“Well, Hale, of course.” She frowned as she lifted up on her tiptoes and scanned the room. “But I don’t see him.”
Mordi exhaled, relieved. Hale was Zoë‘s half brother and also Mordi’s cousin. Unlike Zoë and Mordi, though, Hale was a full-fledged Protector. He was also arrogant as hell and had a tendency to be unforgiving.
Considering Mordi had given Tracy—Hale’s wife— a bit of a rough time a few years ago, Mordi rather hoped Hale didn’t suddenly appear.
The clatter of toenails on the hardwood floor drew Mordi away from his thoughts, and he looked down as Elmer skittered up. The little ferret glared at him and started bouncing up and down, his tail straight up and his sharp teeth gleaming.
“Come on, Elmer,” a disembodied voice behind Mordi said. “He’s okay...
now
.”
As Mordi turned toward the voice, the air seemed to shimmer. And then, without any fanfare Hale appeared, looking picture-perfect as usual.
The ferret scurried to Hale’s pant leg, then climbed all the way up until he perched on Hale’s shoulder, chattering wildly.
“Where’s his collar?” Zoë asked. “I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”
“Didn’t wear it,” Hale said, nodding to Mordi. “We were running late. He’s saying he doesn’t trust our cousin.”
“For the love of Hera,” Mordi began. “I don’t care what the little rodent—”
“No, no. It’s okay.
I
trust you.” He rolled his shoulder, and Elmer struggled for balance. “This one will just have to get used to the idea.”
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“Why? You mean why do I trust you?”
Mordi nodded.
Hale shrugged, then grimaced as Elmer’s claws dug in. “Zephron says you’re one of the good guys now.” Hale’s steady gaze met Mordi’s. “He’s always right. Are you saying he was misinformed?”
“No,” Mordi said firmly. “He’s right.”
“Well, then. You’ve got my vote until you screw up again.” Hale held out a hand. “Welcome to the party.”
Mordi purposely didn’t shake. “Thanks.”
Hale pulled his hand back and shoved it in his pocket, his eyes fixed on Mordi’s. “See you around,” he said, then turned and headed across the room. There Tracy was laughing with a woman with short dark hair.
Mordi turned back to Zoë. “I really didn’t come here to—”
“I know. You came to discuss business.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry about the negotiations. I imagine Zephron will only expect you to sit there and look friendly and cooperative. After all, he only wanted us for our blood.”
He had to agree with her. They were both Halflings, and Zephron wanted Halflings at the negotiating table. Someone with whom mortals would feel a kinship.
Well, if Mordi’s blood made him useful, then so be it. For that matter, it would be the first time in his life his mother had ever done anything for him. Other than giving him birth, that is.
He frowned, Zoë words finally registering. “Expect
us
,” he said. “You meant to say that Zephron will expect us to sit there and look friendly.”
Her face shifted, taking on a determined yet embarrassed quality. “Well, the thing is—”
Little Talia let out a piercing wail, and Zoë immediately started fussing with her, finally quieting the little girl.
“She’s
the thing,” Zoë said. “I just don’t feel right leaving her, especially not when the meetings are so erratically scheduled.”
The import of her words hit him. “
Alone
?” It was bad enough wheeling and dealing with politicos, but to have to do it alone?
She shook her head. “Zephron said he’d appoint another Halfling to replace me.”
Small comfort, but Mordi couldn’t argue the point because Zoë lifted Talia out of the carrier, wrinkled her nose and sniffed in the general vicinity of the little girl’s bottom, then took off, leaving Mordi quite alone.
Well, damn.
He poked at the buffet, piling crackers and cheese on a plate while his thoughts drifted to what Hale had said.
Yes
, he was one of the good guys. But when, exactly, had that happened?
When he’d first agreed to Zephron’s offer to be a mole, Mordi’s sole motivation had been self-preservation. In his mind, he hadn’t actually turned away from his father. How could he have? He’d spent his whole life trying to meet his father’s expectations, trying to wrest some hint of approval out of the man’s cold, hard eyes.
It had never come.
Hieronymous had been his father by birth, but that didn’t mean the man loved him. Mordi was a Halfling, and in Hieronymous’s view, that made him an object of contempt and derision—hardly someone worthy of inheriting Hieronymous’s empire, such that it was.
Idly, Mordi looked around the room for his half brother. Jason was a full-fledged Protector, and Hieronymous had been more than willing to pour love and glory on that son.
But Jason had wanted nothing to do with Hieronymous. Hieronymous had promised Jason everything that Mordi had ever wanted, and Jason had thrown it back in his face.
Mordi had thought his brother a fool.
Now, he saw Jason standing with his wife Lane, Taylor’s sister. Both were chatting with Tracy and the dark-haired woman.
He inched toward Taylor, who, having been relieved of his infant burden, was sucking down a beer. “Who is that?”
Taylor followed the direction of Mordi’s finger. “That’s Maggie. Nick’s wife.”
That figured. As far as he could tell, everyone at the party was quite attached, bound to husbands and wives, starting families. They were each loved, and they each had someone to love.
Mordi grimaced. He hated sappy sentimentality, and yet here he was, being all sappy and sentimental. But the truth was the truth, and he’d never known that kind of love. Never had another human being—mortal or Protector—who cared about him above all others. And how could he, with the stigma of his father hanging over his head? Even free of the man, Mordi was still haunted by his presence.
“Mordi?”
He jumped. Zoë had come back and now had a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged away from her touch. “I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to Jason.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, just headed across the room until he was standing outside the little circle of people, slightly behind Jason. After a second, his brother realized he was there and turned.
“Well, well, the prodigal brother.”
Mordi searched Jason’s face, looking for a hint of emotion. There wasn’t any, and he started to take a step backward. This was a mistake. After all, he and Jason had had the roughest patch of all, and if—
“Where the hell are you going?” Jason’s fingers clamped down on Mordi’s shoulder.
“Nowhere,” Mordi said.
Jason studied him.
Mordi stood a little straighter. Since the first moment he’d met Jason, his brother had intimidated the hell out of him. Well, no longer. “I’m leaving,” Mordi said. “Where in Hades did it look like I was going?”
To his surprise, Jason started laughing. “Hopping Hera, Mordi—you are so damn touchy.”
Mordi started to argue, but then stopped himself. He
was
too damn touchy. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
Jason looked him up and down for a moment, then stepped back to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So I guess congratulations are in order.”
Mordi squinted. “Are they?”
“I skim the website,” Jason said. “You’ve brought in thirteen traitors in as many months. Not a bad record.”
“I’m proud of it,” Mordi said.
“I’ll bet.”
Mordi frowned, not certain if the sarcasm he heard in Jason’s voice was real or imagined. “What do you mean by that?”
Jason shrugged. “I just wonder if you’re not trying too hard.”
A chill ran down Mordi’s spine. He ignored it. “I’m a Protector,” Mordi said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” Mordi said. “
Really
.”
“So you’re not out to prove that you don’t care what Daddy Dearest thinks of you? You’re really past all of that.”
“Of course I am,” Mordi said. “
I
don’t care what he thinks about me at all.” But that was a lie. He did care. He cared one hell of a lot. He’d simply pushed caring aside.
He sighed. He knew he’d made the right choice, taken the right path.
Why, then, was it always so damn hard?
Izzy stood in the cafeteria line, bouncing a little as she checked her watch. She’d flown back to Manhattan from D.C. the night before, and she hadn’t yet even made it into her own office. She’d received an e-mail from Zephron that morning, sticking her on some committee (as if she had time for that!), and she’d raced from her apartment in the Village all the way to the Council’s headquarters under the U.N. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. She was starved. And if the line didn’t start moving faster, she was going to be late.
Greedily, she eyed the last lemon poppy-seed muffin, safe and snug in the display case. She was eighth in line, and mentally she tried to calculate the odds that the muffin would still be there when she reached the counter—taking into account the fact that she was definitely picking up on some strong poppy-seed-muffin vibes from somewhere ahead of her.
No idea. Math had never been her strong suit.
Maybe she could shout out that she wanted the muffin and ask them to set it aside for her. Might not work, but it was worth a shot.
Besides, she was ravenous, and if she didn’t get the lemon poppy-seed, she was stuck with zucchini (bad) or chocolate (worse). While she liked chocolate just fine, the idea of a chocolate
muffin
grossed her out. Cake, yes. Muffin, no. Some things were just plain sacred.
Inspired to lay her claim, she lifted her hand, trying to catch the clerk’s attention. No luck. But the seven Protectors in front of her and the five behind all noticed.
A few turned away immediately, making a point of not looking at her. Two started whispering together, and though her hearing wasn’t anything special, “that’s the one” drifted unmistakably toward her.
She blinked, lowering her hand. She couldn’t even stand in a stupid food line without getting stared at and whispered about. And she sure as Hades wasn’t going to ask that the muffin be set aside now. Zeus forbid it look like she were the recipient of some special muffin privilege.
She could hear it now. “
Zephron’s her uncle, you know. Not only did he get her on the Council, he arranged it so that the cafeteria makes special meals for her. Veal when we have chicken. Eggs Benedict while we choke back dried-out pancakes. Lemon poppy-seed muffins while we’re stuck with those chocolate abominations. Privileged, undeserving little bit—”
“Ms. Frost?”
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. She was sixth in line, the muffin was still there, and a familiar-looking man had sidled up next to her. She squinted, blinked, and then everything clicked into place.
“Patel! I didn’t recognize you. You look great.”
“Thanks.” He held out a hand to shake, then, obviously remembering the rules and who he was talking to, awkwardly tugged it back and shoved it into his pocket. “Re-assimilation will do that to a person. I feel like a new man.”
“You look like one.” He did, too. Where once he’d been a bit amphibious, now he seemed lean and trim. He gave the appearance of a man freshly scrubbed, and she caught the scent of his aftershave: an odd brand that reminded her of newly minted pennies. Unusual, but charming in its own way.
His face, once sheltered, now seemed more open. Happier. There was still a shadow behind his eyes, but she supposed that living six years as an Outcast would do that to a person.
Patel had been her very first re-assimilation, and one of the first group of Outcasts who’d applied after the passage of the Outcast Re-Assimilation Act. She hadn’t been surprised that he’d slipped so easily through the system. He was the ideal re-assimilation candidate, the kind of Outcast for which the act was passed in the first place.
He’d broken the rule against public defamation of the mortal political process—an Outcastable offense but (in Izzy’s opinion, anyway) nothing to get too worked up about. He’d been repentant, but it was a third offense, and the Council’s three-strikes rule was set in stone. Examples had to be made, and Patel had been out.
“I’ve been assigned to Elder Armistand,” he said. “Personal assistant.”
“No kidding? That’s great.” They moved forward in the line. Only four people ahead of her now, and the muffin was still there. “I’ve actually got a meeting with him in a few hours. I’ve never met him. What’s he like?”
“Oh, he’s fabulous,” Patel said. “Efficient, organized, no-nonsense. I’ve been doing a lot of work toward the treaty renegotiation.” He shrugged. “The man knows politics.”
“I suppose so,” Izzy said. “He hired you.”
Patel blushed a little. “Well, I like to think my re-assimilation essay played some role, but mostly I think you’re right.”
Izzy shrugged. There really was no sense sugarcoating the situation. Armistand had supported the act from day one. What better way to prove it was working like a charm than to hire the re-assimilated?
“And I get access to the elder spa,” he said. “So that’s cool.”
Izzy bit back a grin. The elders and their staff had access to exclusive spa facilities on Olympus. She’d been there once, as Zephron’s guest, and it had ruined her for every other spa experience.
From what she could see, Patel was taking full advantage of the facilities. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds, had a tan, smelled faintly of massage oil, and had been thoroughly cut, styled, and blow-dried.
Jealousy crested, and she made a mental note to schedule an appointment to have her hair trimmed and her nails done at Frederic Fekkai. Not Olympus, but not shabby either.
The line moved. Two people ahead of her now.
Patel shifted backward, clearly about to take his leave. “Anyway, I saw you and I just wanted to say hi and to tell you that I’m doing well. And it’s all due to you. Thank you.”
And then, even though she knew she shouldn’t, she reached out and took his hand, hoping that the gesture looked casual, as if she was so moved by the spirit that she simply forgot the rules. But it was a stupid rule, and she had to know. Had to be sure. He was her first and now, with Hieronymous’s re-assimilation dogging her, she just needed to
know
—with absolute certainty—that Patel was doing right.