“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 side 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 laidback life and, absurdly, a little jealous. After all, she was a Protector, too. Or at least a Halfling like Mordi was.
“I probably 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.
“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.
She should be frustrated. Instead, she wanted him more than ever.
Not that she had any time to worry about her love life or lack thereof. At the moment, she was cheering Hieronymous on at his latest foray into good.
They’d been patrolling a stretch of Bleecker Street, looking for mortals in peril, kittens to rescue, taxis that might be careening out of control. Mordi had been surly and closed-mouthed, and even Hieronymous, who’d started the afternoon with unabashed enthusiasm, had sunk into a silence that could only be described as bitter.
Izzy supposed she couldn’t blame him. Until he performed the required number of good deeds, he couldn’t be re-assimilated. And if no good-deed opportunities were presenting themselves ... well, she was frustrated, too.
They’d been ready to head back, to give up and try again another day, when the cry had rung out: a little girl’s voice, shrill and desperate. They’d raced toward the sound, Mordi in the lead, but Hieronymous soon passed him—and Izzy’s heart soared as Hieronymous made a beeline for the little girl hanging precariously from the edge of the fire escape, an older girl trying frantically to hoist the child back up.
“Please! Please help!” the girl on the metal grating cried.
The younger girl was about three, and Izzy assumed she’d crawled out onto the fire escape when an adult wasn’t looking. There certainly didn’t seem to be an adult around now.
The little girl had probably wandered to the edge where the ladder should be, but since there was no ladder, she’d been stuck. Perhaps she’d lost her balance. Izzy didn’t know; all she knew was that when they arrived, the terrified child was dangling, and her equally terrified sibling was screaming, trying to clutch the little girl’s arms and hoist her back onto the platform.
The little girl, though, was too scared, and her kicking and flailing weren’t helping the older girl’s efforts. The weight of a three-year-old was probably too much for a seven- or eight-year-old even on a good day. With the three-year-old writhing like a worm on a hook, it really was too much.
“Tammy, no!” the older girl cried. And that’s when it had happened—the toddler let go and plummeted toward the ground.
Izzy and crew were still half a block away, and they raced with super speed toward the fire escape.
The timing had been close. The kid was falling fast and—
And then she
wasn’t
falling fast.
Thank Hera!
The little girl’s descent had slowed, even as Hieronymous’s pace had increased. He’d slid to a halt under the child, just as gravity seemed to catch up with her. She landed with a
plunk
in his arms, then started wailing, her cries punctuated by loud, wet hiccups.
Izzy exhaled. From the time they’d first heard the scream, maybe four seconds had passed. It felt more like four years.
“Well done,” she said again.
Hieronymous put the child on the ground and patted her on the head. “Nonsense, my dear. Anyone could have helped. It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.”
And having the right skills,
Izzy thought. Had she herself been here alone, that girl would have crashed to the ground.