With what sounded like a sigh of annoyance, Romulus crossed to the pillar near Mordi, pulling out a stick of gum as he walked and popping it into his mouth. As soon as he reached the pillar, he dropped his backpack on the ground. Mordi fought the overwhelming urge to lift one leg and mark the thing.
No
. Dignity, remember? In all things, dignity.
Romulus stood and unfolded a street map of Manhattan, holding it up to the light and twisting and turning. Mordi yawned, a deep doggie yawn, but neither Romulus nor Clyde seemed to hear or otherwise notice him.
Clyde walked toward the pillar, then reached into his pocket and pulled out an old candy wrapper. He dropped it into the nearby trash can. And, Mordi noticed, he did a little bit more than that. In fact, had Mordi not been watching the two of them so closely, he doubted he would have caught the subtle act. But right after dropping the candy wrapper, Clyde dropped a single slip of paper into the now-open backpack.
Then Clyde kept on walking, right toward the stairs that led out of the station.
The tempo of Mordi’s tail-wagging increased. A bone-deep desire for revenge urged him to follow Clyde. The Outcast had always looked down on him and, petty though it might be, Mordi could think of little more satisfying than sinking his canines into Clyde’s gluteus maximus.
But, no. That urge could wait. He was only one dog, after all, and his self-appointed mission was to catch Romulus in an act of treason. Romulus might not have directly acknowledged Clyde—thus deftly dodging
that
violation—but the note passed from Clyde might just prove the link between the two.
Mordi needed to get that note.
Romulus hadn’t moved, so Mordi assumed the Protector intended to hop the next train and get out of the station that way. Fine. Mordi could simply follow him on. There didn’t seem to be any transit police around; the odds that anyone would try to apprehend a dog on the subway were reasonably slim.
The station started to fill with the distant rumble of the approaching express train. Romulus picked up his backpack and started to move toward the edge of the platform. Mordi didn’t hurry to follow. This train, after all, was an express. It was the next that Romulus would be catching.
Whoosh, rumble, rumble, whoosh
. The deep bass of the train filled the station, and Mordi wanted to howl against the sound grating on his canine ears.
To the right, a pinpoint of light broke the darkness that filled the tunnel, growing larger as the train approached, until the headlight bore down on the track, illuminating the way into and out of the station.
The train drew closer, not slowing at all, but instead of staying behind the yellow line demarking the safe area of the platform, Romulus moved over it. By the time Mordi realized what his quarry intended to do, it was already too late. Romulus jumped, leaping with perfectly timed precision to land right in front of the train.
The speeding express never stopped, didn’t even slow down, and Mordi’s howls of frustration harmonized with the squeal and clatter of the train along the tracks.
He trotted forward, nose sniffing the air as he tried in vain to pick up the scent of the vanished Protector.
Nothing
. Damn it all to Hades, his quarry was truly gone.
Frustrated at himself for letting Romulus get away, Mordi paced back and forth on the platform, his four doggie legs moving in an instinctual rhythm. That’s what was driving him—instinct. And his hunter’s intuition was telling him that the game wasn’t over yet.
Plunking his rump down again, he lifted his nose into the air, trying to make some sense of the odd mishmash of scents that were accosting his olfactory nerves.
Rotting food. Dead vermin. Stale perfume. Grease. The sharp scent left by metal scraping metal. Cinnamon.
Cinnamon?
Mordi got up on all fours again, searching for the source of the smell even as his mind rewound to the memory he was seeking—Romulus stepping onto the platform, tucking a strip of gum into his mouth and sauntering over to the pillar.
Smells conjured memories and, in this case, Mordi was certain. The gum had been cinnamon-flavored. And the scent that he now caught belonged to Romulus.
But where was he?
The one thing that Mordi’s initial research had failed to turn up was Romulus’s personnel file, and now the absence of that information frustrated him. If he only knew what the Protector’s special powers were, he might have a better idea where the man was hiding.
Because he
was
hiding. By now, Mordi was certain. Not only had his trusty nose put in a vote, but the distinct absence of any guts and goo on the rails below more than suggested that Romulus had not leapt to his death.
Think, Mordi, think.
He paced, tail wagging in thought, ears plastered back in frustration, haunches moving with a sure and steady motion.
And then he realized. The answer was so simple, it had to be right.
If Romulus hadn’t left, then he must still be there. Mordi simply couldn’t see him. But with a little bit of persuasion, Mordi was certain he could convince the rogue Protector to show himself.
Three mortals had wandered onto the platform, waiting for the next train that, according to the display, was due to roll into the station in four minutes.
Well, there was nothing Mordi could do about them. Hopefully the MLO would be able to concoct some sort of spin, planting a story in the papers designed to make Mordi’s less-than-normal activities seem perfectly explainable.
He couldn’t execute his plan in dog form, and so he loped back to the pillar, circling it once more and this time emerging in his usual form. His clothing always transformed with him—the cloth changing into fur, or another outfit, or whatever was appropriate—and now he emerged in one of the tailored suits he favored.
Not that he was going for fashion here. He raced toward the platform and leaped over the edge, letting flames engulf his entire body, gathering them as he soared through the air to land beside the train tracks.
Behind him, mortals screamed, but Mordi ignored them. He sent a wave of fire dancing along the tracks, flames tickling every surface—both seen and unseen.
His ploy worked.
As waves of flame rolled over the beams of the train tracks, another shape emerged from between them, a lumpy shape, defined only by the fire that clung to it.
The fire rose up in the shape of a man, and Mordi knew he’d been right—Romulus had the power to make himself invisible. Either that, or he had an invisibility cloak. And somehow he’d realized that Mordi was on to him and hidden in plain sight, carefully avoiding the third rail as he crouched on the track. Now, though, Romulus was running, a streak of pure flame taking off into the depths of the train tunnel.
Mordi raced after him, shifting back into canine form as he did, since a superhero dog with four legs tends to be faster than a superhero with only two.
He could hear the gasps and overloud whispers coming from the platforms, and a headline flashed through his head—
circus performers attempt double suicide
.
Might work.
He didn’t have time to ponder further journalistic possibilities, however, because Romulus was picking up speed.
Oh, no, you don’t
. Mordi leaped, landing on the rogue’s back and knocking him to the ground. Romulus groaned, letting out a short, breathy
oof
before rolling over and, finally, materializing.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Mordi said. Then he realized that, since he was once again a dog, his words would sound like only so much barking to Romulus.
Apparently, though, his captive got the drift. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and Mordi felt the thrill of victory trill through his veins.
The thrill was short-lived. Only seconds later, Romulus was looking at him, pure contempt burning in his eyes.
“
Well
, if it isn’t Mordichai Black.”
Mordi shifted back to his human form, surprised Romulus managed to spot him through his canine disguise. Some Protectors, though, had the ability to see past a shapeshifter’s change, and that must have been how Romulus had clued into Mordi’s presence in the first place.
“So it is,” he said. “And you’re under arrest.”
“Hypocritical little puppy, aren’t you?” Romulus sneered.
Mordi crossed his arms over his chest and tried to maintain an air of authority. “Wrists. Now.”
Romulus jutted his arms out, wrists together, and submitted to the binder cuffs. Mordi gave them a tug, testing to make sure they were secure, then slipped an immobility lariat over his captive.
No, Romulus wasn’t going anywhere.
With the rogue Protector secured, Mordi bent over and plucked the man’s fallen backpack from the train tracks. He rifled through, finally finding the paper that Romulus had dug out of the trash can. He opened the note, then frowned at the nonsense written there:
Holmes says: The game’s afoot.
What the hell?
He waved the note under Romulus’s nose. “What’s this mean?”
The Protector snorted. “Give me a break,” he said. “You think you’re hot stuff just because you’re Zephron’s newest tattle-tale? You’re nothing, Mordichai.
Nothing
. And I’m not telling you anything.”
“Fine. We’ll see if you talk in a holding cell.” Mordi flipped open his holo-pager, taking his time to dial in the correct frequency to summon a retrieval team. This might have started out as an off-the-books mission, but the circumstances and the note were enough to engage Mordi’s authority to arrest.
“You little worm,” Romulus continued, his voice rising. “You’re just like me, and you know it. Who are you trying to fool? Zephron? That old fart’s an artifact.”
Mordi stiffened, stifling the urge to punch his captive in the face.
“You’ll see,” Romulus sneered. “You of all people should know Zephron’s on the outs. The whole Council is. You should be working with us, not against us. It wasn’t so long ago that you were on the winning side, Mordi. You’re just like me. You’ve just forgotten.”
A thousand snappy comebacks sprang to Mordi’s lips, nice-sounding words about honor and duty and the Protector’s Oath. He didn’t say a one of them.
Because Mordi hadn’t forgotten. Hopping Hades, he could
never
forget. Try as he might, his heritage would follow him—plague him—forever. The Halfling son of Hieronymous Black would never have an easy time of it.
And even though he’d proved his worth to the Council time and time again, Mordi knew that he’d have to go on proving himself, over and over for the rest of his life.
Down, down, down.
As the elevator dropped deeper and deeper, Izzy paced the small compartment counting how many steps wide (three) and how many steps deep (two). She tugged idly at the hem of her jacket, and considered her theory that elevator cars were really nothing more than vertical caskets.
Stop it!
She fisted her hands at her sides, determined not to freak out. Yes, she was in an elevator. Yes, it was taking her deep into the ground under the Washington Monument. Yes, she was going to end up in a room with only circulated air to breathe and not a window in sight and absolutely no way to escape if the fans suddenly stopped turning, leaving everyone to die slow, painful deaths from asphyxiation.
Okay. She really needed to get herself under control here.
One more deep breath.
Then another.
Okay.
Okay
. Yes. Right. Things were improving. Her skin wasn’t quite so clammy, her breathing was normal, and her heart was no longer racing.
Try again.
Yes
, she was going to be underground, but the secret Protector headquarters under the Washington Monument had existed without incident since the 1970s. Certainly it would manage to hang in there a few more years.
Yes
, the air was circulated and the room was windowless, but the staff was comprised primarily of superheroes. If the fans quit turning, she was quite certain that at least one staff member could bore through the earth and concrete and lead them all to safety.
Yes
, she had horrible claustrophobia, but she’d been fighting it for years, and she could fight it again today. She’d never once heard of a Protector with a debilitating phobia, and Izzy didn’t intend to be the first. She took enough ribbing for being a Halfling, and even more for being raised by a mortal father who hadn’t even introduced her to her heritage through her mother until junior high.
And, of course, there was that whole business about the Council accepting her Halfling application even though she’d never mastered levitation.
Determined, she lifted her chin. She’d been tormented enough. She had no intention of giving her colleagues any additional ammunition by showing that she was scared of an elevator. She’d never lost her cool at the office, and she didn’t intend to start now.
By the time the metal box ground to a halt and she stepped out into the polished lobby of the Venerate Council’s D.C. headquarters, Izzy had completely pulled herself together. The steel doors of the elevator were polished to a shine, and she caught her own reflection. Shoulders back, spine straight. Suit perfectly pressed. Eyes clear and focused. Hair swept away from her face and pinned up in a no-muss/no-fuss style. All in all, the picture of professionalism.
Footfalls clattered on the marble floor, and a young Protector rounded the corner, clipboard held in front of him like a shield. “Oh, good. You’re here. Right on time. Shall we? Elder Bilius is ready for you.”
“Excellent,” she said, lifting her chin and making sure to put the appropriate note of authority in her voice. “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The guide straightened, and from his scent she could tell that he was used to responding to authority—and that now he saw
her
in that light. Good.
He turned briskly and led the way, marching down the hall with purpose. Izzy followed, her footfalls echoing as they passed through hallways lined with file cabinets and cubicles, each cubicle staffed by a mortal busy entering information into the vast Protector databases. There were dozens of mortals working as salaried employees of the Council (the health insurance was an especially nice perk). Other mortals worked with the Council on a project-by-project basis, most often employed by the Mortal-Protector Liaison Office to concoct some sort of cover story to keep all Protectors’ activities secret.