Aphrodite's Flame (30 page)

“Possible,” Mordi mused. He thought about it a bit more. “Yeah. That’s very possible.”

“Except that Patel was one of my re-assimilation cases. And I touched him.” She held up a hand before Mordi could protest. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, but I wanted to make sure he was okay. And he was.”

“Maybe he was blocking your powers.” That from Davy. “Like with something that goes on the skin, so that when you touch them—”

“That coppery smell.” Izzy banged her head with the heel of her hand, and Mordi felt a bit like a slow student. Isole continued. “My dad said he’d made some sort of balm, and that I’d find it useful. Something to block my powers.” She shook her head. “Hieronymous really did a number on me and my dad.”

“That’s his specialty,” Jason said.

Isole turned to face Mordi, and he pulled her into his arms, wanting to hold her there forever. Wanting to keep her safe. Wanting to make her forgive herself.

“Got it!” Davy’s voice echoed through the cave. They turned and, sure enough, part of the stone wall had pulled away, opening on some invisible hinge.

“Izzy.” Harold’s feeble voice rang out, and he reached a hand up toward his daughter. His skin was sallow, his limbs shaky.

Davy stood up, blocking his path. “Don’t do it, mister,” he said. “There’s a booby trap.”

Izzy’s eyes met Mordi’s, and he saw the fear reflected there. He asked the question she couldn’t. “What is it, Davy?”

“It’s keyed for his DNA. If he leaves, these catacombs collapse and we’ll all be squashed. You know, all gooey and—”

“Thanks, kid. We get it.”
Hopping Hades, and damn Hieronymous
! “Can we do anything? Leave some blood behind? That’s got his DNA.”

“I don’t think that’ll work,” Davy guessed. “It’s set up to need a whole person.” He bent back down to look at the control panel.

Izzy had broken away from Mordi and was now near her father. “Daddy. Daddy! Can you hear me?”

Harold Frost groaned, but he didn’t actually speak.

Izzy turned to Mordi, pain in her eyes. “He’s sick. Oh, Mordi, he’s really sick. We’ve got to get him out of here. He’ll die otherwise.”

“Right. Okay.” He spoke, but he didn’t have a plan.

“She can stay,” Davy said, looking at one of his devices, and they all turned to him.

“What?” Mordi asked.

“In his place. She’s got the right kind of DNA. He can leave and she can stay.”

“No,” Mordi said.

“Okay,”
Izzy
said at
exactly the same
moment.

“Sweetheart, you can’t.”

She looked into the dark cell, and he saw in her eyes just how true his words were. But then she stood up straighter and nodded. “Yes, I can. You have to go stop your father. And after you save the world, you can come back and save me. Deal?”

Her eyes were full of love and trust, and his heart twisted, awed by the depth of her faith in him. Still, though, he couldn’t bear leaving her. “I’ll stay with you. Jason can take your father to safety, then he and Zoë and Hale can search for Zephron. They’ll find him. They’ll—”

“No.” She pressed a finger to his lips, then kissed him. “No. You can stop this. For some reason, I think you’re probably the only one who can. But you need to go now. The negotiations start at eight.”

“Go? Go where? What the hell can I—” And then he stopped. Because she was right.

All of a sudden, he knew exactly what he had to do.

Mordi’s kiss still lingered on her lips as Isole stepped into the cell, timing the movement so that she was inside as her father, weak and thin, stepped out. All four Protectors waited a moment, but the catacombs stayed stable. No shifting, no falling. There was no sign at all that the place might collapse around their ears.

“Go,” Izzy said, looking Mordi in the eye. “Go save the day. And then come back and save me.”

“I will,” he said.

She turned to Jason. “You’ll help Zoë and Hale with Zephron?”

Jason nodded. “We’ll get your dad to safety first. I promise. It’ll be okay.”

She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage. “So, you trust me now?”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I trust you,” he said. “I have to. I have a feeling we may be family someday.”

His words both warmed and shocked her, and her gaze darted to Mordi, half-afraid he was going to look embarrassed or, worse, angry. Instead, he looked delighted. And determined.

“I have to go now,” he said.

“I know. Go. Hurry.”

“And we have to close the door. If Hieronymous sends someone to check up on...”

She nodded. This time, though, she couldn’t manage words.

“I’ll be back,” Mordi said.

“I know,” she said. And then she backed into the cell and closed her eyes.

She heard the sound of stone against stone, and when she opened her eyes, it was just as dark. She held out her hands and realized that she could feel every wall. The room really was the size of a coffin.

She started to shake, cold chills covering her body. She knew he was coming back for her, she
knew
it. But though her head might have a clue, the rest of her was scared to death. A small space. A dark space. This was worse than an elevator, with nothing but her and the walls and the dark.

She managed to fight it until she was sure that Mordi and Jason and the rest were gone. She didn’t want to risk them coming back. They had a mission, after all. And then, when everything around her was silent and still, Izzy collapsed to the floor, drew in a breath, and screamed.

He’d won
. Finally, he’d won, and it was worth the wait. The years of torment. The agony of defeat at his own sons’ hands. But he’d finally won. And, oh, what a victory it was.

Hieronymous took his seat at the head of the negotiation table on Olympus. He smiled at the members of the Inner Circle, at the Protectors who were on the renegotiation committee, and at those ridiculous mortals who’d come planning to dictate terms of a new treaty. No. That wouldn’t be happening. Not today.

He’d made sure that every place setting had a mind-control pen. That was probably overkill. There were sufficient numbers in the room without every individual having one, and already the chamber was filled with the silent hum of mind control. Unfortunately, the devices didn’t work on mortals. That was okay, though. They’d be witnesses soon enough to their own fate.

“Shall we begin?” he asked.

Bilius nodded. “Of course.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Zephron?” one of the mortal plebes said.

“Yes,” said another. “Where is the High Elder?”

“Apparently
I
am the High Elder today,” Hieronymous said. “Zephron was unavoidably detained.” He allowed the slightest of smiles to touch his lips, remembering with extreme pleasure the surprise on Zephron’s face when the stealth mosquito—quickly and capably engineered to Hieronymous’s specific specifications by his underlings—had attacked and taken out the elder with a hefty dose of sleeping potion.

Now the elder was in the farthest catacombs, and there he would remain. It was safe to say that Zephron would be there for eternity.

What a lovely thought.

“And now, to get down to business.” He picked up the itinerary that some flunkie had prepared, flipped through it, then tossed it behind him. It hit the wall just as the mouths around the table dropped open. “New plan,” he said. “Mortals are out. Protectors are in.” He took a deep breath and spread his arms wide. “Ah, but it felt good to say that.”

“What the—”

“You can’t—”

“Are you mad?”

“We came here in good faith! These negotiations must—”

He held up a hand, and the sputtering stopped. “I believe I’m in charge here.”

“
No
.” A familiar, authoritative voice echoed from the doorway. “Actually, I’m in charge. And we’ll be signing the treaty as it was negotiated.”

Zephron!?

Mordi strode into the room, his bearing regal, just as Zephron’s would be. He’d assumed the High Elder’s form. He moved to the head of the table, took up one of the binders that contained the treaty’s terms, and turned to page one.

“We will be signing this today,” he said. “The treaty will go forward.”

“I believe a vote is in order,” Hieronymous said, pure hatred burning in his eyes.

“Indeed it is,” Mordi replied. It took every ounce of strength in his body not to spit in his father’s eye. “The vote will be between me and the mortals.”

“And the Inner Circle!” Hieronymous protested, as the Protectors voiced similar thoughts.

“Am I not the High Elder? Do I not have supreme veto power? We can skip the voting. I assure you, any indication that the Council intends to set aside the treaty will be vetoed by me.”

“But Zephron—” Bilius stated, rising to his feet.

“
Silence
!” That from Hieronymous. He spoke so brashly and loudly that even Mordi cringed.

Hieronymous turned to face his son dead-on. Mordi stood straight, remembering—telling himself—that he was the High Elder and he wasn’t about to shrink from the likes of his father.

“I’ll do nothing that you say,” Hieronymous said, his voice low and menacing. “And neither will these men.”

“Oh, but they will. I am Zephron. The High Elder. And in the end, they’ll have no choice.”

“Perhaps,” Hieronymous said, and something in his voice gave Mordi pause. “Perhaps that would be true if you were in fact the High Elder.” And then, without warning, he leaped forward, grabbing Mordi’s arms and hooking them behind his back. “Be still,
son
,” he said. And Mordi felt his plan fall to pieces.

Hieronymous’s grip tightened on his arm, and the other Protectors moved closer. Damn it to Hades, he hadn’t considered that he’d be fighting half the Council! Damn his father and that ridiculous mind-control pen!

“He’s brainwashed you,” Mordi howled. “The pens!”

The Protectors all looked blank, but Senator Banyon apparently got it. He started grabbing pens off the table, presumably planning to toss them out the door. Hieronymous let go of Mordi long enough to attack Banyon. The senator flew threw the air, landing in a heap in the corner, the pens scattering everywhere.

Mordi drew in a breath, then shifted back to his normal appearance.

“
You
,” Hieronymous sneered. “You are not my son.”

“Actually,” Mordi said, “I am. And for the first time in my life, I’m glad of it.”

Hieronymous stared at him, baffled, and Mordi waved toward the pens. “You’re genetically not affected,” Mordi explained. “And, as your son, neither am I.” He smiled and said a silent thank-you to his nephew, who’d given him a theoretical rundown on the mysterious fountain pens as they’d raced from the catacombs.

“You will not best me,” Hieronymous said. “Not this time. Not ever again. You aren’t worthy of my blood, and you are certainly no match for me. You’re a pathetic Halfling.”

For the first time, Hieronymous’s personal attacks didn’t draw blood, and Mordi stood tall against his father. Even so, he had to agree that the odds were against him. In an effort to increase his chances, he jumped on top of the table and raced toward the door. Hieronymous was at his heels, and his father practically flew into the antechamber just as Mordi did.

Mordi ducked and rolled, and Hieronymous tumbled over him. Mordi raced back and locked the door, effectively trapping the other Protectors inside. Hopefully, they were too mind-muddled to use their powers to escape without Hieronymous there to guide them.

He didn’t have much time to worry about it, though, because his father was on him. Usually, the man had Clyde do the dirty work. Mordi had only seen his father fight once, and in that instance he’d slunk away pretty quickly—plus, Mordi had had the benefit of weapons.

As it turned out, though, Daddy Dearest was quite the fighter. He lunged at Mordi, tackled him, and then the two went down, rolling over and over. Mordi drew in a breath, gathered his energy, and conjured enough faux fire to engulf his father.

The ploy worked, and Hieronymous leapt back, howling as he beat at the flames. His eyes brimmed with anger when he realized the fire was fake. The anger seemed to fuel his strength, and Hieronymous raced toward Mordi, shouting a battle cry as he clutched Mordi’s shoulders and pushed him back. He moved so fast that Mordi couldn’t even keep his feet under him.

They slammed against a wall and rolled against it, then crashed into the glass side of the mortalization tube. Mordi saw the moment the idea hit Hieronymous, but there was nothing he could do; his father had him in his grip, and he shoved Mordi soundly into the cylinder.

Mordi’s head struck the inside of the tube, and he blinked, slightly dazed. He moved forward, trying to grab his father, but Hieronymous slammed the door and locked it. Mordi howled, then banged against the bluish glass, but Hieronymous only smiled.

“This is for the best, son,” Hieronymous said. “Trust me.”

And then, as Mordi’s nerves fractured and frayed, Hieronymous went to the control panel, turned the dial, and pushed the button.

The mortalization tube kicked into high gear.

Hieronymous couldn’t stop laughing. It was beautiful.
Beautiful
! His Halfling son—the one who sympathized with mortals—was now a mortal himself!

He doubled over, feeling not quite himself, but certain he was simply giddy from the wonderfulness of it all. He reached out a hand, prepared to use telekinesis to flip the lock and allow his army to emerge, but nothing happened.

Damn. The fight with Mordi had sapped his powers. He pulled himself upright and headed for the door as Mordi watched from inside the blue tube.
Fool
, he thought.

He reached the door, felt the lock in his hand, and then—

“Not so fast, Hieronymous.”
Zephron
!

Hieronymous recovered fast and whipped around. “This really is getting old. I’ve had about enough of you today.”

Zephron strode into the room, his cape fluttering behind him, his eyes twinkling. “And
I
have had just about enough of
you.”