She sighed and glanced at the clock. Five after two. The Outcast was already late. Either that or he’d gotten held up on the security level.
She sighed again, wondering if she should go check and, if need be, rescue him from the overzealous aides that guarded the Council headquarters’ various ports of entry. As a re-assimilation candidate, he’d been granted immunity from his past crimes, meaning he could remain free in the world during the process. He could not, however, wander free in the Council hallways.
As she thought more about her new candidate, she realized that she had to keep as much distance as possible if she wanted to extricate herself from this mess with her professional skin intact.
It really was quite a conundrum. If she determined that Hieronymous was truly intent on reverting to good, many in the Protector world would shun her, forever looking at her as the idiot who reinstated the evil Hieronymous Black.
But if she ultimately determined that he wasn’t sincere, then she either had to ruin her father’s life and shatter his dreams... or she had to keep her secret and risk being Outcast herself.
Quite the pickle.
Once again, she frowned and looked at her watch. Ten minutes late.
Damn it all. Now that she’d got her head on straight, she really didn’t want to waste any more time.
Grabbing her case file and security pass, she headed for her door, planning to make the trek back up the elevator to Security Check Point One.
But as soon as she opened the door, she realized she didn’t have to.
Hieronymous Black stood right there, an armed Protector in the familiar guard uniform standing at attention next to him.
“Outcast Black to see Counselor Frost.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Izzy lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, sliding easily into her professional facade.
Maintaining
the facade wasn’t so easy, however. The famous Outcast was even more intimidating in person than his file photo had led her to believe. He had coal-black hair and the same sturdy jaw that she’d seen in his son. But while Hieronymous’s eyes were cold and superior, Mordi’s had been warm and willful.
Hieronymous stepped past her into the room, exuding a masculine, almost metallic scent that she couldn’t place, but which seemed oddly familiar ... and definitely added to his overall charisma.
Was it any wonder he’d turned countless Protectors, and that his reputation among Outcasts had grown on an almost daily basis?
Realizing she was still standing in the open doorway, she gave the escort a quick nod, her signal that it was okay for him to leave, and then followed Hieronymous inside, shutting the door behind her.
“Alone at last,” Hieronymous said.
“Excuse me?” she said, and to her infinite shame, her voice squeaked.
He laughed, the tones almost musical, as he moved to sit on the couch.
“Yes. Please, do sit down.”
“You doubt my sincerity,” he said.
“Not at all.” She took one of the chairs opposite him, happy to be talking shop so soon.
That
she could handle. “I keep an open mind about all candidates.” Which was rather easy, frankly, when you could open their minds.
“But you
were
surprised to learn of my application,” he said.
“Well, yes. I assume everyone was.” She almost said something about her own father, but then realized that he might not know who she was.
“Yes, of course.” He fixed his gaze on her. “Too bad they can’t all see into my heart.”
She swallowed. “Yes, too bad.” She, of course,
could
see into his heart. Not all re-assimilation counselors had that skill, and she was certain that her ability had played a big part in getting this promotion. Not to mention being assigned to Hieronymous. She didn’t, however, intend to read him right away, even though the re-assimilation process was one of the exceptions to the rule against mind reading. Instead, she liked to get a feel for the candidate first. Mind-exploring could be exhausting, and she found it much more tenable if she already had some familiarity with the candidate’s overall sensibilities.
He seemed disappointed that she didn’t immediately reach out to touch him, but he covered it well. “Shall I tell you my story? Why I wish to come back to the fold?”
“That would be helpful,” she said.
He nodded. “In that case, I’ll begin.”
She focused on him as he spoke, letting her mind flow toward him, wanting to get a feel for the man himself before she took a closer look at his actual thoughts.
Sincere.
“I suppose it was petty jealousy and youthful hubris that led me to spurn the Protector life in the first place.”
Truth.
“After that, I discovered I had quite a knack for making money in the mortal markets.”
Reluctant modesty.
“Yes,” she said, “you have a reputation for playing the markets and doing exceptionally well.”
He bowed his head modestly. “As I said, I seem to have a knack.”
“For inventing things, too.” She tightened the hold on her thoughts here, seeking to pick up any hint of his mind wandering-toward her father.
Nothing. Just pride.
“Yes, that’s also a gift.” His voice took on a sorrowful tone. “Though I suppose I abused that gift. I do so regret the harm and fear I’ve caused.” He paused, then looked at her with baleful eyes. “I think I was afraid.”
She blinked, trying to hide her surprise. “Afraid? Of what?”
“Of mortals. Afraid that they would shun us, misunderstand us.” He sighed, the sound low and mournful. “I behaved like a scared child, acting out. And in the end, my own fears of mortals forced me off the Council and into a terrible Outcast existence.” He shook his head. “I can only hope that the Council can forgive me. And learn to trust me.”
She studied him, not at all sure what to believe. This was Hieronymous Black, after all. She’d grown up hearing the stories about how vile he was, about how he wanted nothing more than to destroy mortals and, if that meant destroying Protectors and the Council in the process, then so be it.
That was the reputation, yes. But was it the reality? Her own powers were leading her to trust him; her initial impression was that he was ... well...
good
.
Could he really have had such a change of heart?
Could everything she’d heard about him have been exaggerated?
More than anyone, she should know not to listen to gossip. She needed to judge a person on the evidence, not the rumors.
But even so... this was
Hieronymous
. And rumors and gossip usually started as truth.
Her face must have reflected her doubt, because he leaned forward. “I realize I’ve shocked many people, coming forward as I have.” He shook his head, as if pondering some unsolvable riddle. “You are my only ally,” he said. “As my re-assimilation counselor, you are the only one who can ascertain the truth and let the Council know that I’m sincere.”
As he spoke, he reached out to clasp her hand. She gasped, surprised by the unexpected touch. A million megawatts of thoughts coursed through her veins. Goose bumps rose on her skin, and a warm flush filled her body.
She’d had no time to prepare, to try to control her abilities or rein them in. And without that time, his thoughts and emotions poured into her without direction or control, racing through her blood, filling her head. She couldn’t fight it, didn’t want to fight it. This was who she was, what she did. And so she let the thoughts and feelings run their course, and in the end, when she sat in the chair gasping, she could do nothing more than blink at him.
“You did that on purpose,” she said, her blood pounding in her ears, as if she’d just run a hundred-mile marathon.
“I did,” he said. “I apologize. I was afraid that you wouldn’t. And you had to know.”
“I would have explored your mind sooner or later. That’s my job.”
He shrugged. “I wanted it sooner.”
“You’re sincere,” she said, the word emerging as a startled gasp as the tremors of his emotion finally stilled inside her. “You really want to be re-assimilated. You really want to be on the Council.” She blinked, certain her face bore an expression of disbelief, but unable to erase it. “You really want to do
good
.”
“Of course,” Hieronymous said. His black eyes bored into her own. “Why else would I be here with you?”
Why else, indeed?
Perhaps because he intended to infiltrate the Council and sabotage the ridiculous treaty negotiations. Perhaps because he was determined to finally prevail in creating a better world where Protectors ruled rather than served, wasting their time helping puny mortals with their insignificant little problems.
Yes, that was Hieronymous’s goal. His dream.
And this necessary first step had worked beautifully. Of course, he’d known it would. Being a super genius gave him such an edge. Isole Frost had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous’s invention had tricked her, making her see only the happy mortal-phile thoughts he’d conjured specifically for the occasion.
He bit back a snort, remembering to keep his face schooled with sincerity. Mortals on a par with Protectors!? The idea was absurd. Any treaty signed between his race and the mortals should have the mortals cowering in fear, slaves to the superior race. Not working together in mediocre symbiosis.
As if the mortals were worthy...
Try as he might, Hieronymous couldn’t understand how the Inner Circle abided the creatures.
Useless
. The entire lot of mortals were nothing more than useless insects.
Then again, he amended, casting his gaze toward Isole, perhaps not
entirely
useless. Her father, for example, was proving to be most useful indeed. Certainly the balm Mr. Frost had created from Hieronymous’s meticulous directions had performed as required. Hieronymous would have made it himself, of course, except that the use of his powers would have blipped on the Council monitoring boards. He’d had to enlist a mortal’s aid, and Harold Frost had been the perfect choice.
The balm was performing perfectly, too. First it had functioned well in the test run with that idiot Patel. And now, despite her empathic abilities, Isole Frost, Level V Re-Assimilation Counselor, had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous was anything but sincere.
“... followed by a series of practical tests.” She stopped talking and looked at him, her clipboard on her lap, the absolute height of efficiency.
Hieronymous regarded her calmly. He’d not been listening.
After an uncomfortable bit of silence, she cleared her throat. “So, perhaps Friday would be good?”
“Friday would be perfect,” he said, wondering what he was agreeing to.
It didn’t matter. Aside from being locked for eternity in the catacombs, he would agree to anything. Anything at all so long as it furthered his cause.
“Excellent.” She made a tick mark on her clipboard.
Hieronymous nodded, and tried to affect the appearance of a mortal-phile. It wasn’t easy.
“Are you staying in the dormitories?” she asked.
“No,” Hieronymous said. “The Council was gracious enough to allow me the use of my Manhattan apartment during the re-assimilation.” They’d taken it from him, of course. Zephron—that Gorgon’s ass— had probably enjoyed the formal divestiture proceeding. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, the Council had actually sublet the penthouse apartment to a
mortal
financier.
The news had burned through Hieronymous’s veins like wildfire, relieved only when he received word that the unfortunate financier had met an untimely death. A hit-and-run. Very sad.
Hieronymous would have to remember to commend Clyde once they rendezvoused. Despite Clyde’s fugitive status, Hieronymous’s former Chief of Guards was still performing his job with admirable skill.
“Perhaps we could hold Friday’s session in the penthouse, then. I like to interact with candidates as much as possible in a familiar environment.”
“Of course, my dear. Of course.”
He smiled, magnanimous and friendly. And why not? Things were going his way even more than expected. In fact, in light of fortuitous recent events, he was even considering revising his plan just slightly. Less risk for him, and the payoff would be exactly the same.
The desktop holo-pager buzzed, and Isole excused herself to answer it, then turned her back to him and began a long, dull conversation with another counselor about some formal testing procedure.
Really, the things he put up with in order to nurture his plan!
That very plan had germinated with the instigation of the Re-Assimilation Act. And as the treaty negotiations drew closer, Hieronymous realized that he had no time to lose. He had to be re-admitted into the Council’s fold; that much was imperative if he wanted to thwart the treaty negotiations.
But how to pull off such a feat? Fortunately, since he was a super genius, determining the best method of infiltrating the Council was a task easily tackled. He would re-assimilate, of course, taking care to ensure that his assigned counselor didn’t pick up on any little clues that perhaps Hieronymous was not as sincere as some of his predecessors.
Harold Frost’s balm had proved invaluable in that regard. But it was the assignment of the actual counselor that was now making Hieronymous’s brain hum.
Isole Frost
. Harold’s daughter. A Halfling, desperately attached to her mortal father. A daughter who would undoubtedly do anything to protect her father. Anything at all...
He’d intended to use her all along, of course, but in a much reduced role. During his planning, she’d been a Level I Counselor, and he hadn’t even dared to dream.
Now that the impossible had come to pass, Hieronymous knew exactly what he had to do—or rather, what Izzy had to do. She would, too. If anyone understood the subtle art of persuasion, it was Hieronymous. He’d simply explain in small, easy-to-understand concepts that if she chose not to recommend him for re-assimilation, she would also be choosing to hurt her father.
He didn’t doubt the decision she’d make, not even for an instant.
He glanced at her: still speaking to her colleague, her voice calm and assured, without even an inkling of what was in store for her.