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

by J. Kenner

  Mordi lashed out, hoping he had managed to gather some fire, but it didn’t matter. Before he could even attempt to engulf the creature in flames, the Henchman froze.

  Literally.

  Icicles hung from the creature’s nose, and his illusory pasty skin took on a bluish tint. Mordi blinked, then reached out and poked the thing. Hard as a brick . . . and cold as ice.

  Mordi spun, searching for his savior, and found himself face-to-face with Izzy. Her already pale skin was even paler, and she was breathing hard. Her perfectly coiffed hair had come loose and now fell in waves around her shoulders. She smiled weakly, then lifted one shoulder.

  “Just trying to help,” she said.

  He met her grin. “Nice skill you have there.”

  “It comes in handy when you’re thirsty and forgot to fill the ice trays.” She glanced at the Henchman. “We should move him. The ceremony will be over soon. People might come back here.”

  “Right.” Mordi bent to retrieve his fallen holopager, saw that it was broken, and sighed. He’d have to use a real telephone to finish his conversation with Jason. What a pain.

  “I’ve got some cuffs,” he said. He pulled them out of his jacket, and tossed them to her.

  She held the golden binder cuffs out, her forehead furrowed. “If I move his arms like that, he’s going to crack. I’m not a field op, so I haven’t memorized the regulations, but I’m pretty sure that freezing people and then breaking them is a no-no.”

  “True enough,” Mordi said. “But he’s not a person. He’s a Henchman.”

  She drew in a breath and her eyes went wide, and Mordi was absolutely certain that she was as surprised to hear the news as he was to be attacked. If Izzy was involved with anything bad, it wasn’t tied to this Henchman.

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “My father,” he said simply.

  A flicker of concern flashed in her eyes, but it was gone before Mordi could be certain. “Hieronymous isn’t the only Outcast that uses Henchmen,” she said. The Henchmen lived in the catacombs, were the embodiment of all the scary monsters and creepy-crawlies that hid under beds and in dark closets. And because they did the bidding of whoever released them, some of the bolder Outcasts had taken to surreptitiously acquiring one or two as pets.

  “This is his work,” Mordi said.

  Again, Izzy shook her head. “No. He’s not here. And I felt someone else. Someone who wanted to hurt you.”

  Mordi waved a hand toward the Henchman. “Duh.”

  “No, someone else.”

  He frowned. “What are you saying, Izzy?”

  “I can’t pick up on Henchmen thoughts. That’s impossible. But I knew something was happening. That’s why I ran out here. To warn you.” Her lips pressed together in a thin line as her eyes widened. “Mordi,” she finally said, “there’s still someone here. Someone who wants to hurt you.”

  Mordi considered what Izzy said. Someone else? Clyde, perhaps. Or perhaps a compatriot of one of the thirteen traitorous Protectors he’d so far locked away. Or Romulus, who was out on bail and probably pissed. Both Mordi’s past and his present were dangerous. And here he was, unwittingly dragging Izzy into the danger zone—if she hadn’t already gotten there all by herself.

  He focused again on her. She was frowning at the Henchman, concern etched on her face.

  Was it really concern? Or was it all an act? He didn’t like it, but he still couldn’t entirely discount the possibility that there was no other attacker and that Izzy was simply trying to cover her own tracks.

  The possibility disturbed him, and he pushed it away, mentally filing it in a to-deal-with-later pile. Right now, he had to get this Henchman in the stockade.

  Inside the auditorium, applause crescendoed. They were running out of time. “Call in a retrieval team,” he said. “And be ready.”

  While Izzy watched, binder cuffs at the ready, he gathered his power, took aim and—quite literally—fired. The Henchman defrosted, first blinking, then writhing about, bellowing at the top of his quite massive lungs. By that time, however, Izzy had snapped the cuffs on him and jumped back. She looked at Mordi, her eyes wide, and mouthed one word—“Fire.”

  He nodded. “Ice,” he said, his gaze fixed on hers. And he didn’t have to say aloud that the two simply didn’t mix.

  22

  “How?” Hieronymous demanded. “How can it be that an assignment—no, two assignments—that I was assured would go off without a hitch have yet to be completed?”

  In front of him, Clyde again cowered, a rather distressing posture for someone as burly as he was. “Sire—” Hieronymous held up a hand. “I am tempted to find someone more capable to assist me in these matters. I fear that your success rate lately has been pitifully small.”

  A muscle twitched in Clyde’s jaw and his eyes blazed with murder. Good. Perhaps if his puppet was sufficiently fired up and determined to prove himself, he would succeed where once he had failed.

  “The girl warned Mordichai,” Clyde explained. “Apparently she realized what was coming.”

  “Of course she realized! It was absurd to send someone in to oversee the operation without first slathering him with the empath balm and cologne.”

  Clyde hung his head. “Yes, sire.”

  Hieronymous turned, his cape whipping out behind him. He inhaled deeply, the air dank and stale in the abandoned station. “And the man? Frost?”

  The silence behind him spoke volumes.

  “I already know you failed,” Hieronymous said, adopting his most reasonable tone. “What I don’t know is why.”

  He turned, watching as Clyde drew himself up to full attention. “Our recruit, sire. He assessed the situation, determined the high level of Protector activity, and made the decision that the mission shouldn’t go forth as planned.”

  “He made the decision?”

  “Yes, sire. I wasn’t present. I couldn’t—”

  “He made the decision.”

  This time, Clyde just nodded.

  Hieronymous couldn’t answer; the rage in his head was too loud, drowning out even the remotest possibility of speech.

  One thing, though, he knew for certain. If you wanted something done right, you simply had to do it yourself.

  23

  “This really wasn’t necessary,” Mordi said. “Nice, but not necessary.” He and Isole were on the stoop of her building, and he tilted his head back and looked up toward her window. He’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his pressed white shirt, a concession to having fought a minor battle.

  Isole watched him, marveling at this man who had the strength to live the life he wanted despite a terrible past, who had strength in battle and who was still innately tender. She fought a smile, thinking about the previous night in her apartment. Truly, Mordi was an extraordinary man. And the fact that he was desperately gorgeous only added to the positives of the equation. The negative part, of course, was that she was falling (and fast!) for a man who could land her in no end of trouble. Not good.

  She followed his gaze up just in time to see her light come on. They’d sent her father ahead, and he’d obviously made his way into the apartment.

  “And I should probably get going,” Mordi said.

  Typical guy. “No. Please. My father’s enjoying talking to you.” What was she saying? She should let him go. She should have let him go a long time ago. Instead, they’d left the ceremony and taken her father for a celebratory dinner at The Pump Room, where her father had oohed and aahed appropriately. Now they were back at her apartment and, despite common sense, Izzy wasn’t ready to let him leave. “Besides,” she added, floundering for something that would persuade him. “You were attacked. What if someone else tries something?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the railing. “Uh, Iz? Not only am I pretty capable of taking care of myself—what with being a Protector and all—”

  He had a point, but she just tilted her head to the si
de and shot him her very best glare. He grinned.

  “The truth is, I get attacked just about every week.”

  “Oh.” That really did bring her up short. She’d never worked in the field, and the idea that Mordi was constantly under fire made her both thankful for her laid-back life and, absurdly, a little jealous. After all, she was a Protector, too. Or at least a halfling like Mordi was.

  “I really should go,” he said. “If you’re not . . .”

  He cut himself off abruptly, and though she tried, she couldn’t pick up any definitive scent of what was going on in his mind.

  He shook his head and started over. “I could be endangering you. It’s one of the perils of chasing traitors. I’m a target of both Outcasts and Outcasts-to-be . . . and so is anyone I care about.”

  Her heart twisted a little. Was he saying that he cared about her?

  Frustrated, she pushed the thought away. She really needed to stop thinking about this man. Yes, there was a chemistry, but no, she shouldn’t pursue it. And that was simply that.

  Which didn’t mean she needed to send him home, she told herself. After all, they were working together on two separate projects. It was natural for her to be concerned about him. As a coworker, of course.

  “You’re coming up,” she said, the belligerence in her voice intended for both of them. “And I’m really not interested in hearing any arguments. This may happen to you every day, but I work in an office. It doesn’t happen to me, and if you were any kind of a gentleman, you’d be insisting that you come up just to make sure I’m okay.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Then he nodded, his expression stern and serious. “You’re absolutely right. Don’t even think about trying to send me away. I’m coming up whether you like it or not.”

  “That’s the spirit.” She fought the urge to laugh.

  He followed her upstairs, and they found that her father had not only already found the wine, he’d found her video collection. He held up an open bottle of merlot in one hand and a copy of Flubber in the other. “Celebration, anyone?”

  Izzy laughed and kissed him. She and Mordi had decided against telling him what had happened. Since Harold had never been particularly involved in Protector stuff, there didn’t seem any reason to burden him with things that had nothing to do with his award.

  If he wanted to celebrate, then celebrate they would.

  “So, what exactly does this Polarity thing do, anyway?” Mordi asked as he sipped his second glass of wine. He sat on the couch next to Izzy—a fact that she’d made note of—while her father sat alone in the overstuffed leather monstrosity she’d bought at a furniture consignment store.

  “Ah,” Harold Frost said. Leaning forward, he automatically pushed his glasses up on his nose, as if he couldn’t describe the project without seeing better. “If you have a device that works in one particular manner, my device will allow it to work in the exact opposite.”

  Mordi just looked blank, and Izzy felt absurdly grateful. She didn’t want to be the only one who didn’t understand what in Hades her father was talking about.

  Harold laughed, delighted to have an audience. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the thing, then handed it to Mordi. “Here. You can try it later.”

  Mordi took it, a small metal gizmo that resembled a key and hung from a chain.

  “Izzy tells me you chase traitors. Perhaps it could come in handy.”

  Mordi shrugged, dubious, but put the thing around his neck anyway. “Okay. But I’m still not understanding what it does, exactly.”

  “Well, say you have a convection oven,” Harold said. “But you need a refrigerator.”

  Mordi’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not sure how that helps with traitors. But it’s pretty neat. How does it work?”

  Harold waved his hand. “Simply put the device inside the oven. It will do the rest. Now, if you’re asking me about the method by which it works . . . well, I could tell you,” he said. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  At that, Izzy rolled her eyes. “Daddy!”

  “Sorry,” Harold said, though he looked more amused than apologetic. For that matter, Mordi looked amused, too, and Isole took a secret pleasure in the fact that he seemed to think her dad was okay. “But it truly would be difficult to explain. Suffice it to say, it took years of research, trial and error.”

  “Well, thanks,” Mordi said. “And congrats again.” He took another sip of wine, finishing off his glass.

  Izzy lifted her own and followed suit. Then she poured them both fresh glasses. She wasn’t about to examine her motives, but the thought of getting rip-roaring drunk that evening was more than appealing.

  “So, what else have you invented?” Mordi asked.

  “Yes, Daddy, you haven’t told me about anything new in a long time.”

  She loved to hear about her father’s inventions. They were always so funky—things you couldn’t imagine actually buying, but that would be more than useful to have around the house. Like the Automatic Back Scratcher he’d made for her twenty-third birthday. Or the Dust-Bunny that buzzed around under the furniture sucking up the dust and debris. That one had even been featured on the Home Shopping Network one Christmas season, and even now she noticed it occasionally in drugstores in an “As Seen On TV” display.

  “Well, let’s see,” Harold said. “I’ve been working with thoughts and feelings a lot lately. For example, the Thought Pen should be quite popular. If you have a story in your head, you simply write with the pen, and the words pour out. Very handy for literary types, I would think. And there’s the Breakfast Baker Night Cap, which could be quite popular. You wear it when you go to sleep. It picks up on your thoughts during the night, determines what you’ll most likely want for breakfast, and starts the meal in your automated kitchen.”

  “What if you don’t have an automated kitchen?” Mordi asked.

  Harold looked troubled. “Well, then, I guess there’s no point in having the Night Cap.” He waved his hand. “That one was inspired by Izzy, of course. A more recent project was also inspired by her, only backwards.”

  Mordi caught her eye and mouthed “Backwards?” She shrugged.

  “Why am I not liking the sound of that, Daddy?” Izzy asked, but she was unable to hide her smile.

  “Well, now, dear, you’re always complaining about how thoughts buzz around you like flies, and how you’d like to block them out entirely sometimes? Well, I’m working on a little something that can do that.”

  She blinked. “Really? Wow.”

  Her father preened.

  Mordi’s mouth quirked and he shot a sideways glance at Izzy. The look was playful and a little longing. “I don’t suppose you have it on you?”

  Harold laughed. “Son, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “Damn,” was all Mordi said.

  Though his voice was tinged with humor, Izzy was truly disappointed. Right then, she would have loved to sit and hold Mordi’s hands without worrying about taking in his thoughts. That, however, wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.

  “So,” Harold said, clapping his hands together. “Are we celebrating, or what? Because I’ve got Flubber here, and after that, The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Izzy said. She snuggled back into the cushions, keeping an eye on Mordi to see how he reacted. If he bagged on them now, she’d mark him off her list. He didn’t have to like her dad’s old Disney movies, but if he wanted to have anything to do with her, he at least had to make a show of it.

  When he settled back, then asked if they should make popcorn, Izzy decided he’d passed with flying colors.

  They watched the first movie in silence, but when the credits rolled, Harold got up and excused himself, claiming exhaustion after his big day.

  “Your father’s great,” Mordi said after he’d gone.

  Izzy nodded. “I know.”

  Mordi stood up and switched movies, and when he sat back down, he was a bit closer. He
tucked his arm around her, and she leaned into him, careful to keep skin from touching skin. They sat like that through the movie, Izzy arranging her thoughts. She wanted to talk, but she wasn’t sure about what. Mostly, she just liked sitting with him. It felt natural. Right.

  And by the time the movie was over, she’d slipped into that comfortable place where words really weren’t necessary. As she caught a glimpse of Mordi, she realized that was probably a good thing, since if she wanted to talk, she’d have to wake him up.

  She twisted a bit, careful not to rouse him, then sat back, watching his face.

  He looked innocent, nothing like the man she’d read about: Mordichai Black, rogue Protector—a halfling who’d joined the Council only to find himself living undercover, a mole in his father’s operation; a man tempted by fate and his father’s promises of glory and riches.

  A man whose father cared more about revenge and power than he did about his own son.

  She swallowed, then wiped a single tear away as she thought of her own father, now asleep in her bedroom. He’d been there for her throughout her whole life. Never wavering. Steady as a rock, albeit a somewhat absentminded rock.

  She couldn’t imagine living a day—much less a lifetime—without her father’s love bolstering her. She couldn’t imagine it, and she didn’t know how Mordi had survived.

  And then, as she watched him sleep, she shed a tear for the little boy who, despite terrible odds, had grown up into an amazing man.

  24

  “Excellent work! Just great!” Izzy clapped, jumping up and down as Hieronymous stumbled under the weight of the child. Beside her, Mordi also offered some praise, but his tone was begrudging, not the least bit enthusiastic.

  This morning she’d awakened on the couch, but Mordi hadn’t been beside her. He’d left her a charming note saying he had things to take care of and would see her on the job. They’d done nothing the night before but sit on the sofa, watch movies, and talk. Even so, the air between them seemed to sizzle with electricity. And every time she spoke to Mordi, he seemed to go out of his way to think (and think loudly) the most mundane thoughts imaginable. He was baffling her empathy.