by J. Kenner
“Where?” he asked.
“Upriver,” his father answered. “The Tappan Zee Bridge is collapsing.”
Mordi scowled, suspicious, but Hieronymous gestured toward one of the screens. A ticker was running across the bottom, and it confirmed what he’d said.
“We’re close. We have time.” He drew in a breath, then fixed his father with a stare. “Stay here,” Mordi said, then turned to Izzy. “Let’s go.”
She was already pulling a propulsion cloak from her Council-issued backpack. She flung it around her shoulders and nodded at Mordi, who was doing the same thing.
“Give me a cloak,” Hieronymous said.
Izzy hesitated, then dug deep in her bag.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mordi asked. “He can’t have that. This is too big, too serious.”
“I intend to assist you, son. If I have to take the train, I will most assuredly arrive too late.”
“We have it under control,” Mordi said.
Izzy, however, sided with Hieronymous. “We can use the help,” she said, and tossed Hieronymous a cape.
Her easy acquiescence to his father’s presence worried Mordi, but the kids were most important, and there wasn’t time. He took off running for the exit, his father and Izzy at his heels.
As he ran, he remembered that the power source for his cloak’s invisibility feature had gone dead, and he hadn’t changed it. He sighed. A quick glance at his companions, though, showed that they wore basic propulsion cloaks anyway—without such a feature. The three of them were going to be visible, and there was simply nothing he could do about it.
The thought went through his head as fast as a blink, and the next moment he was airborne, Izzy at his side and Hieronymous bringing up the rear.
“This is against regulations,” he growled to her as they soared off over the Hudson.
“Flying while visible? I know. But we hardly have a choice.”
“Not that,” Mordi said, certain that Izzy knew exactly what he meant. “No Outcast is permitted to have use of a propulsion cloak or other Council-issued device. That includes Outcasts participating in the re-assimilation program. Not until they are cleared to return.”
Her cheeks flushed pink, and he wasn’t sure if the color was from guilt or from the cool temperature at their current altitude.
“He had to come,” she said.
He hated the suspicion that bubbled in his gut. “We should have left him in Manhattan.”
She twisted, dipping a bit in the air as she turned to look at Hieronymous. “And what if even one of those children perished? What if we saved them all except one, and with your father we could have saved them all? Could you live with that? I couldn’t.”
Mordi swallowed. He couldn’t, either.
“We’ll have help,” he said. The Council had surely already sent a team.
“Probably. But do you know that for sure?”
He didn’t, of course. Izzy was right. On all counts. At least in terms of helping the most people. And since Mordi hated being wrong, he simply kept his mouth shut as she pulled out her holopager and reported in, telling headquarters their location and the nature of the impending tragedy.
As he’d suspected, the Council already knew—newly trained Protectors monitored CNN and the Fox News Channel around the clock, and others patrolled major cities—and a cadre of Protectors had already been dispatched.
Mordi took no pride in being right, however. From what the dispatcher said, the team would likely arrive on their heels. Mordi, Izzy, and Hieronymous would be the first on the scene.
The wounded Tappan Zee Bridge now came into focus, seeming to grow larger as they approached. Mordi didn’t need his cousin Zoe’s super hearing now; the screams of terrified children filled the air.
A burst of wind startled him, and suddenly, Mordi realized he was in his father’s wake. He met Izzy’s eyes, and they both rushed to catch up with the Outcast.
Above them, news helicopters hovered, their cameras taking in and broadcasting the tragedy below. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mordi realized that those cameras were also filming him and Hieronymous and Izzy in their Fabulous Flying Capes. The thought, however, never really germinated; he was too concerned with how to rescue the children.
“Look.” He pointed toward the front of the school bus, the portion still resting on some of the slowly collapsing bridge. “That asphalt is unstable. It’s going to break away any minute, and then—”
“The bus will be counterbalanced,” his father said. “It will fall headlong into the water.”
“You two pull,” Izzy said. “I’ll push.”
They split up, and she headed for the front of the bus. Protectors in general had super strength—at least, they were much stronger than mortals—but unlike in the movies, all Protectors couldn’t go around lifting multi-ton buses. A few Protectors could, if that was their special skill, and for a brief moment, Mordi thought of Clyde. And he almost wished the creep were there to help.
Izzy would have it the worst, balancing in midair as she was, with nothing to push against or obtain leverage with.
These thoughts zipped through Mordi’s head as he planted his feet on the unsteady asphalt behind the bus and grabbed hold of the back bumper. He tugged as Izzy shoved, and the bus moved backward toward safety. It only moved a hair, but at least it moved.
Mordi dug his heels in, preparing for another massive tug. He kicked bits of plastic and metal out of the way, and tightened his grip. Then, as Izzy gave the signal and he pulled, he realized for the first time that he was pulling all alone.
What the—?
From the bus, he could hear the children’s terrified murmurs and cries. From a distance, he could hear the approach of the Council team, their arrival imminent.
Of his father, though, he heard and saw nothing. That slimy son of Medusa! He really was going to leave these kids to—
“Stay back!”
Hieronymous’s voice echoed in a whoosh of wind, and then Mordi was knocked on his back. His father loomed over him, holding a length of cable still connected to the beams above. Mordi blinked at the sight, unable to register his father’s actions against the reality of the situation. A fraction of a second ticked by, and before Mordi could react, his father tossed him over the side of the bridge.
No!
Oh, sweet Hera, his father couldn’t be planning to sacrifice all those children. It couldn’t be possible. And yet, after everything his father had done in the past, he knew that it was possible. It absolutely was.
With a massive effort, Mordi kicked his cloak into action and halted his fall. The Council team was almost there, just a few seconds away and near to being in range. Mordi called out for them to help him, to stop Hieronymous.
Below, he saw that Izzy had fallen as well, and now she was braking to a midair halt, her cape fluttering around her shoulders as her feet dangled in the air just inches above the dark water of the Hudson.
Mordi pushed her out of his mind. She was safe. Only the children mattered, and he focused on saving them, kicking his cloak into overdrive. His arms thrust forward as he tried to make himself as aerodynamic as possible. He ignored everything—the helicopters above, the children’s screams, the emergency sirens—and focused solely on his goal.
He cleared the bridge and found Hieronymous moving away from the bus, the length of cable secured to its back bumper. “Bastard,” Mordi screamed as he landed on the bridge. “What have you done?”
And that was when the explosion hit. The asphalt beneath the bus crumpled, taking Mordi with it. He fell, debris beating against his chest but fortunately missing his head. A large chunk hit his cloak controls, though, and he couldn’t fly. The water, now filled with flotsam and jetsam from the collapsing bridge, was rising up to meet him; and he switched tactics, focusing not on his cloak, but on his levitation skills. He could levitate himself and—
Something grabbed him, strong hands gripping under his arms and carrying
him up toward the remains of the bridge. There were cables and girders and beams still standing, just much of the concrete had given way.
His father. Mordi started to twist around, started to tell the man he’d rather fall to the river than be rescued by the likes of someone who would condemn a busload of children to a watery grave. But as he looked up, realization dawned. The bus was still there . . . even though the concrete that had been under it was gone. Instead, it was hanging from the cable that Hieronymous had attached. Now it swung, at an uncomfortable angle for the occupants, yes, but it was safe.
The Council team was even now righting the bus, moving it to stable ground.
“A bomb,” Hieronymous said. “I recognized the damage when we approached the back of the bus. I feared there was another, and it would go off, so I did a quick pass under the bridge to confirm my fear.”
“And there was,” Mordi said. It wasn’t a question. The answer had become plainly obvious when the bridge had disintegrated under their feet.
“I didn’t have time to tell you. I simply reacted. The cable seemed the best bet. It was the only thing I could think of to keep the bus from falling into the river.” Hieronymous’s breath seemed to hitch. “So I did what I could to keep those poor, innocent children from falling to their doom.”
Mordi nodded, too stunned to conjure words. Hieronymous had just saved not only a busload of mortal children, but Mordi himself.
For the most infinitesimal moment of time, Mordi felt a surge of pride for his father, but that pride was quickly vanquished by fear. Because he still wasn’t convinced of the man’s goodness. If Hieronymous Black was resorting to saving mortal children to win the battle . . . then who knows what he would do to win the war.
42
Camera flashes strobed around him, and Hieronymous turned slowly, not wanting to thwart any of the reporters’ attempts to achieve the perfect camera angle. Because they’d been visible during the rescue, he, Mordi, and Isole were now the subject of the news media’s collective feeding frenzy. The other Protectors—those who’d been able to vanish under the shield of an invisibility cloak—had already surreptitiously departed.
Now, though Hieronymous knew that the Council elders would prefer silence, the three of them had no choice but to answer questions. The MLO would step in later and clear up the mess.
In the meantime, Hieronymous intended to make the most of this media-op. He had arranged it, after all. He would be a fool to let it simply pass by.
“Mr. Black! Mr. Black!” A reporter cried out for his attention. “Witnesses say you were flying. The footage from the news helicopters confirms this. Can you explain it? How did you and your companions accomplish something like that?”
Mordichai stepped forward. “I don’t think—”
Hieronymous put an arm out, intercepting his son at chest level. “What my son means, Mr. . . .”
“Branson,” the reporter said. “Roger Branson, Channel Two.”
“Mr. Branson,” Hieronymous acknowledged. “As my son was about to explain, that information is on a need-to-know basis only. If I were you, I’d simply be thankful that such technology does exist, and that it was able to come to the aid of those poor children. They, not me or my companions, should be the subject of your cameras.”
He flashed what he hoped seemed a genuine smile. He was a little out of practice, but he thought he managed okay. Branson looked suitably chastised and, Hieronymous knew, he himself would come off looking all the more like a hero for trying to shift the media attention toward the little brats.
It wouldn’t work, of course. The spotlight would remain firmly on him—as it should. But by having tried, he would raise his PR quotient a point or two. And, after all, this was all about perception.
Beside him, he saw Isole sidle toward Mordi. All doubts had left her; of that, Hieronymous was certain. Good. He wanted the pathetic halfling to feel all the more foolish when she finally realized the truth: that she was nothing more than a pawn in a plan he’d been hatching for so very many years.
Reporters shouted more questions, and he deftly fielded them. As he spoke, his eyes skimmed the crowd, looking for any sign of Clyde or others of his soldiers. No one. Good. They’d faded back into the crowd, losing themselves in the sea of faces. They’d stay hidden, he knew, until next he called on them.
His mouth curved in the tiniest of smiles. Everything was coming together perfectly. Even the close proximity of his son couldn’t spoil his plan or his mood. Hieronymous was a new hero to the mortals. And soon—very soon—he’d be hailed as the most supreme of all Protectors.
And when he was once again swaddled in the warm and welcoming embrace of the Council, only then would he take final action.
And, yes, he would prevail. Failure was simply not an option.
43
“We should have shut him down,” Mordi said.
Izzy shrugged. She’d thought the same thing at the time, but then dismissed it. Normally, protocol required a Protector to avoid the mortal news media as much as possible. But these weren’t normal circumstances.
“The media was already there,” she said. “It would have caused a furor if we’d pulled him out.” She frowned. “Besides, I think the only way to have gotten him out would be to use some of our powers or our cloaks, or to call in a retrieval team. And any one of those acts would have created just as much of a stir.”
Mordi frowned, but he didn’t look convinced. They were back in her office, waiting for Hieronymous to finish his debriefing with the Council elders. It wasn’t standard procedure by any means, but considering who Hieronymous was, the elders had decided the meeting was prudent.
Mordi and Izzy had retired to her office and drafted their reports, taking turns at her computer. They’d been finished for almost ten minutes, and there was still no sign of Hieronymous.
“It may be a media nightmare, but frankly, I think this may have been the best thing that could have happened,” Izzy said.
Mordi blinked, his entire being emitting a total lack of comprehension.
“For the treaty, I mean. You heard what Banyon said. The mortals in-the-know fear the Outcasts, and your father is the biggest Outcast of all. If the emissaries see that he’s suddenly rescuing mortal children—”
“Well, sure. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?”
“My father’s no hero. He’s just as conniving and devious as ever. More, even, since he’s actually willing to be nice to mortals if it gets him what he wants.”
Izzy gaped at him. “You still think he’s faking?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Faking?” she repeated, feeling slightly idiotic. But really, hadn’t he seen the man jump to action?
“Is there an echo in here?”
She drew in a breath. “Look, Mordichai, I understand that you and your father have some issues—”
“That’s the understatement of the year.”
“—but you can’t turn your back on reality.”
“No,” Mordi said, “that’s your job.”
Anger whipped through her. “Dammit, Mordi. Don’t you trust me even a little bit?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I want to. But . . .”
“ ‘But?’ ” she repeated, her blood turning cold. Suddenly, it dawned on her. “You think I’m working with him! That your father has some ridiculous plot, and I’m in on it!” Oh, sweet Hera, had he simply been using her? Was she simply a pawn in some giant investigation? And she’d slept with him—made love with him—while he was simply doing his job!
“Dammit, Izzy, take a step back and tell me how it looks.”
“I have told you how it looks. I’ve seen inside your father’s head, and he looks sincere. But you don’t trust me. You either think I’m incompetent or that I’m lying, and—”
“No,” he said.
She glared at him, but didn’t say anything.
“Iz, I know my father. Maybe
you should try listening to me. Or are you the one who’s not trusting?”
“You know what? I was factoring in your opinion—I really was. But did you miss what happened yesterday? He saved those kids!”
“Posturing.”
“I don’t agree,” she said.
The intercom buzzed, and Isole’s assistant announced that Elder Bilius requested her presence in his office. “Thanks,” she said into the speaker, relieved to have an excuse to leave. The tension between her and Mordi was impossibly thick, making her usually cozy office feel small, as if the walls were closing in. She needed some time alone, needed to think, to sort everything out.
“Izzy,” Mordi said as she opened the door. It was just her name, but his voice held a question. She turned back to him and waited. “I’ll pick you up after work?”
Isole swallowed. She’d agreed to go with him to a rehearsal dinner for two friends of his in Los Angeles who were getting married. They were supposed to catch the Council shuttle there, then stay the night on Mordi’s brother’s houseboat. Now, though . . .
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m up to it.” She looked at the floor, not willing to meet his eyes. “Besides, it sounds like Bilius is going to have me working late.”
“You’re sure?” Mordi asked, and she understood that he was talking about more than just the rehearsal dinner.
She wasn’t. She wasn’t sure at all. But she didn’t say anything; she just nodded. And then she stepped into the hall and let the door shut behind her.
44
Izzy met with the Inner Circle that afternoon, in an emergency meeting called by Elder Bilius. All the elders were present. All, that is, except Zephron.
“The High Elder does not have time for these administrative details,” Elder Trystan said in response to Izzy’s query.
She nodded, duly chastised. “You wanted to see me?”