"Aphrodite's_Passion_005" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_02]_-_Aphrodite's_Passion_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file...)

APHRODITE'SPASSION-JULIEKENNER

Chapter Two

Hale and Zoë exchanged a look. Elmer’s fur spiked out, and the ferret crept up the chair to perch at Hale’s shoulder. Just the mention of Aphrodite’s girdle was sobering, especially since only a few months before, Zoë had been forced to save the planet by recovering the mystical stone centerpiece of the belt from Hieronymous’s minions. The stone loose in the world had been dangerous enough. The girdle loose in the world ... well, the consequences could be devastating.
“Where?” Zoë asked.
“Los Angeles.”
She leaned back. “Since I’m the only Protector who actually lives in LA., I guess that means it’ll be my job.”
Zephron’s image flickered. “Not entirely. Hale has the primary responsibility for this mission. You’ll be providing backup. This task is critical, however, and I wanted you here for a full briefing.”
“I understand.” She clasped her hands in her lap, showing no sign of distress, and Hale felt a swell of pride.
“So, why me and not Zoë?” he asked, even while Elmer started singing.
Hooray for Hollywood. Tra la la la la la la Hollywood...
Zephron raised an eyebrow, but essentially ignored the frantically hopping ferret. “I’ll explain in a moment. First, to bring you up to speed, the girdle has been missing for years.”
“Centuries, I thought.”
“That is what you were meant to think. In truth, the belt surfaced once in recent history. Early in the twentieth century the Elders of the Council became aware of a mortal who possessed the belt but we were unable to reacquire it. Now, we have again detected its presence.” The Elder sighed. “Hieronymous’s spies have undoubtedly informed him of this development as well.”
Hale nodded in understanding. His uncle, Hieronymous, had once been a powerful Protector. But his ambition was to control mortals, not keep them safe and he’d been Outcast for years. Forbidden to use his powers under threat of the direst punishment, Hieronymous had been somewhat kept under control. Slowly but surely, however, the man was organizing an underground band of other Outcasts. He also had recruited a few Protectors—traitors who had yet to be discovered—within the Council. As soon as he had the chance, Hale and the other Protectors knew, Hieronymous would try to overthrow them.
He’d already used his halfling son, Mordi, as part of his first serious attempt, the one Zoë had managed to foil. But if Hieronymous got his hands on Aphrodite’s girdle, he’d have another clear shot at the prize. That would be a bad deal all around for Protectors... and pretty much the end of the line for mortal freedom.
Well, that sucks, Elmer said. Hale just nodded. The ferret’s assessment summed up the situation quite nicely.
“I only know a little bit about the belt,” Zoë admitted, shooting Hale a scathing look.
He slunk further down into his chair. The belt had been the focus of a little white lie he’d told his sister not too long ago, when she’d been pitted against Mordi. The verdict was still out on their cousin’s loyalty—whether he was for the Council or his father—but there was no question that the verdict had been reached on Hale’s lie: Zoë was still miffed about that.
“I know it makes the wearer irresistible to whomever he or she desires,” his sister continued. “It’s like a focused aphrodisiac on the object of your affections.” She smiled, perhaps imagining the possibilities. “Aphrodite certainly had an obsession for that kind of thing. But that’s all I know. Is there more?”
Zephron nodded toward Hale. “Tell her.”
Oh, great. A pop quiz. But he smiled and turned in his chair to face his sister more directly. “You know that Aphrodite—”
“Our great-great-great-great-et-cetera grandmother.”
“—forged it centuries ago.” When Zoë nodded, he continued. “Well, it has all sorts of powers. On a mortal, it causes what you said—love and adoration by whomever the mortal desires. It’s sort of a sensual magnet. It also works even if there’s no romantic desire, although the effect is much weaker.”
Zoë frowned. “I’m not following.”
Hale’s brow furrowed as he tried to think of an example. “Okay, let’s say you’re a mortal and you have the belt. Whoever you desire—romantically, sensually, sexually, whatever—is going to love and adore you.”
“Like a love potion.”
“Right,” Hale said, looking to Zephron for confirmation.
“Very true,” the Elder said.
“I understand that,” Zoë said. “But you said it works even if I don’t desire the guy.”
“Right.” Hale shrugged. “Maybe you’re in a department store and want better service. Or a movie’s sold out and you’re wishing the manager would let you in anyway.”
Zoë grinned. “Well, heck, that sounds better.”
“What do you mean?” Hale asked.
“I’ve already got Taylor. But premium seats at a movie sound great.”
Hale rolled his eyes, continuing with his explanation. “That’s if it’s a mortal who’s wearing it. But on a Protector—”
“Let me guess,” Zoë said. “On a Protector, the effect is even more intense. Love and adoration by everyone—no matter whether or not the wearer desires them. Mind-control, basically. So if Hieronymous got a hold of the thing...”
“Even Zephron would bend to his will,” Hale finished.
They looked at each other, then turned to look at Zephron, who inclined his head in silent agreement.
Wow, squeaked Elmer. This just keeps getting better and better. Most ferrets hadn’t mastered sarcasm. Elmer had it down pat.
“No kidding,” Hale said.
“So where is it?” Zoë asked. “I mean, where in Los Angeles?”
“We don’t know.” Zephron’s image turned, focusing entirely on Hale. “It is your job to find out.”
“No prob—”
“Uh, question.” Hale’s sister pressed her lips together, clearly sorry for interrupting, but not sorry enough to wait.
“Yes, young Zoë?” Zephron looked at her, his eyes warm and grandfatherly. Hale bit back a smile. His little sister had certainly wormed her way into the heart of the usually stern High Elder.
“I realize I’m still new, but... well... how’d it get away the first time?”
Zephron’s face tightened, his expression more serious than Hale could ever remember seeing. “It was missing for a long time during the silent-film era. Then, a young actress named Tahlula Tannin acquired the belt. We still don’t know how. When we became aware that she had it, the Council’s inner circle rallied to recover it. Our mission failed.”
“Why?” Zoë asked the question on Hale’s tongue.
“At the time, the inner circle consisted of my father and your grandfather.”
“Oh.” That pretty much said it all. Their Grandfather Hector had sired both Donis and Hieronymous. Zoë and Hale’s dad took after his mother, whereas Hieronymous was more like his father. Not exactly the most upstanding Protector ever.
“So Grandfather Hector stole the belt from this Tahlula person?” Hale asked.
Zephron shook his head. “I almost wish he had. The belt is protected by Aphrodite’s magic. We don’t know all the rules, but we do know that no Protector can take it from a mortal. It must be given to him freely by whatever mortal has possession of it. If not, the Protector who steals it loses his powers forever.”
“Wow,” Zoë said.
“Precisely,” Zephron agreed. “Our problem lay within a power struggle between my father and your grandfather. Each tried to acquire the belt. They wined and dined Ms. Tannin, seeking to persuade her to make a gift of the belt, but to no avail. Your grandfather did manage to acquire the stone centerpiece before it was lost again—that is another story—but the woman would not give up the girdle itself. My father visited her in a final effort to persuade her, but by the time he arrived the belt was gone. She wouldn’t say where she had taken it, but there was never any indication again that the woman had it in her possession. Despite our surveillance.”
“And it’s never been located since?” Hale asked.
“Never.”
“We failed?” Zoë sounded vaguely disappointed.
“I’m afraid it does happen, child. If every mission were successful, we would not be so concerned about Hieronymous’s efforts to rally all Outcasts.”
Zoë nodded, but didn’t look too happy. “How can you know it’s in Los Angeles but not know where exactly? For that matter, what do you mean when you say you ‘became aware’ this Tahlula woman had it?”
Zephron beamed as if at a prize pupil. “An excellent question, my dear.” He turned to Hale. “Care to venture a guess?”
“A tracking device, probably.” A number of Council artifacts could be traced through Protector technology.
“Essentially, yes,” Zephron agreed. “Your ancestor, Aphrodite, bequeathed the girdle to the mortal world.” His face reflected a hint of disapproval. “She was always a prankster, that woman. At any rate, her magic protects the belt. The Council can hone in on its location, but only if a mortal is actually wearing it. The longer the mortal wears the belt, the more specifically we can pinpoint the location.”
“Like a phone tap,” Zoë said.
“Exactly.” Zephron nodded. “But if the belt is unworn, it is completely invisible to us.”
“It’s gold mesh, right?” Zoë asked. “With a stone in the center?”
Zephron nodded, then turned, fumbling out of the range of the hologram projector. When he came back into view, he was holding a belt. “This is what it looks like,” he said, holding it out for Hale and Zoë to inspect. “My father had this duplicate crafted. He thought to interest Tahlula in an exchange, but she showed no interest in the bargain.”
“When did it last show up?” Hale asked. “The real deal, I mean. Not the duplicate.”
“A week ago. A mere blip. So now you will resort to more conventional methods to locate it.”
“Taylor can help,” Zoë suggested.
“Not necessary,” Hale said.
Zoë crossed her arms over her chest. “Watch it, big brother. Taylor’s perfectly capable, and he works with me all the time.”
Hale grumbled an assent. If he didn’t agree, he’d never hear the end of it. Besides, the guy was a private investigator. Even if he was a mortal, too.
“I suggest you begin your investigation with Tahlula Tannin,” Zephron said. “The last time we saw it, the belt was in her possession. Perhaps it has not gone as far as we thought.”
“We’ll start with her family,” Hale said. “Maybe someone inherited it.” He turned to Zoë with a bit of a peace offering. “Taylor can start there, trying to track down who she left her property to.”
Zephron smiled. “She has a granddaughter—Tracy. In fact, you might say that this woman is the reason you are being assigned to this matter.” He gave Hale a pointed look. “And since it is most likely this granddaughter inherited the belt, we’ve already retrieved the information on her current job in Los Angeles.”
Woo-hoo, a girl! That’s right up your alley, Hale! Elmer chittered.
Hale couldn’t argue with that. Or, at least, it had once been up his alley. He hoped it still was. “I can be there within an hour.” He glanced down at his watch. Considering the time change, that would put him there in the afternoon. Propulsion cloaks were a fabulous thing. He could fly to L.A. and check out the granddaughter while Taylor tried to find out about Tahlula’s will. It wasn’t guaranteed to work, but it was a solid start.
He frowned, remembering Zephron’s words. “What do you mean that Tracy’s the reason I’m being assigned this mission?”
For a moment, he thought the Elder wouldn’t answer. Then Zephron pulled himself up to his full height. “Clearly this is an important task—the fate of the world depends on its success. Normally, we would assign a team of Protectors—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hale said, not sure where Zephron was going.
“—but in this case,” Zephron continued, “I’ve decided to assign only you.” He nodded toward Zoë. “And your sister, of course. She can provide assistance.”
“I’m flattered,” Hale said, sure that the reason for his assignment wasn’t simply that Zephron thought he was supremely exceptional. Hale had an ego, sure. But he was also realistic. “But why me?”
“As I already explained, the mortal in possession of the belt must give it to a Protector voluntarily. We can’t simply steal it, since our powers would disappear.” He took a breath. “As I mentioned, we do not know all the details of how the belt protects itself and its mortal owner. However, anecdotal evidence suggests that that once a mortal wears the belt, he or she will be so enamored of the power and magic that they will not want to part with it. A request to simply give it away would likely be futile.”
Hale frowned. “Okay. But I still don’t understand why me.”
For a moment, Zephron actually looked embarrassed. “If the owner feels a bond—a connection—with the Protector, that fact can be used to our benefit to persuade the owner to hand over the belt voluntarily.” Zephron’s face became stem. “Neither Hector nor my father were able to persuade Tahlula, I’m afraid. Tahlula had not truly connected with them.” He looked Hale in the eye. “You must make that connection. Befriend this mortal. Persuade this mortal. Our survival—and the survival of every mortal on earth—depends on it.”
“And you really think Hale’s the best for this assignment?” Zoë asked, her voice pitched high with disbelief.
As Elmer chittered in agreement, Hale also had to concur. “You want me—me?—to befriend a mortal?” He looked at Zephron. “You’ve known me my whole life. Why in Hades would you shoulder me with this assignment?” It was almost as if Zephron wanted him to fail—or had some other unspoken agenda. It just didn’t make sense.
“You have befriended mortals in the past,” Zephron said. “Taylor, for example.”
Zoë nodded. “That’s true. And Hoop, Deena and Lane,” she added, referring to all the mortals Hale had met when Zoë had battled Mordi.
“Yes, but they’re not... I’m not...” He trailed off. As much as he hated to admit it, he had befriended them. Damn.
“You are also an excellent Protector,” Zephron continued. “And you can be very persuasive when it suits you.” He looked Hale in the eye, and Hale was sure he saw a hint of amusement flickering in the Elder’s gaze. “In other words, I’m positive you will prevail.”
Hale nodded in silent acknowledgment of the compliment, then tried another tack. “As much as I might enjoy making another mortal friend,” he lied, “I’m wondering if it’s really necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Zoë said. “Didn’t you hear Zephron? Hieronymous? End of the world? A generally bad situation all the way around?”
“I mean, why don’t we just let Taylor or some other mortal steal the thing? As I’ve pointed out many times, they don’t have any powers to lose.” He turned to Zoë and lifted an eyebrow. “And it would prove that mortals are good for something.”
“I assure you,” Zephron said, “mortals are good for many things. But not this.”
“Why?” he and Zoë asked in unison.
“Aphrodite’s enchantment again. No mortal can steal the belt. It simply isn’t possible. A mortal can receive it as a gift or an inheritance or buy it in a thrift shop if the owner has thrown it away, but a mortal cannot simply take it.” He shrugged. “It’s impossible. The belt will not leave its rightful owner unless the owner gives it away or it is stolen by a Protector—who would then lose his powers.”
A darned finicky fashion accessory, if you ask me, Elmer piped up. Hale tried his best to ignore him.
“Just remember,” Zephron added. “When we find the belt’s owner, your mission will include providing protection. Any mortal in possession of the girdle will be in danger from Heironymous.”
“Protection from what? He can’t steal the thing,” Zoë spoke up. “We just went over that.” Her eyes went wide. “Can he kill her and just take it?”
Zephron shook his head. “If the mortal owner of the belt dies at the hand of another, the belt’s powers die as well.”
Hale rubbed his temples. “So, let’s see if I’m following— we can’t enlist a mortal to steal the belt for us because Grandma decided that wasn’t part of the playbook. And we can’t steal it because we’d lose our powers. Assuming she won’t hand it over if I just ask nicely, that means I’ll have to”—he shuddered—“befriend this Tracy person or whoever has the belt in order to convince her to give it up to me voluntarily.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
“Not that I’m complaining about the whole mortal bonding thing,” Hale lied—he was complaining, and loudly—“but isn’t it unnecessary? I mean, there’s no way Hieronymous could befriend anybody, much less a mortal.”
“True,” Zephron acknowledged. “But there are many other methods of persuasion. Torture, for example.”
“Oh,” Zoë whispered, swallowing.
“Hieronymous could also send one of his minions to persuade the owner with soft words and romantic evenings,” Zephron added. “Or, he could simply resort to other means.”
“Other means?” Zoë repeated.
“Hieronymous has minions, many of whom would sacrifice their powers for his approval. The curse extends only to stealing the belt. Not receiving it.”
Rules, rules, rules, Elmer said. You protectors and your rules. I swear, you need a manual to keep up.
“Anything else we need to know?” Hale asked, silently agreeing with the ferret.
“No,” Zephron said. “As I said, we do not fully understand the belt. At this point, you know everything we’ve confirmed.”
Hale nodded. So, that was it. Their mission was about to begin. He squeezed the armrest and looked at Zoë. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Hale knew they were thinking on the same lines. If Hieronymous’s followers were so loyal, then Uncle H’s threat to the Council was growing exponentially every day. Once again, they needed to foil their uncle in order to save the world.
But what the heck? He was up to the challenge. And what was the point of being a superhero if there wasn’t a little drama in your life?

Mordichai watched as Hieronymous drummed his fingers on the heavy oak desk. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. His father’s incessant habit drove him crazy, and if it didn’t stop soon, Mordi was sure to let out a howl loud enough to shake the heavens.
Or maybe not. No one lost his patience with Hieronymous. Least of all his son.
“It’s there. Aphrodite’s girdle.” Hieronymous stood up, his fingers twitching as if he were stifling the urge to rub his hands together with glee. “We’ve seen the flicker from the monitoring device.”
He pointed toward the bank of monitors on the far side of the room. As usual, ten of the twelve were displaying various financial programs. The eleventh showed an empty stone cell, manacles on the wall, with only a single red chair in the center.
Mordi frowned, trying to figure out what his father was doing monitoring an old castle. “The belt’s in a dungeon?”
Hieronymous shot him a look of contempt. “That ‘dungeon’ as you call it, is part of an old movie set that one of my investment companies is considering acquiring.”
Mordi fought a smile. Hieronymous himself owned nothing. Instead, his property was owned by offshore corporations shielding other offshore corporations. Nothing traceable back to Hieronymous—which was just the way he liked it.
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“I took a fancy to it,” his father said. Mordi imagined that was true. Hieronymous would probably live in a castle once—if—he overthrew the Council. “And it may come in useful someday.” Hieronymous pointed a finger toward the last monitor, the one in the middle displaying the Los Angeles skyline. “But you are not here to learn about my investments. Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in that city, and we don’t have a clue where.”
“I know, Father.”
“You know?” Hieronymous sneered. “Or you understand?”
Mordi sat up straighter, sucking in a strengthening breath. “I understand.”
“Do you?” His father’s voice was low, menacing. “Tell me, son, what it is you understand?”
Mordi sighed. He’d failed his father recently, and winning back the old man’s trust was proving tricky. Not that Hieronymous had ever really had faith in Mordi. No, Mordi was a halfling—a by-product of a tryst with a mortal—and apparently that fact didn’t sit well with dear old Dad. Which meant that time and again Mordi found himself beating his brains out to win respect.
“I understand that Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in Los Angeles. I understand that you need it, that with it you can rally the Outcasts and overcome the Council.”
“How?”
Mordichai sighed, hating having to prove himself at every turn. “The girdle will make you invincible. No one will be able to stop you or refuse you. That treaty the Council is trying to work out with the mortal government will be just so much paper. You’ll be the top dog. You’ll be the head honcho. You’ll be the king of the world,” he added, imagining his father living in his newly acquired castle.
A thin smile touched his father’s lips, and his eyes got a faraway expression. “Exactly. A Protector who wears the girdle, even an Outcast, is like a god. I shall rule as our race was meant to rule—not taking a backseat to those mortals and their pesky problems. They should be serving us, not the other way around.”
Hieronymous waved a hand in the air as he paced the length of the room, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Treaties and politics and secret negotiations, all for what end? So that perhaps Protectors can come out in the light and be seen for what we really are? Bah. Zephron and his stable of flunkies are fools. We should not negotiate with those ridiculous mortals. We should simply take over—and crush the mortals like the insects they are.”
He turned to Mordi, his eyes aglow with the lust for power. “With the girdle, I can escape this prison.” His arm swept the luxurious highrise in midtown Manhattan that most mortals would kill for. “I can fulfill my destiny.”
“You just need me to find and get it for you,” Mordi said dryly. As an Outcast, Hieronymous was forbidden to use his powers. If he did—and if he was caught—the punishment was severe. Though Mordichai was not a full-fledged member of the Council, his status as a probationer didn’t put any such restrictions on him.
Hieronymous aimed one curt nod in his direction. Not an overwhelming display of affection, but the man wasn’t the type to dole out bucketfuls of praise. “Exactly. No matter how you failed me in the past, it seems that I do have some use left for you. As I cannot use my power to locate the belt’s owner—or convince the owner to give the belt to me—I will have to rely on you. I have no choice.” Again he waved a hand, as if sweeping away a gnat. “And, of course, you shall have to prove yourself to be the heir to my kingdom.” The last was spoken casually, an afterthought intended to placate.
“Yes, Father,” Mordi said. A slow fury rose in him, urging him to lash out, to unleash every bit of hurt and anger toward the man, but he held back. Instead, he simply sat holding his tongue and remembering why he was there.
Because the truth was, he did have to find the girdle. And he had to get it away from its owner. Only one question remained. Once he held it in his hands, what would he do? Would he turn it over to his father? Would he deliver it to the Council? Or would Mordichai have the last laugh after all?

APHRODITE'SPASSION-JULIEKENNER

Chapter Two

“Sit. Sit. Sit!” Tracy sighed and dangled the doggy treat closer to Mistress Bettina’s cold, wet nose. “Please, Missy, you’re making me look bad—an animal trainer who can’t handle her own dog?”
Apparently Mistress Bettina couldn’t care less how Tracy looked, because the dog just sniffed, waggled her fuzzy little pedigreed butt, and yawned.
Resigned, Tracy tossed her the treat, which Missy promptly gobbled. “Thanks for nothing. Just remember who brushes you so that you turn all the boy dogs’ heads.”
“Does she talk back?”
Tracy yelped, her heart pounding as she turned around to face ... him. Leon Palmer. America’s latest heartthrob— and Tracy definitely counted herself among the Throbettes.
Behind her, Missy growled low in her throat. It was not particularly threatening considering the dog was tiny, but certainly not polite either. Tracy looked back over her shoulder. “Hush, girl. It’s Leon Palmer.”
Didn’t Missy realize what a big deal this was—the Leon Palmer... talking to her, Tracy Tannin, assistant animal trainer and Hollywood nobody? She really couldn’t believe it.
She wanted to savor the moment, but Missy’s growls and yips weren’t exactly enhancing the mood. She shot an apologetic smile Leon’s way, then bent over and scooped up the dog, rubbing her between the ears until Missy finally settled down and Tracy could again concentrate on Leon.
He must be lost. After all, the trailer that Paws In Production used to house the animals’ kennels was parked on a far corner of the backlot. It was well away from the day-today action of the filming of Mrs. Dolittle, Private Eye, so hardly any of the sitcom’s crew ever wandered back here, and certainly none of the cast ever did. Especially not stars like Leon. Tracy considered swooning but decided it would be terribly uncool. Instead, she rubbed Missy’s head, silently reassuring the dog that having Leon Palmer nearby was a good thing.
Leon grinned, apparently used to women staring at him in awe. After a moment, he flashed the full-blown for-the-photographers smile that was currently gracing a dozen entertainment magazines. “You okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.” His glance shot down toward Missy, his features tightening. “Or the dog,” he added.
“Oh. No. I mean, yes. I’m fine.” She squeezed her hands into fists and counted to ten. “I mean, don’t worry about it. I just didn’t realize anyone else was around. We’re pretty secluded back here.”
“I can see why.”
The corner of her mouth drew down. “Huh?” Oh, he must mean keeping the cameras away from the smell and noise. “The animals are all trained. Well, all but Missy here, but she’s not actually one of the company’s. She’s my dog, and she’s untrainable.” Tracy shrugged. “Anyway, all the other animals behave themselves.”
His grin displayed that famous dimple. “No, no. I just mean that I can see why they’d keep you in seclusion.” He leaned toward her. “Wouldn’t want a pretty thing like you distracting the actors and making the actresses jealous.”
“Oh. I...” She swallowed, wondering about his definition of pretty, but was flattered nonetheless. “Oh.” She gulped again. “So, uh, how can I help you?”
“I was hoping to meet my new co-star before shooting started this morning.” He paused, looking Tracy up and down. “Are you Melissa Carpenter?”
“I’m Tracy.”
His polite expression faded.
“Mel’s assistant,” she added, pleased to see his smile return. Clutching a squirming Missy under one arm, Tracy wiped her free hand on her jeans, wishing she had worn some makeup, had brushed her hair, and hadn’t been covered with fur. She held out her wiped-clean hand for him to shake, hoping it didn’t reek of doggie sweat. “Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Tracy. I’ll have to come back here more often now that I know what treats the producers are hiding.”
Tracy tried to smile, but wasn’t sure she managed. Men never noticed her. Never. So she wasn’t exactly sure what sort of response to make. Something more brilliant than drooling, that was for sure.
“Uh, fine. You can come by whenever. We’ve got lots of treats.” She fished in her pocket, then held one out. “Mostly doggie treats.”
He stared blankly then, almost as an afterthought, he cracked a tiny smile.
Good going, Trace. What a way with men.
“So, uh, can you introduce me to my co-star?” Leon asked after a moment.
Tracy cleared her throat. Best to focus on business and not attempt jokes. “Yes, well, she’s still back at the compound. Mel does most of the training there.” His “co-star” happened to be a particularly uncooperative female ferret named Penelope, and training the little beast was going terribly.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could make friends today.” He glanced at Missy, giving the dog a wary look. “I... uh ... was hoping we could get used to each other.”
“We were told those episodes didn’t start shooting for another week or so. Did someone tell you she’d be here?”
“No.” He waved off the question. “I just thought maybe I’d get lucky.” He smiled and moved closer. A low growl rose from Missy’s throat, and Leon jumped back. After a few seconds, he managed to regain his composure. He caught Tracy’s gaze. “I just didn’t realize how lucky.”
Oh, my. He was flirting with her.
Unbelievable.
Tracy fought the urge to pinch herself and see if she was dreaming. Instead, she just rubbed Missy’s head and forced herself to smile and act casual. Right. Casual. That was a much better plan than simply throwing herself at him.
His supremely confident expression suggested that he knew precisely how frazzled she was, and that he was more than happy to be the one frazzling her. Their gazes locked for a few seconds before his smile broadened. “Well, guess I better run. Don’t be a stranger.” One last show of pearly white teeth, then he turned away.
Tracy waved after him, her hand still limp in the air when Mel wandered up to the trailer a few moments later.
“Are you saluting? Or is this some weird new Southern California religious thing I just haven’t heard about?”
Melissa had moved to Los Angeles from Ohio years ago, and her favorite pastime was picking on Tracy’s hometown. Usually it got a rise out of her, but not today. Today, Tracy just lowered her hand, smiled at her boss, and passed her the dog. “He was here,” she said.
“He?” Melissa asked, shifting Missy under her arm. “Who he?”
“Leon Palmer.” Tracy whispered the name as if it were the key phrase of an incantation. “He asked for you.”
“Burke told me Leon was scared of ferrets,” Mel explained. “He probably came here trying to convince me to tell the show to use another dog or cat or something.”
Tracy frowned. “Really? He sounded excited about meeting Penelope. He even looked disappointed that she wasn’t here.”
Mel rolled her eyes. “Well, then he’s a good actor, because Burke told me yesterday that the whole cast knows the ferret’s being trained at the compound until we start rehearsals.”
Tracy wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Well, whatever his reasoning for coming back here, the point is that he ended up staying and flirting with me.”
“And this is a good thing?” Mel asked—as if Tracy had just revealed she was next in line for a brain transplant.
“Any man flirting with me is a good thing.” Tracy sighed. She was practically the invisible girl. Plain-Jane Tracy Tannin, the poor little Hollywood flop who hadn’t inherited her movie-star grandmother’s exotic looks or her father’s classic features. Not that it usually bothered her, but on occasion it would be nice to be noticed. And now, to be noticed by a guy she’d had a crush on for months ...
“The man practically oozes ulterior motives,” Mel said. “He probably figured you could get him out of the Penelope mess as easy as I could.”
Tracy crossed her arms, determined to savor the moment. “No way. I told him you were training her, not me.” She refused to believe Leon just wanted something. He’d seemed so sweet, so sincere. And, besides, he knew darn well that Mel was in charge of the animals. How much power did he think an assistant had? She stood up straighter, hoping to convince herself as much as her boss. “He was flirting, Mel. I know flirting when I see it.”
“Forgive me if I don’t drool.”
“Oh, come on. You have to admit he’s cute.”
Mel looked at her over the top of her aviator sunglasses. “I’ll go you one better, kid. I think the man’s positively gorgeous.”
“See?”
“See what? See you making a fool out of yourself?”
Tracy scowled. “Okay. You win. I admit I might be getting a little bit carried away, but I haven’t even had a date in six months—”
“Maybe the men just can’t catch you. You work so much.”
“I work for you, remember?” Tracy countered.
“And I appreciate it,” Mel said, the sincerity in her voice ringing through. Although Mel had been in the business for years, she’d only recently opened her own company, and— except for the two college interns who fed the animals and cleaned cages—Tracy was Mel’s one and only employee. At first, Tracy knew, Mel had struggled just to bring in enough money to buy food for the animals and pay Tracy’s salary. But now, Paws In Production was taking off, its animals regularly appearing on Mrs. Dolittle and a few movies that were filming around town. The company’s success meant that Mel was leaving a lot of the daily details to Tracy while Mel ran around town, having meetings, interviewing potential employees, and generally building up the company.
All in all, the situation was great for Mel and for Tracy, who’d gained a lot more experience than she’d anticipated when she’d first hired on after her grandmother died. The only downside was that she often needed to work long hours, and that put a crimp in her social life. Not that she’d ever had much of a social life to begin with.
“Well, how much I work isn’t the point. The fact is, men don’t notice me. Therefore, I happen to think that a guy like Leon Palmer—who could have any woman he wanted—flirting with me is a pretty cool thing.”
“Fine. Whatever. But don’t start thinking something’s going to come of it. He flirts with everybody and dates someone new every week. The guy’s a jerk.”
“He seemed perfectly nice just now.” A little arrogant, maybe, but Tracy had met enough Hollywood types to know that was often just a cover for insecurity. Of course Missy hadn’t exactly been her usual friendly self, but it wasn’t as if the dog was always a good judge of character.
“If he was nice, it was only because he wanted something. Or else he has a brain tumor.”
Tracy crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “You’re not being helpful. Come on. Tell me what I should do now.”
“Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
Tracy kept on tapping, her mouth firmly closed.
Mel sighed, her long fingers stroking Missy’s head before she put the dog back on the ground. “That’s my best advice. I don’t even like the guy. I mean, jeez, if you’re going to go all ga-ga over some unattainable guy, couldn’t it be someone you can fantasize about? I mean Leon Palmer is so not fantasy material.”
Tracy laughed. “I can fantasize about him just fine.”
“I was thinking someone a little more removed from reality. Someone safe. Like one of the models on those romance novels you’re always reading.”
Tracy’s cheeks warmed at her employer’s perceptiveness. So what if she had a little crush on a romance cover model? Her fantasies were perfectly innocent. And considering how boring her reality was, she didn’t intend to give them up.
“I bet those guys are arrogant and conceited, too,” Mel continued. “But at least you won’t have to see it every day at work.”
“Now they’re arrogant, too? You’ve never even met one.” Tracy cocked her head. “You’ve got issues, Mel. Deep, dark issues.”
“What are those guys’ names?” Mel asked, like a dog with a bone. “The ones on the covers you’re always drooling over?”
“Cherif Fortin’s one,” Tracy mumbled. She tried to control her embarrassment. Mel might have issues, but apparently they were going to explore Tracy’s. “And there’s also John DeSalvo.”
“Yeah, but there’s that one you really like. The dark-haired guy with those amazing blue eyes.”
“Hale. His name is Hale.”
“Just Hale?”
Tracy shrugged. “Maybe it’s like Cher. Or Madonna. I don’t know.” She let her head fall back as she sighed. Hale was always so nice in her fantasies. He’d come to her house dressed in a tux, planning to take her dancing. They’d never get further than the foyer, though; they’d whirl and twirl to the music until that last final note when they’d kiss...
Mentally, she sighed. Such a nice fantasy.
“Earth to Tracy, Earth to Tracy. Come in, Tracy.”
“Sorry. Distracted.” She shook her head, feeling a bit like Missy snaking off a bath. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Hale’s total fantasy, and if my crush goes any further than the two of us, I’ll have to hurt you.”
“Uh-huh.” Mel’s mouth twitched. “What I’m saying is, you should try to hook up with a real man, not some fantasy guy—”
“Leon’s real.”
“—But if you’re going to fantasize, at least do it about someone better than Leon.”
Tracy sighed. All her life, she’d been the invisible one, fading into the background against the bright light that was her grandmother. To be noticed—especially by a guy like Leon—well, that was a dream come true.
Mel didn’t look particularly sympathetic.
“Just help me out here, okay?” Tracy pleaded.
“I already gave you my best advice—run far, run fast.”
“Mel...”
“Okay. Okay. All I can say is talk to the guy. You know. Be yourself.”
“Myself?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, who else are you going to be?”
Who else, indeed? Tracy looked down at her tattered jeans and skinny legs. She didn’t have a mirror, but she didn’t need one to know that her shoulder-length, straight brown hair wasn’t exactly high-fashion. She’d pulled it back with a rubber band and as usual, a million tiny wisps had escaped to frame her face. For a model the look might be sexy. On Tracy, it just looked messy.
“Maybe I’ll be myself tomorrow. That gives me time to figure out what I’m supposed to look like.”
Instead of a sarcastic comment, Mel just gave her a stare, the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes softening the expression. “Is this really a guy you want to reinvent yourself for? I mean, fantasies are one thing. Do you really even want this guy?”
Tracy sighed, cracking the door for the truth that was pounding away to be let in. “I don’t know. Probably not for good.” He was arrogant, true, and the movie mags did peg him with a different woman every week. But if a guy like Leon wanted her, even for a day, maybe she wasn’t as plain as she’d always thought. “He doesn’t have to be the guy, does he? Maybe he can just be a guy.”
“So, what are you saying? You’re going to have a fling with Leon Palmer?” Incredulity filled Mel’s voice.
“Maybe.” Tracy stood up a little straighter. The idea did have a certain appeal. “Yeah. Maybe I am. He certainly seemed interested enough.” And that little fact flattered the heck out of her. Maybe Leon Palmer wasn’t Mr. Right, but at the moment she didn’t even have a Mr. Right Now. And who better to fill that role than a handsome television star? She stifled a grin. In today’s episode, Mr. Right Now will be played by Leon Palmer.
Her boss’s stern expression drew her out of her goofy reverie.
“It’s not like I’m going to marry him, Mel. I just want to see where this leads. I think he really liked me.” Tracy heard the desperation in her voice and added, “And I haven’t had a guy like Leon flirt with me in, well, never.”
Mel’s expression softened, then turned motherly. “All right. Go for it. Have a good time. Get all dolled up and knock him dead. Sound like a plan?”
“Absolutely.” Except for the butterflies jumping around in her stomach, not to mention the niggling feeling that pursuing Leon was utterly insane.
She pushed the thought away and smiled at her boss. “Thanks, Mel. I’ll knock him dead if it kills me.”

Hale yawned and stretched as he wondered what the heck was going on. He would have stood up and paced, killing time by looking out the windows, but the American Ops Center of the Venerate Council of Protectors was hidden deep below the Washington Monument. Windows wouldn’t have provided much of a view.
We go to California, we end up back here. My nerves can’t take this, I tell you. Up, down. Land, take off. Fly here. Drive there. I have sensitive sensibilities, you know. Stability. That’s what I need. Stability and a little R & R. Elmer perched on the armrest of Hale’s chair, a morose expression plastered on his little face. He sighed deeply. You really do have the worst luck with vacations.
That Hale did, but he wasn’t in the mood to discuss it. Nor did he want to probe how thrilled he’d been to have an excuse to escape Bitsy and those other bathing beauties on the West Coast. That was a new neurosis he’d examine on his own.
He turned to Zoë, who was staring openly at the ferret.
“What’s he chattering on about?” she asked.
“It’s the onset of ferret psychosis. Ignore him.”
Elmer managed the ferret version of a glower, which Hale ignored as he continued to focus on his sister. “They really didn’t tell you anything about why we’re here?”
She shook her head, her coppery hair flying. “Nope.”
Hale frowned. He hated not knowing what was going on.
“I got a communique, same as you,” Zoë added. She took a deep breath and snuggled back into one of the overstuffed recliners that surrounded the hologram dais. “I just think this is so cool, don’t you? We must be getting assigned to work together on a mission.” She bounced a little in her seat. “I can’t wait.”
“Hold your horses, kid. We don’t know why we’re here. For all we know it’s a surprise party for Dad.”
His half-sister rolled her eyes and looked smug. Heck, she was probably right, and Hale needed to get over feeling so protective of her. Just a few months ago, she might have been a halfling, unskilled at handling her superpowers. But she’d proved herself by saving the world. Not too many people—Protector or not—had that particular claim to fame.
Still, though, he was her older brother, and it was his prerogative to worry. “Where’s Taylor?” he asked.
“Back in Los Angeles, of course.”
“He didn’t mind you coming out here?”
She laughed. “He knows what I do, Hale. Heck, he’s involved in half my missions.”
Hale nodded, that particular fact making him more than a little nervous. Taylor’s private-investigation business might be the perfect front for a crime-fighting Protector, but Hale hated the thought of his little sister relying so much on a mortal. Of course, considering his sister had gone and actually married said mortal, it wasn’t as if he could reason with her.
“Admit it,” she said, her voice teasing. “You like him.”
He mumbled something noncommittal.
“Come on. I saw you two last month watching Star Wars together.”
“It’s a good movie.”
“And you were awfully complimentary when he helped you catch those counterfeiters.”
“The guy’s smart. I never said he wasn’t.”
“And you let him drive your Ferrari.”
“I keep it parked in your garage. It’s not like I need it in Manhattan. It would be rude not to let him drive it.”
“And ...” The corner of her mouth twitched.
“And he’s a good guy.” Hale shrugged, giving in. “You know I like him. I’m just a little wary of...”
“Yeah?” she prompted.
His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, kid. It’s just that I—”
“—have a problem with mortals. I know.”
Hale drummed his fingers on his thigh, irritated. His “problem” wasn’t exactly unreasonable. Mortal-Protector relationships didn’t work. Oh, sure, maybe the odd couple, like Zoë and Taylor, or Hale’s friend Starbuck and his fiancée Jenny, but more often than not, mortals were not to be trusted. They’d tear your heart out and leave it bleeding on the floor.
Heck. Zoë should know that. It’s what her mom had done to their father. Hale had been a little kid at the time, and when Tessa had found out Donis’s secret, she’d told him to get out of her life and stay out. By default, she’d told Hale the same, and he’d lost a woman who’d come damn close to being the only mother he could remember. It had hurt like hell, and even though Donis and Tessa were back together, that didn’t erase the past hurt. His father might be able to forgive and forget, but Hale was smarter than that.
As if the past didn’t hold enough red flags for Hale, now Donis was cutting back on his Protector assignments. He said it was because he wanted to retire and spend more time with Tessa, but Hale had to wonder how much was because Tessa was demanding Donis change his lifestyle. She was making Hale’s father re-examine his priorities, and that, to Hale, was bad.
Zoë shot him a peevish look. “One of these days, I hope you meet a mortal woman who’ll bring you to your knees.”
And then we‘ll have to enroll you in a twelve-step program for mortalphobes, Elmer chittered, shaking so hard with silent ferret laughter that he almost fell off the armrest.
“Don’t hold your breath, kiddo,” Hale said to Zoë. Protect mortals? Sure. Sleep with them? No problem. Fall for them? Never. For good measure, he turned to glare at Elmer. “And you behave.”
“Shhh.” Zoë suddenly held a finger to her lips, her eyes widening. “I hear something.”
Zoë superpowers included super senses, so Hale didn’t doubt her, though he did wonder what his sister could possibly be hearing considering the viewing room was supposedly soundproofed and cut off from the buzzing computers and clackety-clack of keyboards out in the central processing area. He didn’t have long to wonder. Soon enough Zephron’s image appeared on the dais in front of them, and Hale realized his sister had heard the faint whirring of the hologram projector.
They both sat back and waited for the High Elder to inform them of their mission. Since most tasks were assigned by simple communique—or even the much simpler telephone—Hale knew it must be important. A summons to the Ops Center suggested the direst of straits. Plus, the message he’d received in California had mentioned Hieronymous.
Something was definitely amiss.
“We have located Aphrodite’s girdle,” Zephron said without preamble.
Hale and Zoë exchanged a look. Elmer’s fur spiked out, and the ferret crept up the chair to perch at Hale’s shoulder. Just the mention of Aphrodite’s girdle was sobering, especially since only a few months before, Zoë had been forced to save the planet by recovering the mystical stone centerpiece of the belt from Hieronymous’s minions. The stone loose in the world had been dangerous enough. The girdle loose in the world ... well, the consequences could be devastating.
“Where?” Zoë asked.
“Los Angeles.”
She leaned back. “Since I’m the only Protector who actually lives in LA., I guess that means it’ll be my job.”
Zephron’s image flickered. “Not entirely. Hale has the primary responsibility for this mission. You’ll be providing backup. This task is critical, however, and I wanted you here for a full briefing.”
“I understand.” She clasped her hands in her lap, showing no sign of distress, and Hale felt a swell of pride.
“So, why me and not Zoë?” he asked, even while Elmer started singing.
Hooray for Hollywood. Tra la la la la la la Hollywood...
Zephron raised an eyebrow, but essentially ignored the frantically hopping ferret. “I’ll explain in a moment. First, to bring you up to speed, the girdle has been missing for years.”
“Centuries, I thought.”
“That is what you were meant to think. In truth, the belt surfaced once in recent history. Early in the twentieth century the Elders of the Council became aware of a mortal who possessed the belt but we were unable to reacquire it. Now, we have again detected its presence.” The Elder sighed. “Hieronymous’s spies have undoubtedly informed him of this development as well.”
Hale nodded in understanding. His uncle, Hieronymous, had once been a powerful Protector. But his ambition was to control mortals, not keep them safe and he’d been Outcast for years. Forbidden to use his powers under threat of the direst punishment, Hieronymous had been somewhat kept under control. Slowly but surely, however, the man was organizing an underground band of other Outcasts. He also had recruited a few Protectors—traitors who had yet to be discovered—within the Council. As soon as he had the chance, Hale and the other Protectors knew, Hieronymous would try to overthrow them.
He’d already used his halfling son, Mordi, as part of his first serious attempt, the one Zoë had managed to foil. But if Hieronymous got his hands on Aphrodite’s girdle, he’d have another clear shot at the prize. That would be a bad deal all around for Protectors... and pretty much the end of the line for mortal freedom.
Well, that sucks, Elmer said. Hale just nodded. The ferret’s assessment summed up the situation quite nicely.
“I only know a little bit about the belt,” Zoë admitted, shooting Hale a scathing look.
He slunk further down into his chair. The belt had been the focus of a little white lie he’d told his sister not too long ago, when she’d been pitted against Mordi. The verdict was still out on their cousin’s loyalty—whether he was for the Council or his father—but there was no question that the verdict had been reached on Hale’s lie: Zoë was still miffed about that.
“I know it makes the wearer irresistible to whomever he or she desires,” his sister continued. “It’s like a focused aphrodisiac on the object of your affections.” She smiled, perhaps imagining the possibilities. “Aphrodite certainly had an obsession for that kind of thing. But that’s all I know. Is there more?”
Zephron nodded toward Hale. “Tell her.”
Oh, great. A pop quiz. But he smiled and turned in his chair to face his sister more directly. “You know that Aphrodite—”
“Our great-great-great-great-et-cetera grandmother.”
“—forged it centuries ago.” When Zoë nodded, he continued. “Well, it has all sorts of powers. On a mortal, it causes what you said—love and adoration by whomever the mortal desires. It’s sort of a sensual magnet. It also works even if there’s no romantic desire, although the effect is much weaker.”
Zoë frowned. “I’m not following.”
Hale’s brow furrowed as he tried to think of an example. “Okay, let’s say you’re a mortal and you have the belt. Whoever you desire—romantically, sensually, sexually, whatever—is going to love and adore you.”
“Like a love potion.”
“Right,” Hale said, looking to Zephron for confirmation.
“Very true,” the Elder said.
“I understand that,” Zoë said. “But you said it works even if I don’t desire the guy.”
“Right.” Hale shrugged. “Maybe you’re in a department store and want better service. Or a movie’s sold out and you’re wishing the manager would let you in anyway.”
Zoë grinned. “Well, heck, that sounds better.”
“What do you mean?” Hale asked.
“I’ve already got Taylor. But premium seats at a movie sound great.”
Hale rolled his eyes, continuing with his explanation. “That’s if it’s a mortal who’s wearing it. But on a Protector—”
“Let me guess,” Zoë said. “On a Protector, the effect is even more intense. Love and adoration by everyone—no matter whether or not the wearer desires them. Mind-control, basically. So if Hieronymous got a hold of the thing...”
“Even Zephron would bend to his will,” Hale finished.
They looked at each other, then turned to look at Zephron, who inclined his head in silent agreement.
Wow, squeaked Elmer. This just keeps getting better and better. Most ferrets hadn’t mastered sarcasm. Elmer had it down pat.
“No kidding,” Hale said.
“So where is it?” Zoë asked. “I mean, where in Los Angeles?”
“We don’t know.” Zephron’s image turned, focusing entirely on Hale. “It is your job to find out.”
“No prob—”
“Uh, question.” Hale’s sister pressed her lips together, clearly sorry for interrupting, but not sorry enough to wait.
“Yes, young Zoë?” Zephron looked at her, his eyes warm and grandfatherly. Hale bit back a smile. His little sister had certainly wormed her way into the heart of the usually stern High Elder.
“I realize I’m still new, but... well... how’d it get away the first time?”
Zephron’s face tightened, his expression more serious than Hale could ever remember seeing. “It was missing for a long time during the silent-film era. Then, a young actress named Tahlula Tannin acquired the belt. We still don’t know how. When we became aware that she had it, the Council’s inner circle rallied to recover it. Our mission failed.”
“Why?” Zoë asked the question on Hale’s tongue.
“At the time, the inner circle consisted of my father and your grandfather.”
“Oh.” That pretty much said it all. Their Grandfather Hector had sired both Donis and Hieronymous. Zoë and Hale’s dad took after his mother, whereas Hieronymous was more like his father. Not exactly the most upstanding Protector ever.
“So Grandfather Hector stole the belt from this Tahlula person?” Hale asked.
Zephron shook his head. “I almost wish he had. The belt is protected by Aphrodite’s magic. We don’t know all the rules, but we do know that no Protector can take it from a mortal. It must be given to him freely by whatever mortal has possession of it. If not, the Protector who steals it loses his powers forever.”
“Wow,” Zoë said.
“Precisely,” Zephron agreed. “Our problem lay within a power struggle between my father and your grandfather. Each tried to acquire the belt. They wined and dined Ms. Tannin, seeking to persuade her to make a gift of the belt, but to no avail. Your grandfather did manage to acquire the stone centerpiece before it was lost again—that is another story—but the woman would not give up the girdle itself. My father visited her in a final effort to persuade her, but by the time he arrived the belt was gone. She wouldn’t say where she had taken it, but there was never any indication again that the woman had it in her possession. Despite our surveillance.”
“And it’s never been located since?” Hale asked.
“Never.”
“We failed?” Zoë sounded vaguely disappointed.
“I’m afraid it does happen, child. If every mission were successful, we would not be so concerned about Hieronymous’s efforts to rally all Outcasts.”
Zoë nodded, but didn’t look too happy. “How can you know it’s in Los Angeles but not know where exactly? For that matter, what do you mean when you say you ‘became aware’ this Tahlula woman had it?”
Zephron beamed as if at a prize pupil. “An excellent question, my dear.” He turned to Hale. “Care to venture a guess?”
“A tracking device, probably.” A number of Council artifacts could be traced through Protector technology.
“Essentially, yes,” Zephron agreed. “Your ancestor, Aphrodite, bequeathed the girdle to the mortal world.” His face reflected a hint of disapproval. “She was always a prankster, that woman. At any rate, her magic protects the belt. The Council can hone in on its location, but only if a mortal is actually wearing it. The longer the mortal wears the belt, the more specifically we can pinpoint the location.”
“Like a phone tap,” Zoë said.
“Exactly.” Zephron nodded. “But if the belt is unworn, it is completely invisible to us.”
“It’s gold mesh, right?” Zoë asked. “With a stone in the center?”
Zephron nodded, then turned, fumbling out of the range of the hologram projector. When he came back into view, he was holding a belt. “This is what it looks like,” he said, holding it out for Hale and Zoë to inspect. “My father had this duplicate crafted. He thought to interest Tahlula in an exchange, but she showed no interest in the bargain.”
“When did it last show up?” Hale asked. “The real deal, I mean. Not the duplicate.”
“A week ago. A mere blip. So now you will resort to more conventional methods to locate it.”
“Taylor can help,” Zoë suggested.
“Not necessary,” Hale said.
Zoë crossed her arms over her chest. “Watch it, big brother. Taylor’s perfectly capable, and he works with me all the time.”
Hale grumbled an assent. If he didn’t agree, he’d never hear the end of it. Besides, the guy was a private investigator. Even if he was a mortal, too.
“I suggest you begin your investigation with Tahlula Tannin,” Zephron said. “The last time we saw it, the belt was in her possession. Perhaps it has not gone as far as we thought.”
“We’ll start with her family,” Hale said. “Maybe someone inherited it.” He turned to Zoë with a bit of a peace offering. “Taylor can start there, trying to track down who she left her property to.”
Zephron smiled. “She has a granddaughter—Tracy. In fact, you might say that this woman is the reason you are being assigned to this matter.” He gave Hale a pointed look. “And since it is most likely this granddaughter inherited the belt, we’ve already retrieved the information on her current job in Los Angeles.”
Woo-hoo, a girl! That’s right up your alley, Hale! Elmer chittered.
Hale couldn’t argue with that. Or, at least, it had once been up his alley. He hoped it still was. “I can be there within an hour.” He glanced down at his watch. Considering the time change, that would put him there in the afternoon. Propulsion cloaks were a fabulous thing. He could fly to L.A. and check out the granddaughter while Taylor tried to find out about Tahlula’s will. It wasn’t guaranteed to work, but it was a solid start.
He frowned, remembering Zephron’s words. “What do you mean that Tracy’s the reason I’m being assigned this mission?”
For a moment, he thought the Elder wouldn’t answer. Then Zephron pulled himself up to his full height. “Clearly this is an important task—the fate of the world depends on its success. Normally, we would assign a team of Protectors—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Hale said, not sure where Zephron was going.
“—but in this case,” Zephron continued, “I’ve decided to assign only you.” He nodded toward Zoë. “And your sister, of course. She can provide assistance.”
“I’m flattered,” Hale said, sure that the reason for his assignment wasn’t simply that Zephron thought he was supremely exceptional. Hale had an ego, sure. But he was also realistic. “But why me?”
“As I already explained, the mortal in possession of the belt must give it to a Protector voluntarily. We can’t simply steal it, since our powers would disappear.” He took a breath. “As I mentioned, we do not know all the details of how the belt protects itself and its mortal owner. However, anecdotal evidence suggests that that once a mortal wears the belt, he or she will be so enamored of the power and magic that they will not want to part with it. A request to simply give it away would likely be futile.”
Hale frowned. “Okay. But I still don’t understand why me.”
For a moment, Zephron actually looked embarrassed. “If the owner feels a bond—a connection—with the Protector, that fact can be used to our benefit to persuade the owner to hand over the belt voluntarily.” Zephron’s face became stem. “Neither Hector nor my father were able to persuade Tahlula, I’m afraid. Tahlula had not truly connected with them.” He looked Hale in the eye. “You must make that connection. Befriend this mortal. Persuade this mortal. Our survival—and the survival of every mortal on earth—depends on it.”
“And you really think Hale’s the best for this assignment?” Zoë asked, her voice pitched high with disbelief.
As Elmer chittered in agreement, Hale also had to concur. “You want me—me?—to befriend a mortal?” He looked at Zephron. “You’ve known me my whole life. Why in Hades would you shoulder me with this assignment?” It was almost as if Zephron wanted him to fail—or had some other unspoken agenda. It just didn’t make sense.
“You have befriended mortals in the past,” Zephron said. “Taylor, for example.”
Zoë nodded. “That’s true. And Hoop, Deena and Lane,” she added, referring to all the mortals Hale had met when Zoë had battled Mordi.
“Yes, but they’re not... I’m not...” He trailed off. As much as he hated to admit it, he had befriended them. Damn.
“You are also an excellent Protector,” Zephron continued. “And you can be very persuasive when it suits you.” He looked Hale in the eye, and Hale was sure he saw a hint of amusement flickering in the Elder’s gaze. “In other words, I’m positive you will prevail.”
Hale nodded in silent acknowledgment of the compliment, then tried another tack. “As much as I might enjoy making another mortal friend,” he lied, “I’m wondering if it’s really necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Zoë said. “Didn’t you hear Zephron? Hieronymous? End of the world? A generally bad situation all the way around?”
“I mean, why don’t we just let Taylor or some other mortal steal the thing? As I’ve pointed out many times, they don’t have any powers to lose.” He turned to Zoë and lifted an eyebrow. “And it would prove that mortals are good for something.”
“I assure you,” Zephron said, “mortals are good for many things. But not this.”
“Why?” he and Zoë asked in unison.
“Aphrodite’s enchantment again. No mortal can steal the belt. It simply isn’t possible. A mortal can receive it as a gift or an inheritance or buy it in a thrift shop if the owner has thrown it away, but a mortal cannot simply take it.” He shrugged. “It’s impossible. The belt will not leave its rightful owner unless the owner gives it away or it is stolen by a Protector—who would then lose his powers.”
A darned finicky fashion accessory, if you ask me, Elmer piped up. Hale tried his best to ignore him.
“Just remember,” Zephron added. “When we find the belt’s owner, your mission will include providing protection. Any mortal in possession of the girdle will be in danger from Heironymous.”
“Protection from what? He can’t steal the thing,” Zoë spoke up. “We just went over that.” Her eyes went wide. “Can he kill her and just take it?”
Zephron shook his head. “If the mortal owner of the belt dies at the hand of another, the belt’s powers die as well.”
Hale rubbed his temples. “So, let’s see if I’m following— we can’t enlist a mortal to steal the belt for us because Grandma decided that wasn’t part of the playbook. And we can’t steal it because we’d lose our powers. Assuming she won’t hand it over if I just ask nicely, that means I’ll have to”—he shuddered—“befriend this Tracy person or whoever has the belt in order to convince her to give it up to me voluntarily.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
“Not that I’m complaining about the whole mortal bonding thing,” Hale lied—he was complaining, and loudly—“but isn’t it unnecessary? I mean, there’s no way Hieronymous could befriend anybody, much less a mortal.”
“True,” Zephron acknowledged. “But there are many other methods of persuasion. Torture, for example.”
“Oh,” Zoë whispered, swallowing.
“Hieronymous could also send one of his minions to persuade the owner with soft words and romantic evenings,” Zephron added. “Or, he could simply resort to other means.”
“Other means?” Zoë repeated.
“Hieronymous has minions, many of whom would sacrifice their powers for his approval. The curse extends only to stealing the belt. Not receiving it.”
Rules, rules, rules, Elmer said. You protectors and your rules. I swear, you need a manual to keep up.
“Anything else we need to know?” Hale asked, silently agreeing with the ferret.
“No,” Zephron said. “As I said, we do not fully understand the belt. At this point, you know everything we’ve confirmed.”
Hale nodded. So, that was it. Their mission was about to begin. He squeezed the armrest and looked at Zoë. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Hale knew they were thinking on the same lines. If Hieronymous’s followers were so loyal, then Uncle H’s threat to the Council was growing exponentially every day. Once again, they needed to foil their uncle in order to save the world.
But what the heck? He was up to the challenge. And what was the point of being a superhero if there wasn’t a little drama in your life?

Mordichai watched as Hieronymous drummed his fingers on the heavy oak desk. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. His father’s incessant habit drove him crazy, and if it didn’t stop soon, Mordi was sure to let out a howl loud enough to shake the heavens.
Or maybe not. No one lost his patience with Hieronymous. Least of all his son.
“It’s there. Aphrodite’s girdle.” Hieronymous stood up, his fingers twitching as if he were stifling the urge to rub his hands together with glee. “We’ve seen the flicker from the monitoring device.”
He pointed toward the bank of monitors on the far side of the room. As usual, ten of the twelve were displaying various financial programs. The eleventh showed an empty stone cell, manacles on the wall, with only a single red chair in the center.
Mordi frowned, trying to figure out what his father was doing monitoring an old castle. “The belt’s in a dungeon?”
Hieronymous shot him a look of contempt. “That ‘dungeon’ as you call it, is part of an old movie set that one of my investment companies is considering acquiring.”
Mordi fought a smile. Hieronymous himself owned nothing. Instead, his property was owned by offshore corporations shielding other offshore corporations. Nothing traceable back to Hieronymous—which was just the way he liked it.
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“I took a fancy to it,” his father said. Mordi imagined that was true. Hieronymous would probably live in a castle once—if—he overthrew the Council. “And it may come in useful someday.” Hieronymous pointed a finger toward the last monitor, the one in the middle displaying the Los Angeles skyline. “But you are not here to learn about my investments. Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in that city, and we don’t have a clue where.”
“I know, Father.”
“You know?” Hieronymous sneered. “Or you understand?”
Mordi sat up straighter, sucking in a strengthening breath. “I understand.”
“Do you?” His father’s voice was low, menacing. “Tell me, son, what it is you understand?”
Mordi sighed. He’d failed his father recently, and winning back the old man’s trust was proving tricky. Not that Hieronymous had ever really had faith in Mordi. No, Mordi was a halfling—a by-product of a tryst with a mortal—and apparently that fact didn’t sit well with dear old Dad. Which meant that time and again Mordi found himself beating his brains out to win respect.
“I understand that Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in Los Angeles. I understand that you need it, that with it you can rally the Outcasts and overcome the Council.”
“How?”
Mordichai sighed, hating having to prove himself at every turn. “The girdle will make you invincible. No one will be able to stop you or refuse you. That treaty the Council is trying to work out with the mortal government will be just so much paper. You’ll be the top dog. You’ll be the head honcho. You’ll be the king of the world,” he added, imagining his father living in his newly acquired castle.
A thin smile touched his father’s lips, and his eyes got a faraway expression. “Exactly. A Protector who wears the girdle, even an Outcast, is like a god. I shall rule as our race was meant to rule—not taking a backseat to those mortals and their pesky problems. They should be serving us, not the other way around.”
Hieronymous waved a hand in the air as he paced the length of the room, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Treaties and politics and secret negotiations, all for what end? So that perhaps Protectors can come out in the light and be seen for what we really are? Bah. Zephron and his stable of flunkies are fools. We should not negotiate with those ridiculous mortals. We should simply take over—and crush the mortals like the insects they are.”
He turned to Mordi, his eyes aglow with the lust for power. “With the girdle, I can escape this prison.” His arm swept the luxurious highrise in midtown Manhattan that most mortals would kill for. “I can fulfill my destiny.”
“You just need me to find and get it for you,” Mordi said dryly. As an Outcast, Hieronymous was forbidden to use his powers. If he did—and if he was caught—the punishment was severe. Though Mordichai was not a full-fledged member of the Council, his status as a probationer didn’t put any such restrictions on him.
Hieronymous aimed one curt nod in his direction. Not an overwhelming display of affection, but the man wasn’t the type to dole out bucketfuls of praise. “Exactly. No matter how you failed me in the past, it seems that I do have some use left for you. As I cannot use my power to locate the belt’s owner—or convince the owner to give the belt to me—I will have to rely on you. I have no choice.” Again he waved a hand, as if sweeping away a gnat. “And, of course, you shall have to prove yourself to be the heir to my kingdom.” The last was spoken casually, an afterthought intended to placate.
“Yes, Father,” Mordi said. A slow fury rose in him, urging him to lash out, to unleash every bit of hurt and anger toward the man, but he held back. Instead, he simply sat holding his tongue and remembering why he was there.
Because the truth was, he did have to find the girdle. And he had to get it away from its owner. Only one question remained. Once he held it in his hands, what would he do? Would he turn it over to his father? Would he deliver it to the Council? Or would Mordichai have the last laugh after all?