bail?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Who bailed him out?”

  “You know perfectly well that information is confidential. But I would hardly expect a Protector such as Romulus to remain in the stockade for any length of time.”

  “Um, right.” Jason frowned, reminding himself he’d expected that very thing. “Is he still on Olympus?”

  “He may well be,” the elder said. “I don’t have that information. Certainly, his bail held no such conditions, and while he did express his gratitude to the elders on the prisoner committee, he didn’t tell us where he intended to go.” He met Jason’s eyes. “Of course, we have his holopager number, so we are able to contact him.”

  “Of course,” Jason said, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t showing. “Thank you for your help.”

  The elder nodded, then picked his pen back up and resumed his work. Jason considered that a dismissal and began walking away, pondering the problem of how he was going to locate Romulus. He’d try a holopage, but the treasonous Protector likely wouldn’t answer. And even if Romulus had an address on file, the odds were good he was staying elsewhere . . .

  “Excellent news about your father,” Dionys said.

  Yanked away from his thoughts, Jason stopped cold. He turned around slowly to face the elder. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Your father,” Dionys said, that purple pen tapping a rhythm on his paper. “He’s applied for re-assimilation. I thought you knew.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said. “I’d heard something about that.”

  “You don’t sound pleased.” The elder’s faced creased with concern. “I had thought you would welcome your father’s return to Olympus.”

  “Ah, well . . .” What in Hades was he supposed to say to that? “I’m . . . well, I guess I’m a little bit surprised that you’re pleased about it.”

  Dionys shook his head, his expression one of amused patience. “Nonsense. Your father and I may have had our differences, but I have issues with all Outcasts. Once he returns to the fold, though . . .” The elder trailed off, shaking his head, and Jason found himself truly flabbergasted. Had everyone gone insane?

  “This is truly excellent news,” Dionys continued. “A powerful Protector like your father with such a strong heritage. And your grandfather’s seat has been empty now for over ten years. It’s high time it was occupied again.”

  Jason’s blood ran cold. Dionys couldn’t mean what Jason thought he meant . . . could he? “My grandfather’s seat?” The Inner Council essentially ruled over all Protectors, and the seats were passed down along familial lines, going to the eldest member of the family past a certain age. Jason knew he and Mordi were in line for a spot, but that possibility was years away. It had never even occurred to him that his father might still lay claim to a seat. “Hieronymous could fill my grandfather’s seat?”

  “Of course. At the right hand of Zephron. The seat would have naturally been your father’s, had he not been Outcast.” The elder smiled broadly. “And now, of course, it will be his once again.”

  19

  As Mordi paused on Izzy’s doorstep to straighten his tie, his holopager beeped. He considered ignoring it—he had no intention of getting sidetracked from this date by some Protector emergency—but in the end guilt won out. He jammed the Receive button with his thumb. “What?” he demanded, even before the image could take form.

  It was Bilius. “We’ve had an anonymous tip. An Outcast plot. We’re not sure what’s going on, but since it’s taking place at a mortal forum, we assume the plan is to eradicate one of them.”

  Mordi groaned, seeing his date go flying off to the wayside. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Yup. Bye-bye, Izzy. “Okay. Give me the details.”

  “The Thomas Edison Inventors Award Ceremony. Our tipster says—”

  “Wait. You said the Inventors Award Ceremony? The one here? In New York? Tonight?”

  “Is that a problem?” Bilius did not look particularly pleased with the interruption.

  “No, sir. No problem at all.” Because Mordi already happened to be attending that particular ceremony. So it really was no problem at all.

  In fact, the only problem he foresaw was that Izzy just might be the target. After all, his father had an overwhelming interest in inventors and inventions. And, now that he thought of it, it was quite possible that the woman was in cahoots with Daddy Dearest. It was an unpleasant possibility, but one he couldn’t deny. Perhaps that’s why Zephron had put him on this case.

  He sighed. In all honesty, he’d been hoping for a little action this evening. Arresting his date, however, wasn’t quite what he had in mind.

  20

  Izzy sat in the front row of the ballroom at the Montcraig Hotel in midtown Manhattan, her arm hooked through Mordi’s, only their sleeves touching, as she clutched the program for the seventh annual Thomas Edison Award Ceremony. Her father was up on that stage, Mordi was beside her—staying blissfully silent about his doubts regarding his father—and Izzy was in heaven.

  The chairman finished introducing Harold, and everyone clapped. Then her father moved behind the podium, and Izzy lost herself in his speech, sharing his moment in the sun.

  “ . . . but most of all, I must give credit where credit is due,” Harold said. He fumbled at the podium, papers spread out before him, then shoved his glasses more firmly up his nose. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been fortunate, recently. The last few years have been inspirational for me, most likely because I’ve had some income to inspire me.”

  He paused for effect, then waggled his bushy eyebrows. The crowd laughed, just as they were supposed to, and Izzy smiled so hard her face hurt.

  Mordi leaned toward her. “He’s a good speaker.”

  She nodded. Her father’s natural nervousness was fading as he basked in the glory of finally realizing a lifelong dream.

  “Not just financial inspiration, though,” he continued. “I need to thank my daughter for her support and her love—” Izzy beamed, ducking her head slightly as the applause swelled. Beside her, Mordi also clapped, but when she turned to look at him, she saw that he was scanning the sea of faces nearby.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  A shadow crossed his face, and she inhaled the earthy scent of guilt.

  She frowned, confused. “Mordi?”

  “No
thing. I just thought I saw . . . nothing.”

  She wanted to press him, but her father’s words caught her attention, and she was consumed by a little guilt of her own.

  “I also need to thank those behind-the-scenes folks who help in so many ways. In ways both bankable and inspirational.” He leaned forward toward the microphone and cast his gaze over the crowded room. “You know who you are, but let’s just say that an enthusiastic silent partner can be good for the soul.”

  Again, the crowd tittered. Izzy’s father’s nose turned slightly red, and Izzy felt a little ill. Reflexively, she tugged at her arm, wanting to extricate herself from Mordi, this man who could so easily destroy her career. He turned to her and smiled. She stayed put, feeling a little weak.

  Her father plowed on, finishing his speech with a finesse she would never have expected. Certainly, he never could have performed this well before.

  Before.

  Sweet Hera, did her father really owe this new confidence to Hieronymous? He did. And that, even more than what she’d seen of Hieronymous’s soul, convinced her that the Outcast was sincere. Why else would the super villain help a man like her father?

  She tilted her head, watching her father on the podium. So happy. So alive.

  Her whole life, she would have given anything to see his face light up like that. She wanted everything good for her father, for this man who’d raised her and loved her, who’d joked with her and kept her secrets. Without a mother, it had been her father who’d gone with her to buy her first bra—though before setting foot in the store he had offered to simply invent one for her. And he’d been there when the very first boy she’d had a crush on ignored her, studiously managing to avoid any recognition whatsoever that Izzy existed.

  He’d spent a lot of time in his lab, sure. But when she’d needed him, her father had been there. Always, and without fail.

  Her father paused again in his speech, and she applauded enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, if the sidelong looks from her neighbors were any indication. Mordi, however, only looked amused, and his amusement encouraged her. She threw a grin in the dissenters’ direction, then let out a wolf whistle for her father. After all, she wanted him to know she was out here.

  And even though Mordi applauded wildly as well—going so far as to toss in a whistle of his own—when Izzy leaned back in her seat, her satisfaction was tainted with regret. Not for her. For Mordichai.

  What must it have been like, she wondered, growing up as the son of Hieronymous Black?

  Not pleasant. Of that much, she was certain. Hieronymous might be determined to re-assimilate—and his desire might even be sincere—but Izzy didn’t doubt for a second that what everyone said about his notorious past was 100 percent true. Even now, he wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.

  She frowned, pondering the current Re-Assimilation Act and her place in it. Some Outcasts could be brought back in, sure. But was Hieronymous really the kind they wanted? Could he ever really be an asset to the Council?

  She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts.

  “Anything wrong?”

  Mordi’s voice, low and intense, startled her, and her heart began to race.

  “No. Nothing. Just thinking. About Dad. And . . . stuff.”

  “Stuff,” he repeated, but while she’d expected him to sound amused, he looked deadly serious.

  She stilled, sure he was on to her. That he’d heard her father’s reference to a silent partner and put two and two together. Oh, sweet Hera, what was she supposed to do now?

  “What kind of stuff?” he pressed.

  “You know. Stuff.” She shrugged, determined not to give anything away.

  He didn’t appear thrilled by her oh-so-eloquent answer. She decided to elaborate. “Daddy and his inventions and how he used to torment me with all his gizmos and stuff. Just memories.”

  His eyes narrowed, and her stomach twisted, but she held his gaze dead-on. She sniffed a little, then wished she hadn’t. The scent of suspicion was heavy in the air between them, and she realized just what a huge fool she’d been to let Mordichai Black into her apartment last night.

  She’d been an even bigger fool to let him into her life.

  She lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to watch my dad.” She turned back toward the stage and watched with rapt attention as the ceremony finished up.

  Her father had switched to a PowerPoint presentation, and was taking the audience through the ins and outs of the Polarity Reversal Prototype, the pocket-sized machine that had landed him this award, and that Izzy absolutely did not understand. Mordi shifted beside her, then pulled his arm free of hers. She stifled a little gasp, fighting an unreasonable sense of loss. She knew she shouldn’t, but she turned to him. His features were still hard, but the familiar softness was returning, and she relaxed a little.

  “I need to run to the lobby. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded, and as soon as he slipped down the row and up the aisle toward the lobby door, she realized she’d been clenching her jaw. She wanted him back—wanted his arm on hers—but at the moment, she was absurdly glad that he was gone. Her thoughts were too much in a ramble, and even though she knew intellectually that he couldn’t pick up on what she was thinking, emotionally she wanted to hide.

  She didn’t want him to see the truth. Didn’t want him to know that she wanted Hieronymous far away from the Council even as much as she wanted him back in, a full-fledged, card-carrying Protector. And none of those desires had to do with the Outcast’s intentions or beliefs or motives. Instead, she wanted him on the Council because once he was there, her father would be safe.

  With a slow sigh, her thoughts drifted to Mordi. He would hate that—

  Mordichai!

  Suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of him, her senses overwhelmed by his essence. Her heart thrummed in her chest and she sat up sharply, confused and terrified. She was sensing something that was entirely removed from how she felt about Mordi or how she feared he might discover her deception. It was simply about the man himself.

  Danger . . . harm . . . deception.

  The thoughts surrounded her, the bitter smell of animosity, and she twisted in her seat, trying to find their source. Who? Who wanted to harm Mordichai? She had to find his attacker . . . had to warn him.

  She couldn’t bear the thought that harm might come to him. And that realization scared her as much as the knowledge that she might already be too late.

  21

  Jason’s holographic image stood on Mordi’s holopager, his hands spread wide with agitation. “It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Why would Dionys be excited about our father’s return to the fold? And what’s this B.S. about sitting at Zephron’s right hand? It’s a total cro—”

  “One thing at a time,” Mordi said. He was in a small service hallway off the lobby. At the moment, the hall was completely deserted. “Did you talk to Romulus?”

  “Out on bail.”

  At that, Mordi took a step back. Apparently, his surprise showed on his face, because Jason’s image nodded.

  “I know. Another oddity in a truly odd day.”

  “But it makes some sense,” Mordi said. “Maybe he was the one planning something here tonight. But then he saw me and figured he shouldn’t press his luck, and that’s why nothing’s gone down yet.”

  Jason nodded slowly. “Could be. Or maybe Isole Frost was the one planning something there tonight . . . and you sidled in as her date and blew all her hard-made plans.” Mordi scowled, not wanting to acknowledge the possibility, but knowing that he had to at least keep an open mind.

  “Is anything happening there?” Jason asked.

  Mordi had to assume that his half brother meant something other than the way his blood raced and his body stiffened when he was around Izzy. “Nothing,” he said. “Although I do have something I want you to check out.”

  “Shoot.”


  Mordi took a breath, thinking about his earlier suspicion that Hieronymous had invented some sort of control device. He couldn’t do it with the current Protector technology—at least, not using his powers directly—but maybe someone else could. “It’s probably nothing, but with Hieronymous being such an invention junkie, I thought it was worth checking out. During his speech, Harold Frost said that he—”

  “Mordi!”

  Izzy’s scream reverberated down the hall, and Mordi dove left just as a burly man smelling vaguely of cabbage plowed into him, sending him crashing to the ground. What the hell?

  Mordi didn’t bother trying to analyze the situation, he was too intent on getting the gorilla off him. He reared back with his fist and landed a powerful punch right in the man’s face.

  Nothing.

  Just . . . squish.

  A Henchman.

  Henchmen. The vile creatures vaguely resembled squid in their natural form, but they could assume other shapes at will. Unlike Mordi, though, the shapeshift was essentially an illusion, so that when you actually fought a Henchman, it was like fighting a tub of slime. Score one for this Henchman.

  The beasts were preternaturally strong, too, even stronger than most Protectors. Score another point for the hellish creatures.

  They were not, however, very bright. And it was there that a Protector’s advantage really lay. At the moment, though, Mordi wasn’t thinking. He was reacting. He whipped his leg out, prepared for it to hit a wall of Jello rather than flesh, and was absurdly satisfied with the thick slurp as his leg impacted his attacker.

  The creature tumbled backward, and Mordi climbed to his feet, already summoning his power. The thug was back up, though, and Mordi wasn’t ready. It lunged forward.