A tender smile touched his lips. “We all have our weaknesses, Isole. Even me.”
She grimaced. “I thought
I
was supposed to be the mind reader.”
“Perhaps you’re just too transparent,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Or you’re too good.” She tilted her head back and sighed with frustration. “I can’t even
levitate
.”
“Did you know that I am completely incapable of discerning the approach of most mosquitoes?”
She blinked, then gaped at him, entirely confused as to where the conversation was heading. “You’re what?”
“Six hundred hertz,” he said. “I have a deaf spot for that particular frequency. I simply don’t hear it.”
At that, her eyes widened. “You? A weakness?”
He chuckled. “Shocking, I know. But, yes, it’s true. Mosquitoes have sought and claimed my blood on many occasions ... and I was unable to stall their nefarious advance.”
Now she was laughing outright. “You’re making fun of me.”
He moved closer, pulling her into his embrace. “No, child, I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we all have our weaknesses ... and we all have our skills.” He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she met his eyes. “You are here because of your skill. There is no other reason.”
She nodded, but her gaze drifted away. Here
today
, perhaps. But that didn’t answer the question of how she got admitted to the Council in the first place. Now, however, wasn’t the time to argue. She
was
on the Council, she
was
doing a good job, and she intended to continue doing just that.
Except...
She grimaced, realizing that by keeping the secret about Hieronymous, she was violating her oath.
Time for a reality check... and also time for the truth, no matter how much it would hurt her father.
She straightened, drawing her shoulders back as if the movement would give her courage. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He waved her words away. “Isole, my praise of your job skills is sincere. However, you must learn when to be familiar and when that is inappropriate. We need to discuss your next assignment. You may address another topic, personal or Council-related, once our business is complete.”
Her cheeks burned, but she merely nodded. “Yes, Zephron.” She cleared her throat. “You were saying I’d be on display with my new assignment. Why is that?”
“The nature of your first Outcast,” Zephron said. “We’ve never before had such a prominent Outcast apply for re-assimilation. The process will undoubtedly be covered daily in columns on the Council website, news and editorials in the
Daily Protector
, and, of course, gossip.”
“Oh.” It sounded horrible. Idly, Izzy wondered if it wasn’t too late to request reassignment. Maybe working undercover as a lifeguard at some beach resort. A few daring rescues ...
“Izzy?”
She licked her lips. “Sorry. I’m still here.”
“You aren’t going to disappoint me.” It was a statement, not a question, and she couldn’t help but smile at his confidence.
“No. I won’t.” She cleared her throat. “But, um, why me? I mean, if this Outcast is that big a deal, why not assign one of the Level-Fives that have been around for a while?”
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I thought that this assignment should go to you. I was able to persuade the other members of the committee to my point of view.”
His gaze settled on her, his kind yet penetrating eyes. A chill seemed to settle over her, and she knew that she should ask what he meant, but somehow she couldn’t manage the question.
He was watching her expectantly, but after a few moments of silence, he shifted his gaze back toward the door. He’d entered with a briefcase, now resting by the closed door, a portfolio peeking out of the top. He crooked a finger and the portfolio levitated, lifting free of the briefcase, then glided across the room to land in his outstretched hand. Izzy tried not to look jealous.
Zephron flipped pages. “Also under the circumstances,” he said after a moment, “I thought it best if you had an assistant. I intend to assign someone to help you out.”
She frowned, her forehead creasing.
An assistant
? Whatever for? “Who are we talking about?”
“The assistant?”
“The Outcast!” Her voice rose in frustration.
“Ah, of course. The Outcast, my dear, is Hieronymous Black.”
She blinked, positive she’d heard wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it when she realized she had no idea what to say.
She tried again. “Hier—Hieronymous Black. Hieronymous Black?
He
wants to be re-assimilated?”
“So he says.”
“Why?”
“He has seen the error of his ways, according to his application.”
“And you
believe
him?”
Zephron smiled. “What I believe is immaterial, my dear.
You
are the one who will make the final recommendation to the Inner Circle.”
“Oh.” She rubbed her temples. “Oh.”
“I will say that if he is sincere it couldn’t come at a better time.”
“The treaty negotiations, you mean.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
Izzy sank into a chair, her fingers tight on the leather armrests and her thoughts in a whirl. The first Mortal-Protector Treaty had been signed in 1970. It was a complicated document, but the basic deal was that Protectors would remain secret, but would do what they could to assist the human race. The treaty also created the Mortal/Protector Liaison Office, or MLO, which employed that handful of mortals who were aware of Protectors and what they did.
For years, Zephron had been lobbying to renegotiate the treaty so that Protectors played a more open role in society. The formal negotiations were to take place in two weeks—with lots of meetings and positioning and politicking going on in the meantime. At the moment, except for a few dissenters, it looked as if the mortal governments were leaning toward accepting full Protector disclosure.
She voiced all that to Zephron, and he nodded. “I’m pleased you’ve been following our efforts,” he said. “In fact, the mortals’ only real hesitation at this point centers around the Outcasts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The very existence of Outcasts disturbs some mortals. They fear that if the ban of secrecy is lifted, mortals may not trust
any
Protectors. They also fear that Outcasts would decide to ignore the rules and start a full-scale war with the mortals.”
“They could have done that already,” Izzy said.
Zephron nodded. “And the mortals well know it. They also know that Hieronymous is the most vocal of the Outcasts, the only one currently with the clout to band the others together.”
“And they know that Hieronymous
really
doesn’t want Protectors on par with mortals,” Izzy said, finally getting it.
“Exactly.”
“But if Hieronymous is out of the Outcast business, everything will be better. The mortals won’t be as afraid, the negotiations will go smoothly, and the treaty will go off without a hitch.”
“That, of course, is my hope,” Zephron said.
Izzy nodded, still a little uncertain. Zephron knew more than anyone how deep Hieronymous’s hatred of mortals went. Could he truly be turning over a new leaf? Or was Zephron grasping at the best hope he saw of pushing the treaty through? For years, Izzy knew, the renegotiation of the treaty had been her uncle’s pet project. To have it now be so close ...
As if reading her mind, Zephron spoke, his face clouded. “Of course, if it’s all a ruse ...”
She nodded, understanding. If it was a ruse and Hieronymous was merely trying to infiltrate the Council to further some nefarious plan, well, that would be disaster.
But if he was sincere ...
Could he be sincere? The prospect was almost too much to hope for, and she wondered if she, like her uncle, was grasping at a foolish notion.
Because if Hieronymous Black was really coming over to the good side, then there was no reason at all to reveal her father’s deep, dark secret to Zephron. After all, re-assimilated Protectors could associate with whomever they pleased.
Which meant that, for the time being at least, she was justified in keeping her mouth shut.
Mordi pulled his Ferrari up in front of the Los Angeles bungalow, and killed the engine. The sun was just starting to set, and so he sat in the car for a bit, watching the vibrant streaks of purple slice the sky over the trees.
He told himself that he was simply watching the celestial show. Of course, that was a lie. In truth, he was stalling.
He’d paged his cousin Zoë that morning, wanting to talk to her about their shared role as the token Halflings for the treaty negotiations. She’d insisted they meet here. At the time, Mordi hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d wanted to meet; it was only fair they do it at her convenience.
Now, though, he had to wonder. Was she making an overture? Telling him without telling him that he was welcome back in the family? The thought pleased him more than he’d expected. For years, he’d told himself that it didn’t matter. He’d done what he’d had to do, and if his family couldn’t accept that, well, that was just too damn bad. He’d spent his whole life alone. He’d gotten rather used to it.
If that was really true, though, then why was he still camped out in the car wondering about Zoë‘s motives?
Frustrated, he yanked the door open, climbed out, and marched toward the house, noting for the first time the banner hung over the doorway of Nicholas Goodman’s house:
Deena and Hoop .. . About Damn Time!
Mordi couldn’t help but grin.
Deena and Hoop had been flirting with a serious relationship since before Mordi had met either of them. An artist, Deena worked part-time at the elementary school where Zoë used to work as a librarian, before her entry into the Venerate Council had taken her in another professional direction.
Hoop was a private investigator, a guy who pretty much fit all the stereotypes of a rumpled gumshoe. The man truly loved Deena, though, any idiot could see that, and Mordi wondered what had taken them so long to finally set a wedding date.
Then again, considering he himself had never once let a relationship with a woman get to such a serious level, he was hardly the man to criticize the speed—or lack thereof—with which Hoop had finally popped the question.
“Mordi!” Inside, across the living room, his cousin Zoë waved. He returned the gesture, then started walking that way through the crowd. “You look well,” she said before moving closer and pulling him into an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder, figured that satisfied propriety, then stepped back.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” she added.
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down, frowning. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it would be such a terrible ordeal for you to come. I actually thought you might enjoy the party.”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but closed it with a sigh. “We need to talk about this committee stuff.”
She studied him, her expression earnest as always. “We know you were undercover,” she said, and since that had nothing to do with their committee responsibilities, Mordi knew that he’d been right: His cousin was making an overture of sorts.
He almost kept silent, but if she was going to make an effort, then so would he. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you but, like you said, I was undercover.” He hadn’t been at first, of course, but Zoë knew that as well as Mordi.
She nodded, a tiny frown marring her serious expression. “And we know you stood up to your father.”
“And so you up and invited me to Deena’s engagement party?” He crossed his arms, feeling more manipulated than welcome. “Come on, Zo. I might be part of the family, but you and I know I’ve never really belonged.”
“I just thought—”
He shifted his weight. In theory, he appreciated the overture. In practice, he felt as though he’d been thrust under a microscope. “Let’s just get down to business, okay?”
He thought she was going to protest again, but instead she turned away, leading him across the room. The house belonged to Deena’s brother, Nicholas, and his wife Maggie. And although he’d never been there before, he could see that this building was more than just a house—it was a home. A sharp contrast to the austere studio apartment he kept in Manhattan.
Zoë aimed them toward the buffet, and though Mordi expected her to continue past to some private room, instead she stopped. A man stood by a plate piled high with sandwiches, his back to Zoë‘ and Mordi, and Mordi could see the straps of some sort of gear crisscrossing his back. The man turned, and Mordi realized who it was—and what he was holding.
George Bailey Taylor met his eyes. “Mordi. Good to see you.” The words were polite enough, but Mordi didn’t miss the way Taylor’s hand moved to protectively cup the tiny head of a baby girl, swaddled in pink and snuggled into the papoose-like pack that nestled against his chest.
“You haven’t seen Talia since she was born,” Zoë said, beaming at the sight of her daughter.
Mordi reached out a tentative finger, and the little urchin took it, her tiny finger closing tight around his. “She’s so big.”
“Time passes,” Zoë said. She looked up at Taylor, who didn’t move a muscle, but still Mordi was sure some silent communication passed between them. Zoë cleared her throat. “Listen, you can come by any time if you want. I mean, if you want to see the baby or something. We’d like to see you and all.”
“Building bridges?” Mordi asked.
Her eyes flashed. “At least I’m trying.”
She was, and Mordi had to give her credit. He nodded. “Well, thanks. I’d like that. Really.” He drew in a breath, then cast around for a distraction. He wanted to talk about this committee thing. Wanted to get it over with and get out of there. But he’d brought it up twice now, and it was obvious Zoë intended to take her own sweet time.
He glanced around the room. “So, who’s here?” Over the years, Mordi’d had run-ins with many of Zoë‘s friends.
She
might be gunning for a reconciliation, but he wasn’t certain about the rest of them.