Aphrodite's Flame (3 page)

“But of course. Your father is receiving the prestigious Thomas Edison Award from the North American Inventors’ Association. Of course there will be a ceremony. In Manhattan, no less. The chairman asked me to speak to your father and then write his speech for the presentation.”

“Daddy!” Izzy threw her arms around her father, who managed to hug her back with equal enthusiasm while still maintaining a humble aura.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, wishing her skills worked on her father so that she could simply see into his soul and share his joy. Her entire life, her father had been trying to make something out of himself and his inventions. She knew the last year had been really good for him, but she’d had no idea he’d done so well. And to now be receiving such a prestigious award, it was ... well: “It’s fabulous, Daddy. I just can’t believe it.”

“I wanted to tell you, sweetie. But I thought it would be more fun to surprise you. No one knows. Just me and Mr. B.”

She frowned. That was the second time her father had mentioned this person, and she had no idea who he was.

Mr. Tucker apparently wasn’t at a similar loss. “Ah, yes.” He pulled a notepad out of his front pocket and flipped a few pages. “Your mysterious benefactor.”

“Not so mysterious,” Harold said. “More inspirational.”

“Who?” Izzy asked.

“About a year ago, I met the most remarkable man,” her father said. He gestured toward the door, then started walking that way, leaving the broken remains of the bot and his other experiments behind. “Let’s go have a spot of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Daddy!” Izzy stayed rooted to the spot. “Just tell me
now
.”

Her father adjusted his glasses. “Well, there’s not much to tell. He’s provided me with some financial backing, which, as you know,” he said, turning to Mr. Tucker, “is so very important.” He turned back to face Izzy. “But mostly he provided me with a sounding board. Someone to discuss my theories with. He always said he wasn’t an inventor himself, but I don’t believe him. The man has a remarkable head on his shoulders. Remarkable.”

She was still confused. “So, this man just popped in and gave you money? Why?”

“Well, because he supports my work, of course.” Her father grinned. “And he’s commissioned me to invent a few things for him, too.”

“Things? What things?”

“Oh, this and that.” Her father waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is that Mr. Black has been a wonderful support.” He turned back to Mr. Tucker. “I’d have to credit his inspiration on equal par with my daughter’s support. Be sure and mention both of them in that speech, will you?”

“Of course,” Mr. Tucker said, taking notes furiously. “And you’ll need to write a speech, too. The members will want to hear from you after you’ve accepted the statue.”

“A speech,” her father murmured, practically preening.

Izzy barely noticed. Her brain had stopped back when her father had said two nerve-wracking little words—
Mr. Black
.

“Daddy?” she asked, then realized that her throat hadn’t worked quite properly. She tried again. “Daddy?”

“Hmmm?” He and Mr. Tucker had moved a few feet closer to the door, and now they stopped and looked back at her. “Yes, dear?”

“Uh, this Mr. Black. Is he ... that is, do you know his first name?”

“Oh, of course,” her father said. He turned back to Mr. Tucker. “But that reminds me. He insists on being an anonymous benefactor, so you’ll have to call him Mr. B in the speech. Not Mr. Black.”

“Mr. B,” Mr. Tucker said, scribbling furiously. “Right.”

They started walking again.

“Daddy!”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. His name. Fascinating, really. It’s Hieronymous. You hardly ever hear a name like that, you know.”

No
, Izzy thought, as her blood ran cold. She didn’t suppose mortals did hear a name like that very often.

She did, though. Because Hieronymous was the most notorious Outcast of the whole Protector race.

And for some reason, Hieronymous Black was helping her father.

She had no idea what was really going on, but she did know one thing—whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Mordichai perched on top of the Empire State Building. The wind had kicked up, and even now in the middle of August, the air this high was chilled. Mordi hardly noticed, though. His favorite propulsion and invisibility cloak was wrapped tight around his shoulders, a barrier against the elements and a shield against prying eyes.

Of course,
this
high the only prying eyes would be the tourists with their zoom lenses peering straight up or passengers in low-flying aircraft looking to see if King Kong was home. For a moment, he amused himself by picturing the faces of those passengers if he decided to shapeshift into the giant ape, hang on to the building’s spire, and beat his chest.

He bit back a grin. Fun to think about, but probably a little too flamboyant for a stakeout. Better to sit quietly and invisibly up here and wait for his quarry to appear below.

And so he waited. And waited. And waited some more. He was thrilled to no longer be on probation, to be a full-fledged one-hundred-percent member of the Council. But he had to admit that on some days a life of legitimacy could be exceedingly dull.

Not that Mordi had any regrets. He didn’t. He’d walked away from his father and from the Outcast life, and he wasn’t about to look back. A little tedium was worth the price for knowing that now, finally, he was doing the right thing. And besides, the moments of tedium were usually counterbalanced by unexpected flurries of pure adrenal excitement.

He stifled a yawn. At the moment, some of that excitement would be most welcome.

Forcing himself to focus, he once again aimed his binocs at the street below. There’d been many a time when he’d envied his cousin Zo
ë
, whose superpowers included super senses, but never more so than times like these, when he was on a stakeout and could really,
really
use super hearing or super vision.

Lacking either, he instead adjusted the high-powered binocs, arming them at the street. For three days, he’d been following Clyde, an Outcast who was wanted by the Council for violating not only the strict prohibition against Outcasts using their powers, but also for seeking to inflict harm on a mortal.

Several mortals, actually. Before he went on the lam, Clyde had been Hieronymous Black’s right-hand man, doing much of the bigwig Outcast’s dirty work.

It was Hieronymous’s firm opinion that mortals were a substandard race, and that Protectors who sought to protect them were short-sighted and foolish. In Hieronymous’s mind, Protectors were like gods, and those measly little mortals should bend to his will. If the mortals didn’t like that plan... well, then too bad. Hieronymous would have no trouble at all simply exterminating their entire race.

Mordi stifled a shudder, recalling some of Hieronymous’s more extreme plots. So many times the brilliant Outcast had almost succeeded. Scary, really. And now, with the Council and the mortal governments renegotiating the Secret Mortal-Protector Treaty of 1970 ... well, Mordi supposed it was a good thing that mortals didn’t know just how many times they’d come
that
close to extinction or enslavement. If mortals knew how much some Outcasts had it in for them, and how possible it was that any Protector might turn Outcast, they’d probably be supremely leery about signing a treaty with
any
of super blood—even the good guys.

And for every stunt that Hieronymous had pulled, Clyde had been right there. He was the muscle enforcing his commander’s will. The perfect soldier, ready to do whatever Hieronymous might ask.

Mordi stifled a grimace, wishing he could keep his thoughts in little boxes so he wouldn’t keep thinking about Hieronymous. Or, barring that, he wished he could think of Hieronymous
only
as an Outcast.

He tried; really he did. But no matter how much he attempted to wrest some control of his thoughts, eventually Mordi’s mind returned to the facts: who Hieronymous was—
his blood, his sire
. Hieronymous was Mordi’s father.

Frustrated, he twisted on the building’s spire, his gaze taking in the full length of Fifth Avenue. He and Hieronymous might share the same blood, but that didn’t mean they were related. Not anymore. Yes, there was a time when Mordi leaped when his father said “boo,” but that time was long gone.

He’d never once managed to please Hieronymous, and now he wasn’t even trying. Mordi had moved on. He’d found a place among the Council. A place where not only was he useful, he was
appreciated
.

His mind wandered to his recent conversation with Zephron, in which the High Elder had asked that Mordi and Mordi’s cousin Zoë participate in the ongoing treaty renegotiations. After all, Halflings were half-mortal; Zephron thought their presence at the negotiating table might ease the mortal ambassadors’ minds.

An ironic twist of fate, all things considered. Hieronymous had always scorned Mordi’s Halfling status. Now that very status had elevated him to the upper echelons of the Council. Instead of being scorned, he was needed. And that, frankly, had been a long time coming.

Right now, though, he was determined not to think about his father or the negotiations. He was here to watch Clyde. And by doing so, Mordi would catch himself yet another traitor. Lucky thirteen this one would be. And Mordi couldn’t wait.

As if his thoughts had conjured the man, Clyde appeared on the street below, his hulking form emerging from one of the office buildings and loping toward Thirty-fourth Street. Mordi’s fingers tightened around the binocs as he wondered if today would be the day.

As a member of the Protector Oversight Committee, Mordi had been privy to recent intelligence suggesting that a certain well-placed Protector had been assisting and passing information to Clyde and other Outcasts.

But it wasn’t Clyde that Mordi was after. No, the Outcast was proving too useful at ferreting out spies and traitors within the Council’s organization.

Today, Mordi was hoping to catch Romulus Rothgar in the act.

A Protector First Class, Romulus was the last person that anyone would think was a traitor. Anyone, that is, except Mordi.

He’d been watching Romulus for months. Watching his face in particular. And his shuttered expression Mordi recognized. He’d seen it before, on the faces of his father’s comrades, and on his own reflection before he’d finally come to terms with who he was and what he truly wanted.

No, Mordi had no doubts at all. Romulus had something to hide, and Mordi intended to figure out what it was.

Unfortunately, on this mission he was on his own. He’d sought approval from his supervisor, but Elder Bilius had turned him down. Romulus had a perfect record and an upstanding family, and that knowledge enveloped him, a solid blanket of protection.

So now Mordi was here unofficially, gliding through the sky, his propulsion cloak set to silent mode as he followed Clyde, hovering a good twenty feet above the Outcast and at a respectable distance behind him. If Romulus
did
meet with Clyde, then Mordi was golden; interaction between Protectors and Outcasts-on-the-lam was a punishable offense. Mordi was certain a meeting would take place ... and he intended to be there when it went down.

Clyde moved with deliberation down the street, and Mordi hoped that he didn’t descend into one of the subway stations. No such luck, for after a few more blocks Clyde did just that, disappearing into the subterranean bowels of Manhattan.

Damn it to Hades! This was most inconvenient.

Mordi swooped down, still invisible, leaving in his wake a rush of wild air. The stairs were narrow, and he brushed against a woman, her startled cry from being thrust aside by something solid and invisible echoing through the corridor.

As soon as he reached the inside of the station, he stopped, glancing around until he saw Clyde, who was biding his time on the platform.

Romulus, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Hades and damnation,
surely Mordi wasn’t off on a wild Outcast chase!

In the distance, a train started to rumble. Mordi leaned against a tiled pillar and waited, foot tapping. As soon as Clyde got on that train, Mordi would follow. He’d follow the Outcast all day if he had to; he had no intention of failing.

The floor and walls seemed to vibrate in time with the train’s approach, and Mordi stood up a bit straighter, frowning as he realized that a blond woman clutching a baby was staring in his direction, her mouth hanging slightly open in a less than attractive manner.

Forgetting he was invisible, he frowned at her. “Yes?”

“You ... you’re see-through!”

Uh-oh
. Mordi glanced down and realized that she was right. The power cell on his cloak must be fading, because its power of invisibility was fading right along with it, leaving him looking like some sort of specter.

He nodded politely to the woman, then moved to the far side of the pillar. As he walked, he shifted forms, turning himself into a sleek black Labrador retriever. There didn’t seem to be any policemen around for that to be a problem.

He padded back out, this time finding Clyde more by scent than anything else. He loped in the Outcast’s direction, realizing but not really caring that the blond woman was slowly backing out of the station, her baby pressed tightly to her breast.

Mordi plunked down on the cold concrete and started scratching. In front of him, the approaching train rumbled to a stop. Mordi tensed, preparing to follow Clyde onto the train.

But Clyde stayed perfectly still, and soon, Mordi saw why. Romulus, tall and blond and dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder, stepped off the train and onto the platform.

Mordi’s tail wagged. He’d been
right
.

As Mordi watched, however, Romulus did nothing suspicious, didn’t even glance in Clyde’s direction. Instead, he checked his watch, then looked at the newly installed electronic board that dutifully announced the next train would be arriving in seven minutes, preceded by an express that wouldn’t stop but simply zip through the station at high speed.