by J. Kenner
“What’s so funny?”
“You. The conquering male.”
He rolled over, propping himself up on an elbow. He reached out, then stroked her breast. Her nipple tightened under his erotic onslaught, longing for a more intense caress. She let her head fall back, and she moaned.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “I think conquering is a fair description.”
“Uh-huh.” It was the only sound she could manage, and Izzy closed her eyes and let herself fall back into the abyss of pleasure.
Mordi’s low chuckle teased her senses, and he shifted beside her. Gently, he slid his hand down her body, a slow, sensual journey.
Izzy kept her eyes closed, her body arching back of its own accord into his touch. She heard the rustle of the bedclothes as he shifted beside her, then another hand joined the first, so that he held her by the waist.
His hands were warm and large, and his thumbs met in the middle of her abdomen, stroking her bare skin and working their way down to her belly button.
At first, she felt only the heat of his hands on her, generating a fire in her belly that would surely grow to consume them. She writhed with pleasure, remembering with satisfaction just how fabulous that fire could be. Then the gentle caress of his fingers was joined by the soft press of his lips against her stomach. She gasped as his tongue joined the party, dipping into her belly button.
Sweet Hera, the man was going to drive her mad!
She reached down and buried her fingers in his hair, still keeping her eyes closed as she let the power of his touch carry her away. Her every nerve ending was on fire, her body a mass of heat and energy, and she could feel herself melting into the mattress—warm, languid, and satisfied.
His mouth moved farther south, and a desperate anticipation edged out her languid feeling. Mordi’s hands stroked her hips, then moved down over her thighs. His fingers splayed so that his thumbs caressed the inside of her legs. The touch was so close she wanted to scream with frustration. She would have screamed, too, if his warm mouth hadn’t pressed against her in the most intimate of kisses, making her want to cry out with pleasure, not frustration.
He laved her, taking her just to the brink and then pulling away, teasing and gently tormenting her until she thought she’d go insane.
When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she begged.
He slid up her body and silenced her with a kiss, his hands stroking her side, brushing against her breast in a maddening caress.
“Do you want to lose yourself with me?” he whispered. “In the heat?”
She wasn’t sure she could manage a response, but somehow she whimpered an affirmation.
She had no idea what to expect. What she got was heaven.
Fire.
A tongue of fire caressed her body—hot, ticklish, but not burning. It was a conjured flame, entirely under Mordi’s control. It danced over her ankle, then crept up her leg, teasing the inside of her thigh. It skipped along, teasing her with a promise of pyrotechnics to come, and spread out along her smooth belly, moving slowly up to stroke her breasts until her nipples were so sensitive that even the air was torture.
All the while, Mordi lay beside her, his fingertips following in the wake of the blaze, watching the flame to ensure it never went out. The fire danced up over her lips, an erotic kiss of pure heat, then crept back down her body in a slow, sensual wave until it focused into a point of heat that slipped between her legs, infiltrating her core.
It no longer burned like a flame, but was a liquid heat, and she writhed as her body neared the boiling point. And then, just as she was about to explode, the fire expanded, emerged, spread out to envelop her entire body and Mordi’s. She found release then and there, and as the world shattered around her, she was safe in Mordi’s arms in a cocoon of fire.
Afterward, her body felt heavy and boneless, and she wondered if she’d ever fully recover. Beside her, Mordi kissed her ear and pulled her close, spooning her against him. She sighed, feeling warm and loved.
Loved?
She swallowed. He did love her. She could breathe deep and inhale the scent of it, and his love filled and warmed her.
But did she love him, too? She wanted him; she knew that much. She admired him, she craved him. He filled her heart and touched her senses. But how could she love him—truly love him—with so many secrets hanging between them?
“Mordi?” His name emerged as a whisper.
“Hmmm?”
“I . . . I need to tell you something.” She drew a breath, intending to tell him about her dad, about why she so wanted Hieronymous to be on the up and up, but the words wouldn’t come. She wanted to tell him, really she did, but still she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
“Izzy?” He stroked her hair, his eyes filled with concern. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“I just . . .” She took a breath. “I was just thinking about fathers. And how much I love mine.” She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “And I wished you had a father you loved, too.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”
The lie came easily, but she couldn’t stop the tears. Because if she couldn’t tell him, that must mean she didn’t really trust him.
38
The halls of the Olympus facility were mostly abandoned as Izzy and Mordi moved quickly toward the main conference room. They’d used the motel phone and called for transport, then taken the Council shuttle to the Olympus headquarters to file their formal report and meet with Bilius and Armistand. Considering how little sleep she’d gotten and how busy the morning had already been, Izzy was surprised she wasn’t half-dead on her feet.
They’d already completed the paperwork portion (in triplicate, in front of witnesses), and now they were heading for the formal debriefing with the elders. They turned into the antechamber that led into the main conference room, both of their gazes drawn to the pale blue crystalline tube in the center of the room.
“Kind of puts everything in perspective,” Mordi said. Izzy frowned, not at all sure what he was talking about. He nodded toward the tube. “The mortalization chamber.”
“That’s what that is?”
“Yup. You’ve never seen it before?”
She raised an eyebrow. “As much as I wanted to be on the Council? I would have keeled over and died if I had to see that thing.”
He grinned. “Me, too. Different reasons, though.”
“Your dad?”
He nodded. “Considering what scum he thought mortals were, I’d be damned if I was going to be one.”
She nodded, and they both watched the tube in silence for a moment. It looked innocent enough, but it was pretty sinister to a halfling. It was fraught with meaning. At twenty-five, a halfling had to make a choice, picking one side or the other from their heritage. If they chose mortalization, well, then they stepped inside the tube, the power was thrown, and they stepped out a mortal. Not only were they off the Council, but they also lost all memory of Protector life.
But even if they opted for the Council, they still had to pass a series of tests. For most, their skills and powers were developed, and they had no trouble passing all the various tests and whatnot. Izzy, though, had suffered from that little levitation problem . . .
She’d had quite a fear of mortalization, all right. And it hadn’t been unfounded.
Before she could brood any more over the past, the conference room door opened, and an assistant ushered them inside. Armistand and Bilius were already seated, each reading copies of the reports Izzy and Mordi had filled out.
“Quite an ordeal,” Armistand said.
“Yes, sir,” Mordi replied.
“And you have no idea who your attacker was?”
“No, sir,” Mordi said.
Izzy raised a brow in surprise. He did have an idea, and she knew it. He was keeping silent only because of her certainty, and that wasn’t fair to him or to the Council. She drew a breath. “Actually, Mordichai fears it may be his father.”
The elders exchanged glan
ces, then made notes on their forms. Finally, Bilius looked up, his gaze taking in both witnesses. “I understand Mordichai’s fear, particularly in light of the history between him and his father, but I’m not inclined to believe that Hieronymous attacked the two of you.”
“Nor am I,” Armistand said.
Izzy frowned, her gaze drawn to the pens they were both using. The purple fountain pens seemed oddly familiar. “Excuse me, sir, but I couldn’t help but admire your pen. Where did you get it?”
Armistand held the implement up. “Ah, yes. Fine craftsmanship. My assistant Patel provided me with it.” He turned to Trystan. “You?”
“Young Patel as well. He said it was a gift to show his appreciation for being granted re-assimilation.”
“Oh,” Izzy said, and Mordi looked at her curiously. “That was very thoughtful of him.” Obviously Patel had no connection to her father. The casing must be a common one for fountain pens. Still, it was odd . . .
She had no time to think about it further, though, because Bilius and Trystan had switched back to the original topic.
“At any rate,” Bilius went on, “I hardly believe Hieronymous would attack you.” He looked at Mordi and smiled. Izzy stifled a gasp as a wash of pro-Hieronymous emotions seemed to roll off the elder—the very same elder who just a few days ago had essentially told her that the idea of Hieronymous applying for re-assimilation made him physically ill.
The turnabout confused her. Even more, it concerned her. She supposed she should be encouraged that the elders were so optimistic about Hieronymous’s reformation. After all, as she’d told herself over and over, if Hieronymous Black was good, then she and her father were out of hot water.
She should be happy. Ecstatic. At the very least, cautiously optimistic.
She wasn’t, though. Instead, she simply felt a gnawing fear begin in the pit of her stomach.
39
Plop, plip, plop.
The steady drip of water—at least, he hoped it was water—echoed in the dark chamber. His chamber was pitch-black, and Harold Frost could see nothing.
He could hear and smell everything, though, and in this dank place, that was hardly a comfort. Sulphur, as pungent as rotten eggs, filled the air, stinging his useless eyes. Another smell, too. Though it was unfamiliar, Harold was certain that the sharp odor was the smell of burning flesh.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Blindly, he reached back, running his hand along the rough stone wall. He was already sitting on the smooth stone bench—the only one in the cell—but before he leaned back against the wall, he wanted to make sure there weren’t any creepy-crawlies on it.
They came in the night—or what he thought was the night—slithering around and over him. He shivered at the memory.
He had no idea how long he’d been here, but it was long enough to leave him exhausted and half-starved. When he’d first arrived, he’d tried to pace the area of his cell, but there was no room. If he held his hands out and turned in a circle, his fingers never ceased to touch the walls.
He thought again of his daughter, how she’d hate this place, and the thought gave him strength. She was special. She’d save him. He knew that. In his heart, he knew that his daughter would come for him.
Still . . . it didn’t hurt to be practical. And he’d run his hands over every inch of the walls, looking for embedded latches, nooks, secret passageways, anything.
But there was nothing.
And all he could do was sit in the dark and wait.
40
“You’re not really going to resign, are you?” Izzy propped herself up next to him and snaked a finger along his bare skin. Mordi shivered, fighting the urge to simply roll her over and take her again. It was morning, after all. Time to get moving.
“Mordi?”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll stay.” He flashed her a grin. “You need a reality checker, anyway.”
That earned him a smack with her pillow, and he caught her wrists, pulling her on top of him. His body immediately stiffened, overwhelmed by the sensation of flesh against flesh. Isole’s flesh.
He’d come to know every inch of this woman. Every delicious inch.
With other women, he’d had sex. With Izzy, he made love.
He’d fallen hard and fast, and it felt right. Considering who she was, she probably already knew. But even so, he wanted to tell her. Wanted to say the words out loud. Wanted to announce his love to the whole damn world.
But, most of all, he wanted to hear the words reflected back.
He drew a breath and took her hand.
“Izzy—”
The sharp ring of his cell phone cut him off. He considered turning the damnable thing off, but duty won out and he answered.
“Where are you?” Jason demanded.
“Good morning to you, too,” Mordi said.
“She’s bad news, Mordi,” Jason said. “Or at least her father is.”
His blood ran cold, and he stilled. Izzy frowned at him, a question in her eyes. He turned away. “What’s happened?”
“Can you talk?”
“Not really.”
“I figured.”
“Could you just cut to the chase?”
“Right. Sure.” Jason exhaled, as if from extreme exertion. “We had Hale go to Harold Frost’s lab to investigate this benefactor thing. Figured he can be invisible without having to keep his hands and arms under an invisibility cloak. And there might be security cameras, so—”
“Jason. Just tell me.”
“Right. Well. He found information. Frost and our father. Working together.”
Mordi closed his eyes, counted to five. “On what?”
“Don’t know.” A pause at Jason’s end. “Did she tell you?”
“No,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Maybe—”
“She doesn’t know?” Jason finished the thought for him. “I thought of that. But maybe she does. You need to confront her.”
“I can’t do that,” Mordi said.
Jason muttered something unintelligible. “Why?”
“Think about it.”
“You can’t talk.”
“Right,” Mordi said.
“Okay.” A pause, then: “I guess it does make sense. You’re on the Protector Oversight Committee. It’s your sworn duty to investigate any suspicious or potentially traitorous conduct. And you can’t investigate properly if she knows you’re watching her.”
“Something like that,” Mordi said, hating himself as he spoke.
“Just be careful, little brother.”
Mordi nodded, his thoughts a muddle, then realized Jason couldn’t see him. “Yeah. Of course I will,” he said, then hung up without saying good-bye. Everything Jason had said was true. But there was more. Mordi simply couldn’t believe Isole Frost was a traitor. Perhaps she didn’t know about her dad. Or perhaps there was some other explanation. Either way, Mordi trusted her.
He closed his eyes and took a breath, praying he wasn’t wrong. He’d misplaced his loyalty before, wasting years following his father.
Please, Zeus, he couldn’t be wrong this time, too. Not about Izzy. Not about the woman he loved. What would he do if he had to arrest her?
41
Every television in Circuit City was turned on, and Hieronymous stood in the middle of them, absorbing the information that was funneled toward him from the screens.
Mordi groaned. They’d been on their way to assist a mortal, but the New York City police had arrived first, handily stopping a mugging in progress. With nothing to do at the moment, Hieronymous had suggested the detour, and Izzy had given in.
From what Mordi could tell, his father was now in a state of bliss. Not too surprising, really. Lately he hadn’t had a lot of television access. Where once the penthouse had been lined with televisions—each tuned to some financial channel—now it was stripped down, its function replaced with comfort by the Council, who’d been utilizing it as a
spare office and lodging for traveling Protectors who might need the facilities.
Without access to his financial reports, Hieronymous seemed at his wits’ end. Now the man was glued to these television screens, and Izzy had gone off to look at a replacement computer for her apartment. Mordi had insisted that he wanted to find a new CD, but really, he just needed a moment alone to get his head on straight.
He held up a Sheryl Crow CD and pretended to be reading the track list. In reality, though, he was watching Izzy. As much as he wanted to remain true to his convictions, tiny pinpricks of doubt had entered his mind. Surely she couldn’t be working with his—
“Mordichai! Isole! We must go. Now.” Hieronymous’s voice, urgent but full of self-control, yanked Mordi from his thoughts.
Customers turned to stare, probably wondering about the less-than-fashionable cape that fluttered from Hieronymous’s shoulders as he moved with near-inhuman swiftness to where Mordi stood, still rooted to the spot.
“Now,” Hieronymous repeated.
Izzy rushed forward. “What? What’s going on?” she asked, voicing Mordi’s thoughts.
Hieronymous didn’t answer; he merely turned, one finger pointing toward the rows of televisions. Where once they’d been displaying shows, now each television showed one scene. Each was a different station, each had different camera angles, but all were focused on one impending tragedy—a splintered bridge, bits of asphalt falling into the river, and snapped cables writhing in the wild winds like serpents.
Cars had come to a dead stop, backed up on the bridge. Lights from emergency vehicles flashed red, blue, and yellow across the scene.
And there, at the center of every news camera’s image, was the possibility of real, deep tragedy. A school bus, bright yellow and filled to the brim with children, was dangling precariously over the fissure, its two front tires already free from the pavement. It balanced there, seesawing a bit, and every person in the store—eyes fixed on those television screens—knew what Mordi knew. It was only a matter of time.