Aphrodite's Flame (16 page)

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

Hieronymous nodded, satisfied. He had no reason to doubt Clyde. The burly Outcast had been nothing but loyal since he’d first sworn fealty so many years ago. He would come through. He had to.

But it wasn’t Clyde’s loyalty or his skill that preyed on Hieronymous now. It was the lack of loyalty from where he’d expected it most.

Not Jason—he’d lost that connection before it had ever been forged.

Mordichai...

Though he hated to admit it, Hieronymous had become complacent, used to his Halfling son’s constant presence. For that matter, he had even become resigned to the likelihood that Mordichai would inherit the empire once he himself ceased to be.

Not ideal, of course. Certainly, Hieronymous would have preferred a pureblood offspring. But he’d made do, resigning himself to the unfortunate fact that his heir would be an imperfect recipient of a perfect legacy.

Then he’d learned of his son’s deception. Of his treason.

Some things could be forgiven. Betrayal could not.

He clenched his fists, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as he fought to quell the burst of anger.
Control
. Control was ever so important in such matters.

Control over others, and control over one’s emotions.

He had such control now. And he knew what he had to do.

Slowly, he faced Clyde who was standing at attention, still awaiting his dismissal.

“There is one other thing,” Hieronymous said, taking care to keep his voice blank, emotionless. “My son is proving to be an impediment to my plan. I think it’s time that we take Mordichai out of the equation. Tonight. When we acquire the bait.” He met Clyde’s eyes, saw both surprise and joyous anticipation reflected there. “And Clyde,” he added. “I hope you understand that I want a permanent solution.”

The main offices of the Venerate Council of Protectors were located on Mount Olympus, a tribute to the Protectors’ heritage as descendants of Zeus and his siblings. Back then, the general populace had assumed the original Protectors were gods. And Zeus, not being a particularly humble sort, hadn’t done anything to disabuse them of that notion.

There were times when Jason thought it might be cool to be considered a god, but on the whole he much preferred the current arrangement. The actual getting to Olympus was a hassle, and once there, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the statues of Greek gods and goddesses—his great-great-great aunts, uncles, cousins, and such—that filled every nook and cranny. The offices in New York and D.C. were much more hospitable, if slightly darker, what with being underground and all.

Now he walked through the sun-streamed hallways, searching for Dionys, the elder in charge of granting visiting privileges to Protectors currently in the stockades. The man wasn’t on Jason’s favorite-person list, but under the circumstances, seeing him was necessary.

Jason had spent a year on Olympus after he’d escaped his father’s clutches. And though Dionys had shown no signs of contempt recently, back then the elders had been more than a little dubious about where Jason’s true loyalty lay. Dionys had been particularly cold. His hatred of Hieronymous ran deep, and the elder had held no compunction about warning Jason that, if he should turn out to be aligned with his father, he’d be tossed into the catacombs and never again see the light of day.

The accusation and threat had infuriated Jason then, and it still bothered him now. Not a lot he could do about it, though, so he kept searching for the elder.

Dionys wasn’t in his office, and the assistant on duty suggested Jason check in the library.

Jason passed a statue of Zeus, arms wrapped around Hera, then another of his closer relative, Poseidon. Another long corridor, and then finally he reached the double doors of the library. He pushed in, received a stern glare from the librarian, then padded softly toward the back.

He found the elder in a small alcove, seven leather-bound volumes open in front of him, the musty smell of ancient paper and ink filling the air. Dionys was making notes, carefully copying information from the volumes onto sheets of lined parchment with an ornate purple fountain pen. Jason waited for the elder to notice him. And waited. And waited.

Finally, he cleared his throat. Dionys looked up, wire spectacles perched in front of clear blue eyes whose edges crinkled with age.

“Ah, young Jason, is it? What brings you back to Olympus?”

The elder’s tone was conversational and warm, but even so, Jason fought a fresh wave of anger. He took five deep breaths and focused his thoughts. This wasn’t about him anymore. Dionys had apparently moved on; so should Jason.

“I was hoping to receive dispensation to speak with Romulus,” Jason said. He left it at that. If the elder needed a reason, he had a story contrived and ready to go.

“Dispensation?” The elder looked up, his expression amused. “That’s certainly not necessary. Romulus has been released on bail.”

Jason blinked. “Bail?”

“Why, yes.”

“Who bailed him out?”

“You know perfectly well that information is confidential. But I would hardly expect a Protector such as Romulus to remain in the stockade for any length of time.”

“Um, right.” Jason frowned, reminding himself he’d expected that very thing. “Is he still on Olympus?”

“He may well be,” the elder said. “I don’t have that information. Certainly, his bail held no such conditions, and while he did express his gratitude to the elders on the prisoner committee, he didn’t tell us where he intended to go.” He met Jason’s eyes. “Of course, we have his holo-pager number, so we are able to contact him.”

“Of course,” Jason said, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t showing. “Thank you for your help.”

The elder nodded, then picked his pen back up and resumed his work. Jason considered that a dismissal and began walking away, pondering the problem of how he was going to locate Romulus. He’d try a holo-page, but the treasonous Protector likely wouldn’t answer. And even if Romulus had an address on file, the odds were good he was staying elsewhere....

“Excellent news about your father,” Dionys said.

Yanked away from his thoughts, Jason stopped cold. He turned around slowly to face the elder. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Your father,” Dionys said, that purple pen tapping a rhythm on his paper. “He’s applied for re-assimilation. I thought you knew.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I’d heard something about that.”

“You don’t sound pleased.” The elder’s faced creased with concern. “I had thought you would welcome your father’s return to Olympus.”

“Ah, well...” What in Hades was he supposed to say to that? “I’m ... well, I guess I’m a little bit surprised that
you’re
pleased about it.”

Dionys shook his head, his expression one of amused patience. “Nonsense. Your father and I may have had our differences, but I have issues with
all
Outcasts. Once he returns to the fold, though...” The elder trailed off, shaking his head, and Jason found himself truly flabbergasted. Had everyone gone insane?

“This is truly excellent news,” Dionys continued. “A powerful Protector like your father with such a strong heritage. And your grandfather’s seat has been empty now for over ten years. It’s high time it was occupied again.”

Jason’s blood ran cold. Dionys couldn’t mean what Jason thought he meant... could he? “My grandfather’s seat?” The Inner Council essentially ruled over all Protectors, and the seats were passed down along familial lines, going to the eldest member of the family past a certain age. Jason knew he and Mordi were in line for a spot, but that possibility was years away. It had never even occurred to him that his father might still lay claim to a seat. “Hieronymous could fill my grandfather’s seat?”

“Of course. At the right hand of Zephron. The seat would have naturally been your father’s, had he not been Outcast.” The elder smiled broadly. “And now, of course, it will be his once again.”

As Mordi paused on Izzy’s doorstep to straighten his tie, his holo-pager beeped. He considered ignoring it— he had no intention of getting sidetracked from this date by some Protector emergency—but in the end guilt won out. He jammed the Receive button with his thumb. “What?” he demanded, even before the image could take form.

It was Bilius. “We’ve had an anonymous tip. An Outcast plot. We’re not sure what’s going on, but since it’s taking place at a mortal forum, we assume the plan is to eradicate one of them.”

Mordi groaned, seeing his date go flying off to the wayside. “When?”

“Tonight.”

Yup. Bye-bye, Izzy
. “Okay. Give me the details.”

“The Thomas Edison Inventors Award Ceremony. Our tipster says—”

“Wait. You said the Inventors Award Ceremony? The one here? In New York? Tonight?”

“Is that a problem?” Bilius did not look particularly pleased with the interruption.

“No, sir. No problem at all.” Because Mordi already happened to be attending that particular ceremony. So it really was no problem at all.

In fact, the only problem he foresaw was that Izzy just might be the target. After all, his father had an overwhelming interest in inventors and inventions. And, now that he thought of it, it was quite possible that the woman was in cahoots with Daddy Dearest. It was an unpleasant possibility, but one he couldn’t deny. Perhaps that’s why Zephron had put him on this case as well.

He sighed. In all honesty, he’d been hoping for a little action this evening. Arresting his date, however, wasn’t quite what he had in mind.

Izzy sat in the front row of the ballroom at the Montcraig Hotel in midtown Manhattan, her arm hooked through Mordi’s, only their sleeves touching, as she clutched the program for the seventh annual Thomas Edison Award Ceremony. Her father was up on that stage, Mordi was beside her—staying blissfully silent about his doubts regarding his father—and Izzy was in heaven.

The chairman finished introducing Harold, and everyone clapped. Then her father moved behind the podium, and Izzy lost herself in his speech, sharing his moment in the sun.

“... but most of all, I must give credit where credit is due,” Harold said. He fumbled at the podium, papers spread out before him, then shoved his glasses more firmly up his nose. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been fortunate, recently. The last few years have been inspirational for me, most likely because I’ve had some income to inspire me.”

He paused for effect, then waggled his bushy eyebrows. The crowd laughed, just as they were supposed to, and Izzy smiled so hard her face hurt.

Mordi leaned toward her. “He’s a good speaker.”

She nodded. Her father’s natural nervousness was fading as he basked in the glory of finally realizing a lifelong dream.

“Not just financial inspiration, though,” he continued. “I need to thank my daughter for her support and her love—”

Izzy beamed, ducking her head slightly as the applause swelled. Beside her, Mordi also clapped, but when she turned to look at him, she saw that he was scanning the sea of faces nearby.

“What is it?” she whispered.

A shadow crossed his face, and she inhaled the earthy scent of guilt.

She frowned, confused. “Mordi?”

“Nothing. I just thought I saw ... nothing.”

She wanted to press him, but her father’s words caught her attention, and she was consumed by a little guilt of her own.

“I also need to thank those behind-the-scenes folks who help in so many ways. In ways both bankable and inspirational.” He leaned forward toward the microphone and cast his gaze over the crowded room. “You know who you are, but let’s just say that an enthusiastic silent partner can be good for the soul.”

Again, the crowd tittered. Izzy’s father’s nose turned slightly red, and Izzy felt a little ill. Reflexively, she tugged at her arm, wanting to extricate herself from Mordi, this man who could so easily destroy her career. He turned to her and smiled. She stayed put, feeling a little weak. In truth, however, she liked being close to him.

Her father plowed on, finishing his speech with a finesse she would never have expected. Certainly, he never could have performed this well before.

Before.

Sweet Hera, did her father really owe this new confidence to Hieronymous? He did. And that, even more than what she’d seen of Hieronymous’s soul, convinced her that the Outcast was sincere. Why else would the super villain help a man like her father?

She tilted her head, watching her father on the podium. So happy. So
alive
.

Her whole life, she would have given anything to see his face light up like that. She wanted everything good for her father, for this man who’d raised her and loved her, who’d joked with her and kept her secrets. Without a mother, it had been her father who’d gone with her to buy her first bra—though before setting foot in the store he
had
offered to simply invent one for her. And he’d been there when the very first boy she’d had a crush on ignored her, studiously managing to avoid any recognition whatsoever that Izzy existed.

He’d spent a lot of time in his lab, sure. But when she’d needed him, her father had been there. Always, and without fail.

Her father paused again in his speech, and she applauded enthusiastically. A little
too
enthusiastically, if the sidelong looks from her neighbors were any indication. Mordi, however, only looked amused, and his amusement encouraged her. She threw a grin in the dissenters’ direction, then let out a wolf whistle for her father. After all, she wanted him to know she was out here.

And even though Mordi applauded wildly as well— going so far as to toss in a whistle of his own—when Izzy leaned back in her seat, her satisfaction was tainted with regret. Not for her. For Mordichai.

What must it have been like, she wondered, growing up as the son of Hieronymous Black?

Not pleasant. Of that much, she was certain. Hieronymous might be determined to re-assimilate—and his desire might even be sincere—but Izzy didn’t doubt for a second that what everyone said about his notorious past was one-hundred-percent true. Even now, he wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.