The swell of his emotions crested over her, so powerful that she had to stifle the urge to put her arms around him, to be the one who gave him the comfort he craved. Fearing her own reaction, she moved away, letting the distance between them grow until the pressure on her chest lifted and she could breathe normally again without getting lost in the scent of his thoughts.
“There’s a lot of bad blood between you and your father,” she finally said. “Maybe it’s coloring your perception. Blinding you.”
At first, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he turned to her, his face hard. “There’s more bad blood than you know. But believe me, it’s not coloring anything. Not unfairly, at least. I know him better than you can ever hope to. The man has no interest in being on the Council. Not to help people. He’s trying to further some scheme.”
She didn’t need to touch him to know that he truly believed his words, and she fought a stab of pity for this man who’d grown up with only a shadow of a father. Her own had been the center of her world. If it had been different, though... if he’d failed her at every turn, could she suddenly believe in him now?
She had an inkling of what Mordi was feeling, and without thought she reached out for him, wanting to touch him, to feel the anger that cut through him and to discover if it was tempered with love... or only hate.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
She drew her hand back as if burned. “Sorry.”
“I’m telling you how I feel. What I know. And what I know is, Hieronymous Black doesn’t have a good bone in his body. He’s evil. Manipulative. He wants something, and I’m going to figure out what.”
She nodded, accepting the gauntlet that he was throwing down. “You’re right,” she said. “He does want something. He wants back on the Council. He wants to make amends. And he’s going to pass the tests.” She shrugged, wanting to reach some sort of truce with Mordi, the idea that there was a rift between them bothering her more than it should. How could his good opinion mean so much to her already? “Besides, what I think doesn’t really matter. I only make a recommendation. He might ace all the tests, and the Inner Circle can still refuse him re-assimilation.”
She could see Mordi’s mouth twist, but was spared his retort by the appearance of Hieronymous on the street below. She was certain he’d pass this test—after all, how much easier could it get?
Even so, she held her breath—and that one little bit of doubt ate at her gut. Because, if there was room for doubt, then there was also room for error. Her error. Her power’s error.
And oh, sweet Hera, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.
A
kitten. A
tiny little ball of white fluff, and he, Hieronymous Black, was having to jump through hoops to pluck the little creature from the top of an overgrown oak tree.
Ridiculous.
Absurd.
And yet one glance at his balcony and his two little Protector babysitters made it oh-so-clear just how necessary this charade was.
He stalked up to the kitten’s owner, who was eyeing the tree dubiously even while trying to comfort a screaming brat. He stood beside her and looked up, calculating the distance to the top branch, wishing he had a few of his tools that would make retrieving the pathetic feline that much easier.
But no, this task had to be undertaken with a minimal amount of Protector skills in order to not scare mortals. It was an absurd rule, which only served to prove his point—that Protectors and mortals couldn’t interact normally. As Protectors were clearly the superior breed, mortals should simply learn to bow to their will.
At the moment, his position was not the popular one. Soon, though ... very, very soon ...
The woman’s gaze had shifted from the tree to Hieronymous, and now she was examining him with that same somewhat bewildered expression.
He did a quick mental inventory, confirmed that he was wearing the proper attire for mortals, then tilted his head in greeting. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said. Then, though it pained him to do so, he dropped to one knee and greeted the sticky-faced little brat. “And to you, too, my dear.”
The woman’s face hardened into a thick mask. “May we help you?” she said, her voice cold.
Hieronymous stood up. So much for being polite. That was the trouble with the world today; no trust, and an appalling lack of manners.
He gestured toward the tree. “I thought perhaps I could be of assistance.”
“Oh!” The woman’s features softened. “That’s very kind of you. We’d certainly appreciate it. Wouldn’t we, Amy?”
The brat stuck her thumb in her mouth and stared at Hieronymous, her eyes slightly narrowed. He had the sudden thought that the child was a much better judge of character than the mother.
“Yes, well...” He trailed off, examining the tree. Above him, the little feline mewled. He could levitate the thing, bring it gently to the ground, but a quick glance toward his apartment building confirmed that Isole and his son were watching his every move.
Minimal Protector powers
, she’d said. A wholly absurd rule, considering he was trying to be readmitted to the very organization that prided itself on those powers.
Still, he couldn’t do anything to thwart his re-assimilation. He certainly wasn’t going to allow one mewling feline to destroy all his careful plotting.
No, this was a necessary first step in his plan, and he would see it through. As much as he hated it, as much as it demeaned him, he
would
see it through.
He’d just never expected that the first step to world domination would involve climbing a tree.
Hera’s handbags
! His father had actually saved the kitten.
If Mordi hadn’t watched the spectacle with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. But he had seen and Hieronymous had saved, and Mordi wished he’d had a digital image-recording device.
This
he’d love to share with Jason.
Behind him, Hieronymous burst through the door and onto the balcony. “Fabulous!” Hieronymous raved. “I feel twenty pounds lighter. As if I’m walking on air. As if I’ve just eaten ambrosia and—”
“Cut the clichés, already.” Mordi cast both his father and Izzy a dark look. “I mean, at least be original.”
Hieronymous’s smile evaporated. It slowly returned, but this tune the effect was slightly sinister, and Mordi had a feeling the smile was meant only for him.
“Heartwarming,” the man said, his voice flat. “So sorry if that seems cliché to you, son, but it is the truth.”
“Who am I to argue with my father?”
A pained look crossed Hieronymous’s eyes. “I had hoped ... well, let’s just say that I had hoped that my new outlook would bring us closer. I would like to rebuild bridges. Son.”
His father’s words cut through Mordi like a knife. He was saying all the things Mordi wanted to hear, but Mordi didn’t believe a word. He couldn’t. Even so, he took a step forward, his body seeming to move of its own accord. What was it they said—hope springs eternal?
He caught sight of Izzy looking about ready to melt from the sappy sweetness of it all, and Mordi stopped cold. It
was
sappy. It was also scripted. Hieronymous didn’t want Mordi in his life. Not unless he could be used. And a Halfling son? Hieronymous didn’t want one. He never had.
Mordi took a deep breath. “Any bridges between us burnt down for good a long time ago. I’m sorry,
Dad
. I just don’t believe you.”
A familiar fury appeared in Hieronymous’s eyes, but it was already cooling by the time he turned toward Izzy. “He doesn’t understand. I feel as though the world has opened up to me. As if I’ve stepped over a precipice and into a different place.” He sighed, the sound long and drawn out. “A better place, I think.”
Mordi watched as Izzy—supposedly a trained professional with empathic powers—bought into his father’s routine. Had Hieronymous truly convinced her? Or maybe he’d invented something that made her see things Hieronymous’s way? Mordi ruled that possibility out, though. In the past, Hieronymous might have gotten away with it, but in the last year—as a result of past trouble with the man—the Council had implemented a power-usage tracking system. Now, when an Outcast engaged his unique power, the Council knew.
And nothing had blipped about Hieronymous. Which meant that either his father had truly convinced Izzy of his sincerity ... or she was working with him from the inside.
“You did excellent work,” Izzy was saying, her face schooled into a professional expression. She walked Hieronymous back toward the French doors that led into his penthouse.
She took a seat on the overstuffed loveseat, and Hieronymous sat across from her in the only chair. Mordi stood, debating whether or not to sit, when sitting would involve a certain proximity to one Izzy Frost, a woman who definitely got under his skin. Lust, suspicion, and a billion other emotions swarmed through him whenever he was around her.
He remained standing. It seemed easier. And safer.
“Now, then,” she said to Hieronymous, all but ignoring Mordi as she hauled a leather case onto her lap. “It’s time for some of the more mundane aspects of the re-assimilation process.” She opened her case, rummaging through as she continued to talk. “This really is a mindless exercise,” she said, “so please don’t be nervous.”
“My dear,” Hieronymous said, “I have nothing to be nervous about. My intentions are completely pure.”
Mordi managed not to retch when his father dumped that load of B.S., but when Izzy pulled out a series of sturdy white cards with black inkblot images on them, Mordi knew the time had come. He moved nearer, all his attention focused on her, intentionally not looking at his father. “In case you forgot to read his file,” Mordi began, forcing his voice to remain steady, “my father happens to have an intellect that’s off the charts. I think you can safely assume he’s more than capable of faking his way through a Rorschach test.”
His tone was haughty, his manner both superior and condescending. And yet the woman didn’t even blink. For that, at least, Mordi had to give her a few points.
“I’ll make a note of it,” she said, then scowled at him as she tapped the cards on the coffee table, aligning their edges. After a moment, she looked back up, her eyes widening as if she were surprised to find him still standing there. “Was there something else?”
“Plenty,” he said. “But we’ll discuss it tonight.” He held his breath, afraid that she was going to back out of their date. Instead, she just met his eyes and nodded.
Mordi turned just enough to bring his father into his line of sight. His sire’s brown irises burned like hot coals, and Mordi thought he saw a familiar emotion burning deep in those soulless eyes—disappointment.
He swallowed, then forced himself to walk out of the room. Just one foot, then another, in some ridiculous parody of normalcy. But nothing was normal, could never
be
normal. Once again, Mordi had disappointed his father. And though he knew that he shouldn’t care, damn it all to Hades, he did.
And that was why he walked straight out of the penthouse and didn’t once look back.
“Absurd,” Hieronymous said, anger burning through him like whiskey. “The hoops that I must jump through ...” He trailed off, hands clenched at his side. “In the end, I hope posterity will recognize the sacrifices I’ve made.”
He was deep beneath the streets of Manhattan in an abandoned subway runnel. He’d met Clyde there, and now his former Chief of Guards was standing at attention, his scarred face full of awe and loyalty.
“Your sacrifices will be our salvation, sire,” Clyde said with a reverential tip of his head.
Hieronymous snorted. “Fool,” he spat. “Perhaps that will be so if I do prevail, but in order to fulfill my destiny and bring about the subjugation of mortals, my plan must go forth without the slightest of bumps.”
Clyde swallowed, his throat moving. “Has there ... has there been a bump, sire?”
“Yes, of course there’s been a bump. Why else would I have risked this meeting with you?” He spread out his arm, silently indicating the filthy chamber in which they stood. “And why would I choose such a putrid forum in which to discuss the matter?”
Clyde—wisely—said nothing.
Hieronymous paced along the yellow line bordering the subway platform, his fingers itching for a flat surface on which to drum. Finding nothing, he settled for rounding on Clyde. “A Rorschach test.
Why
, pray tell, was I not aware that I would be subjected to such ridiculousness?”
Clyde seemed to shrink under Hieronymous’s wrath. “I don’t know, sire. Our intelligence must be faulty.”
“Faulty?” he repeated. “
Faulty
?” He moved toward Clyde, watching his second cower in fear. “And do you believe that such a ... fault is acceptable?”
“No, sire. It won’t happen again.”
Hieronymous drew in a deep breath and collected himself. He could, after all, be magnanimous when necessary. “I trust that it will not. Even so, there are changes to be made. Precautions to be taken.”
He turned away, pacing the platform, his hands clasped before him, his incredible intellect on overdrive.
“Are we abandoning the plan, sire?”
Hieronymous spun around. “Of course we are not going to abandon the plan. I’ve spent the past year putting all the pieces into place. I have no intention of abandoning the plan now—not even if I must rescue a dozen more kittens and return lollipops to petulant little brats.” He aimed a sharp glare at Clyde. “The inkblot test was a minor setback. With my superior cognitive skills I, of course, am certain that Ms. Frost remains entirely unaware of my deception. Even so...”
He trailed off. Even so, it would be best to move up his timetable and kick his plan into overdrive.
Once again, he turned to Clyde. “You
do
know what I expect of you?”
“Yes, sire. Of course, sire.”
“Good. I shall expect the diversion in four days.”
Clyde’s eyes went wide. “Four days? I had anticipated a week. Perhaps more.”
“What you anticipated is not my concern. I’ve told you what I expect of you.” He turned slightly, meeting his servant’s gaze. “Or are you telling me that you are unable to deliver?”