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Chapter Three

Down, down, down.
As the elevator dropped deeper and deeper, Izzy paced the small compartment counting how many steps wide (three) and how many steps deep (two). She tugged idly at the hem of her jacket, and considered her theory that elevator cars were really nothing more than vertical caskets.
Stop it!
She fisted her hands at her sides, determined not to freak out. Yes, she was in an elevator. Yes, it was taking her deep into the ground under the Washington Monument. Yes, she was going to end up in a room with only circulated air to breathe and not a window in sight and absolutely no way to escape if the fans suddenly stopped turning, leaving everyone to die slow, painful deaths from asphyxiation.
Okay. She really needed to get herself under control here.
One more deep breath.
Then another.
Okay. Okay. Yes. Right. Things were improving. Her skin wasn’t quite so clammy, her breathing was normal, and her heart was no longer racing.
Try again.
Yes, she was going to be underground, but the secret Protector headquarters under the Washington Monument had existed without incident since the 1970s. Certainly it would manage to hang in there a few more years.
Yes, the air was circulated and the room was windowless, but the staff was comprised primarily of superheroes. If the fans quit turning, she was quite certain that at least one staff member could bore through the earth and concrete and lead them all to safety.
Yes, she had horrible claustrophobia, but she’d been fighting it for years, and she could fight it again today. She’d never once heard of a Protector with a debilitating phobia, and Izzy didn’t intend to be the first. She took enough ribbing for being a Halfling, and even more for being raised by a mortal father who hadn’t even introduced her to her heritage through her mother until junior high.
And, of course, there was that whole business about the Council accepting her Halfling application even though she’d never mastered levitation.
Determined, she lifted her chin. She’d been tormented enough. She had no intention of giving her colleagues any additional ammunition by showing that she was scared of an elevator. She’d never lost her cool at the office, and she didn’t intend to start now.
By the time the metal box ground to a halt and she stepped out into the polished lobby of the Venerate Council’s D.C. headquarters, Izzy had completely pulled herself together. The steel doors of the elevator were polished to a shine, and she caught her own reflection. Shoulders back, spine straight. Suit perfectly pressed. Eyes clear and focused. Hair swept away from her face and pinned up in a no-muss/no-fuss style. All in all, the picture of professionalism.
Footfalls clattered on the marble floor, and a young Protector rounded the corner, clipboard held in front of him like a shield. “Oh, good. You’re here. Right on time. Shall we? Elder Bilius is ready for you.”
“Excellent,” she said, lifting her chin and making sure to put the appropriate note of authority in her voice. “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The guide straightened, and from his scent she could tell that he was used to responding to authority—and that now he saw her in that light. Good.
He turned briskly and led the way, marching down the hall with purpose. Izzy followed, her footfalls echoing as they passed through hallways lined with file cabinets and cubicles, each cubicle staffed by a mortal busy entering information into the vast Protector databases. There were dozens of mortals working as salaried employees of the Council (the health insurance was an especially nice perk). Other mortals worked with the Council on a project-by-project basis, most often employed by the Mortal-Protector Liaison Office to concoct some sort of cover story to keep all Protectors’ activities secret.
Did a battle break out at Sea World, with Outcasts and Protectors streaking through the sky, throwing fire and talking with the cetaceans? Did a Protector leap from a Los Angeles skyscraper, then rescue a small boy from wandering into oncoming traffic? No problem. The MLO’s mortal stringer would figure out a plausible explanation. And by the time the story was run in every major newspaper, even the eyewitnesses would begin to think they misremembered.
Needless to say, being a spin doctor for the MLO was a highly popular job.
She could use one of the spin doctors’ talents now, that was for sure. As it was, she still hadn’t decided what to do about the little bombshell her father had let drop yesterday.
He was actually working with Hieronymous Black!
She’d followed him and Mr. Tucker back into the house, asking just enough innocuous questions to confirm that her father had no idea that Hieronymous was a Protector, much less that he was an Outcast, currently wanted by the Council as a result of a lifetime of heinous acts culminating most recently in the kidnapping of a Halfling child.
No, all her dad knew was that the man had money (Hieronymous did) and that he had great insight into her father’s inventions (Hieronymous was big into inventing things).
She’d almost opened her mouth right then to tell her father just who Hieronymous was. After all, her father had a right to know that he’d been working with villainous scum determined to end the mortal race. But in the end, she hadn’t said a word. Right as she’d opened her mouth, Mr. Tucker had started his spiel about the success of her dad’s newest inventions, and how honored they were to name him Inventor of the Year after he’d spent a lifetime struggling, and her father’s eyes had sparkled and he’d held Izzy’s hand and squeezed.
Her powers might not work on her father, but at that moment, she hardly needed them. This was what her father had been living for. How could she take that away from him?
She couldn’t. She’d opened her mouth—once, twice, even three times—but no words had come out. Nothing except congratulations.
“Zephron will be in right after your meeting with Elder Bilius,” the guide said.
Izzy’s head snapped up in surprise, but she only nodded curtly, taking care to make sure her expression held no hint that her mind had wandered ... or that she was now worried. She’d had no idea her uncle was coming by. Did he already know about her father?
The guide was still standing there, as if he was expecting some sort of reaction from her. She waved her hand in a manner she hoped looked unconcerned, as if he’d just delivered old news and he should really quit boring her. “I thought I asked you to hurry,” she said, just a teensy bit amazed that she managed to pull off an authoritarian tone. She really was getting good at this professional-woman-on-the-go thing.
His face flushed and he hurried off. She followed, her mind occupied by the irony of her current situation. Here she was playing the totally together counselor when the truth was, she could be Outcast at any moment.
Her stomach twisted with the thought, and she wanted to go home and hide, the covers pulled high over her head. But there was no escaping the truth. Her father had entered into a commercial arrangement with a known Outcast... and Izzy was aware of the situation. Regulations were crystal clear. Failure to immediately report such Outcast intervention in mortal affairs was an outcastable offense.
She had to report it.
But reporting it would devastate her father.
Her stomach twisted some more and the hall seemed suddenly very cramped.
The guard stopped, and Izzy almost plowed into his back, her professional facade starting to falter. “Conference room,” he said, looking at her with a slightly furrowed brow. “Elder Bilius should be here soon.”
“Right.” She nodded in dismissal. “Thank you for the escort.”
For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, but in the end he simply left, pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as she heard the latch click, she relaxed, rolling her shoulders and glancing around the austere room dominated by a huge mahogany table surrounded by twelve chairs. The walls were bare, painted stark white and seeming to reflect back the overly bright lights, giving the conference room an otherworldy quality, as if its occupants had stepped into a cloud.
She’d been here twice before, and each time the room had intimidated the hell out of her. The first time, she’d been thirteen, a gawky Halfling doing nothing more than visiting a newly discovered relative, to say nothing of a newly discovered heritage.
The second time, she’d been less self-conscious and certainly less confused, but the intimidation factor had still been there. She’d been twenty-five, and the purpose of her visit was to go over her Halfling application for admission to the Council. Zephron had told her she’d been accepted despite her pathetic failings, and the bright light of the room had seemed like the light of a hundred angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus in perfect harmony.
That had been an amazing day. She’d been so certain that her application would be rejected. But Zephron had brushed off her doubts and quelled her feelings of inadequacy, telling his niece simply that her skills were needed.
Needed. She’d practically preened. To be part of the Venerate Council: that esteemed, secret organization dedicated to protecting mortals and making the world a better place. From the moment she’d learned of her heritage, that had been all she’d ever wanted. She’d fought hard, worked hard, and she’d gotten in. Her peers might turn up their noses and whisper of nepotism, but Izzy knew that she’d worked her tush off.
She deserved to be on the Council. She deserved her job. And she couldn’t muck it all up by failing to disclose a known incident of Outcast Intervention in Mortal Affairs.
She had to speak up. Right here. Right now.
She knew that, and yet...
Frowning, she circled the table, her arm outstretched so that her fingertips brushed the polished surface of the walls. Her hands were probably leaving fingerprints, but she didn’t care. For that matter, she barely realized what she was doing; she was too caught up in the memory of her father. In the recollection of that light in his eyes.
It was a light she rarely saw, and she would do anything to make sure it didn’t fade. Including staying quiet.
Breaking a rule, yes. But hopefully she wouldn’t get caught. After all, it was for a very good cause.
And she’d be careful. She’d keep a sharp eye on her father. If it looked like Hieronymous was up to any nefarious activities, then she’d report him and simply say she’d just found out.
Until then... well, so help her, she was going to keep silent. If that’s what it took for the light to continue to burn in her father’s eyes, then she’d stay quiet forever.
The door opened and Bilius strode in, a forest-green cape billowing behind him as he walked. He didn’t look at her, merely perused a tablet held in front of him. Izzy stood on tiptoes, trying to appear unobtrusive, but also trying to see what the document said.
She couldn’t see a thing.
He snapped the tablet down to his side and looked at her, his pale gray eyes seeming to absorb the light in the room. His face was harsh, all lines and angles, and she had to remind herself to stand up straight and not cower like a little girl.
“I want you to know I did not support the decision to promote you,” he said without preamble.
“Oh.” She reached out, steadying herself against the wall. She blinked, fast and hard. She would not cry.
He stared at her, as if expecting her to say something else. Well, he was going to be damned disappointed, because she was truly at a loss.
Finally, he sighed, then lifted his tablet again. He made a tick mark, and she imagined him putting a check by Humiliate Isole Frost.
She frowned, then sniffed, picking up subtle hints of Bilius’s emotions. He hid his feelings well, but still she caught the edges: no-nonsense professionalism and a deep contempt. Contempt for her, of course. By now, she really ought to be used to it.
Bilius focused on her for a few more minutes, as if once again waiting for her to speak. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. He glowered, but finally spoke. “As I said, I do not approve of this promotion, but there is no doubt that your record—on paper, at least—supports it.”
Izzy bristled, her entire body tensing at the suggestion that somehow her work record had been forged.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, “I have only your record to work with, and the ultimate decision regarding promotions is, unfortunately, not up to me.”
Great. She’d be reporting to a man who had absolutely no interest in seeing her succeed. This just kept getting better and better.
“The decision for upcoming assignments has been made, and you have been selected to evaluate a somewhat challenging candidate. Were it up to me, I would not leave the responsibility for such a vile Outcast in your hands.”
She frowned, the scent of his contempt for this particular candidate almost overwhelming. The stench of his distrust seemed to fill the air; this was not an Outcast that Bilius wanted re-assimilated. Of that, she was certain. Who, though, could the Outcast be?
She was just about to ask when the elder continued. “The responsibility is too great to entrust it to someone with less than perfect credentials,” Bilius said, as Izzy’s cheeks burned with shame. “It is not, however, up to me. For that matter, I will not be your supervisor for this endeavor.”
“Excuse me?” she said, sure she’d heard wrong. Bilius’s absence was simply too much to hope for.
“My duties have become increasingly time-consuming as the treaty negotiations heat up. I am, therefore, temporarily stepping aside at the request of the Inner Circle of Elders.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Zephron will be the interim director of the Re-Assimilation Program.”
“Oh.” This was good news. She tried to keep her face passive. “I understand.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you do.”
“Um.” She focused on the floor, not sure what to say but decidedly relieved.
“Keep in mind that I am only stepping aside temporarily.” She looked up and saw the steely glint of his eyes. “I will be returning.”
She swallowed. “Of course,” she said, then nodded deferentially. But as soon as he left and the door closed behind him, she let out a little cheer.
Her mini-celebration was cut short by the return of reality. Bilius might be temporarily handing over command to Zephron, but that didn’t change the one inescapable underlying fact: Her own supervisor didn’t believe she was worthy of this new job.
She sighed and rubbed her temples, all her insecurities returning to ride roughshod over her ego. When she’d received word of the promotion, she’d thought she’d finally found a place where she fit in and where they believed in her on her merit. Where they weren’t whispering behind her back and saying she didn’t really belong.
Apparently, she’d been wrong.
A tear clung to her lashes, then fell, landing with a plop on the polished wood. Before she’d been accepted into the Council, she’d had to make a decision, just like every other Halfling. She’d had to formally choose to join the Council, and she’d had to formally reject the process of mortalization.
She had done so, of course. She’d been awed by her uncle when she’d first met him, then blown away by the very existence of Protectors and their mission to protect and aid mortals. How could she have turned away from something both heroic and exciting? She couldn’t, of course—but now she had to wonder if maybe she would have been happier living her life as a mortal after all.
Certainly her colleagues seemed to think she was no better than a mortal.
No. She was not going to think like that. Her record was stellar—so stellar that Bilius couldn’t even believe it was true. But it was. And she’d show him. She might only have herself to rely on, but in the end, she’d show him. She’d show them all.
The door opened, and Zephron strode in, moving with the grace of one much younger than his long white beard would suggest.
“Uncle Zephron!” And then, remembering that this was an official meeting, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Zephron, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
She thought she saw a faint twitching at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes turned serious. “Bilius has many qualities,” he said, “but tact is not one of them. You earned this promotion. Don’t let his ramblings sway you to think otherwise.”
Even though she’d been thinking that very thing only moments before, right then she was having a hard time believing in herself. So much for her bold plan to “show them all.”
Apparently Zephron didn’t pick up on her discomfiture, though. He was smiling at her, a broad, open smile that was almost paternal.
“What?”
“Your skills as a Level I Re-Assimilation Counselor exceeded even my expectations. You have a gift, my dear. As we all do, of course, but yours is particularly strong in this area.”
She felt her cheeks warm under the praise. “Thank you.”
“And while your excellent performance may have resulted in this promotion, I’m afraid it will also put you a bit on display. And perhaps even earn you some enemies.”
“So I noticed. Though I suppose I should be used to it by now.”
His eyebrow twitched. “Gossip is only gossip, my dear.”
“Even when it’s founded in truth?” The words came out more biting than she’d intended, and she took an involuntary step back, focusing on her shoes rather than on her uncle.
His deep sigh drew her back to him, and she looked up, noticing how deep the lines on his face had become in the years since they’d first met. “We’ve had this conversation several times now, Isole. I thought you finally understood.”
She shrugged, feeling like an impudent child but unable to help it. Though she loved him, being with her uncle—the High Elder of the Council, a man who seemed practically omnipotent—always brought her own failings into stark relief.
A tender smile touched his lips. “We all have our weaknesses, Isole. Even me.”
She grimaced. “I thought I was supposed to be the mind reader.”
“Perhaps you’re just too transparent,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Or you’re too good.” She tilted her head back and sighed with frustration. “I can’t even levitate.”
“Did you know that I am completely incapable of discerning the approach of most mosquitoes?”
She blinked, then gaped at him, entirely confused as to where the conversation was heading. “You’re what?”
“Six hundred hertz,” he said. “I have a deaf spot for that particular frequency. I simply don’t hear it.”
At that, her eyes widened. “You? A weakness?”
He chuckled. “Shocking, I know. But, yes, it’s true. Mosquitoes have sought and claimed my blood on many occasions ... and I was unable to stall their nefarious advance.”
Now she was laughing outright. “You’re making fun of me.”
He moved closer, pulling her into his embrace. “No, child, I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we all have our weaknesses ... and we all have our skills.” He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she met his eyes. “You are here because of your skill. There is no other reason.”
She nodded, but her gaze drifted away. Here today, perhaps. But that didn’t answer the question of how she got admitted to the Council in the first place. Now, however, wasn’t the time to argue. She was on the Council, she was doing a good job, and she intended to continue doing just that.
Except...
She grimaced, realizing that by keeping the secret about Hieronymous, she was violating her oath.
Time for a reality check... and also time for the truth, no matter how much it would hurt her father.
She straightened, drawing her shoulders back as if the movement would give her courage. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He waved her words away. “Isole, my praise of your job skills is sincere. However, you must learn when to be familiar and when that is inappropriate. We need to discuss your next assignment. You may address another topic, personal or Council-related, once our business is complete.”
Her cheeks burned, but she merely nodded. “Yes, Zephron.” She cleared her throat. “You were saying I’d be on display with my new assignment. Why is that?”
“The nature of your first Outcast,” Zephron said. “We’ve never before had such a prominent Outcast apply for re-assimilation. The process will undoubtedly be covered daily in columns on the Council website, news and editorials in the Daily Protector, and, of course, gossip.”
“Oh.” It sounded horrible. Idly, Izzy wondered if it wasn’t too late to request reassignment. Maybe working undercover as a lifeguard at some beach resort. A few daring rescues ...
“Izzy?”
She licked her lips. “Sorry. I’m still here.”
“You aren’t going to disappoint me.” It was a statement, not a question, and she couldn’t help but smile at his confidence.
“No. I won’t.” She cleared her throat. “But, um, why me? I mean, if this Outcast is that big a deal, why not assign one of the Level-Fives that have been around for a while?”
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I thought that this assignment should go to you. I was able to persuade the other members of the committee to my point of view.”
His gaze settled on her, his kind yet penetrating eyes. A chill seemed to settle over her, and she knew that she should ask what he meant, but somehow she couldn’t manage the question.
He was watching her expectantly, but after a few moments of silence, he shifted his gaze back toward the door. He’d entered with a briefcase, now resting by the closed door, a portfolio peeking out of the top. He crooked a finger and the portfolio levitated, lifting free of the briefcase, then glided across the room to land in his outstretched hand. Izzy tried not to look jealous.
Zephron flipped pages. “Also under the circumstances,” he said after a moment, “I thought it best if you had an assistant. I intend to assign someone to help you out.”
She frowned, her forehead creasing. An assistant? Whatever for? “Who are we talking about?”
“The assistant?”
“The Outcast!” Her voice rose in frustration.
“Ah, of course. The Outcast, my dear, is Hieronymous Black.”
She blinked, positive she’d heard wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it when she realized she had no idea what to say.
She tried again. “Hier—Hieronymous Black. Hieronymous Black? He wants to be re-assimilated?”
“So he says.”
“Why?”
“He has seen the error of his ways, according to his application.”
“And you believe him?”
Zephron smiled. “What I believe is immaterial, my dear. You are the one who will make the final recommendation to the Inner Circle.”
“Oh.” She rubbed her temples. “Oh.”
“I will say that if he is sincere it couldn’t come at a better time.”
“The treaty negotiations, you mean.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
Izzy sank into a chair, her fingers tight on the leather armrests and her thoughts in a whirl. The first Mortal-Protector Treaty had been signed in 1970. It was a complicated document, but the basic deal was that Protectors would remain secret, but would do what they could to assist the human race. The treaty also created the Mortal/Protector Liaison Office, or MLO, which employed that handful of mortals who were aware of Protectors and what they did.
For years, Zephron had been lobbying to renegotiate the treaty so that Protectors played a more open role in society. The formal negotiations were to take place in two weeks—with lots of meetings and positioning and politicking going on in the meantime. At the moment, except for a few dissenters, it looked as if the mortal governments were leaning toward accepting full Protector disclosure.
She voiced all that to Zephron, and he nodded. “I’m pleased you’ve been following our efforts,” he said. “In fact, the mortals’ only real hesitation at this point centers around the Outcasts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The very existence of Outcasts disturbs some mortals. They fear that if the ban of secrecy is lifted, mortals may not trust any Protectors. They also fear that Outcasts would decide to ignore the rules and start a full-scale war with the mortals.”
“They could have done that already,” Izzy said.
Zephron nodded. “And the mortals well know it. They also know that Hieronymous is the most vocal of the Outcasts, the only one currently with the clout to band the others together.”
“And they know that Hieronymous really doesn’t want Protectors on par with mortals,” Izzy said, finally getting it.
“Exactly.”
“But if Hieronymous is out of the Outcast business, everything will be better. The mortals won’t be as afraid, the negotiations will go smoothly, and the treaty will go off without a hitch.”
“That, of course, is my hope,” Zephron said.
Izzy nodded, still a little uncertain. Zephron knew more than anyone how deep Hieronymous’s hatred of mortals went. Could he truly be turning over a new leaf? Or was Zephron grasping at the best hope he saw of pushing the treaty through? For years, Izzy knew, the renegotiation of the treaty had been her uncle’s pet project. To have it now be so close ...
As if reading her mind, Zephron spoke, his face clouded. “Of course, if it’s all a ruse ...”
She nodded, understanding. If it was a ruse and Hieronymous was merely trying to infiltrate the Council to further some nefarious plan, well, that would be disaster.
But if he was sincere ...
Could he be sincere? The prospect was almost too much to hope for, and she wondered if she, like her uncle, was grasping at a foolish notion.
Because if Hieronymous Black was really coming over to the good side, then there was no reason at all to reveal her father’s deep, dark secret to Zephron. After all, re-assimilated Protectors could associate with whomever they pleased.
Which meant that, for the time being at least, she was justified in keeping her mouth shut.

Chapter Three

Down, down, down.
As the elevator dropped deeper and deeper, Izzy paced the small compartment counting how many steps wide (three) and how many steps deep (two). She tugged idly at the hem of her jacket, and considered her theory that elevator cars were really nothing more than vertical caskets.
Stop it!
She fisted her hands at her sides, determined not to freak out. Yes, she was in an elevator. Yes, it was taking her deep into the ground under the Washington Monument. Yes, she was going to end up in a room with only circulated air to breathe and not a window in sight and absolutely no way to escape if the fans suddenly stopped turning, leaving everyone to die slow, painful deaths from asphyxiation.
Okay. She really needed to get herself under control here.
One more deep breath.
Then another.
Okay. Okay. Yes. Right. Things were improving. Her skin wasn’t quite so clammy, her breathing was normal, and her heart was no longer racing.
Try again.
Yes, she was going to be underground, but the secret Protector headquarters under the Washington Monument had existed without incident since the 1970s. Certainly it would manage to hang in there a few more years.
Yes, the air was circulated and the room was windowless, but the staff was comprised primarily of superheroes. If the fans quit turning, she was quite certain that at least one staff member could bore through the earth and concrete and lead them all to safety.
Yes, she had horrible claustrophobia, but she’d been fighting it for years, and she could fight it again today. She’d never once heard of a Protector with a debilitating phobia, and Izzy didn’t intend to be the first. She took enough ribbing for being a Halfling, and even more for being raised by a mortal father who hadn’t even introduced her to her heritage through her mother until junior high.
And, of course, there was that whole business about the Council accepting her Halfling application even though she’d never mastered levitation.
Determined, she lifted her chin. She’d been tormented enough. She had no intention of giving her colleagues any additional ammunition by showing that she was scared of an elevator. She’d never lost her cool at the office, and she didn’t intend to start now.
By the time the metal box ground to a halt and she stepped out into the polished lobby of the Venerate Council’s D.C. headquarters, Izzy had completely pulled herself together. The steel doors of the elevator were polished to a shine, and she caught her own reflection. Shoulders back, spine straight. Suit perfectly pressed. Eyes clear and focused. Hair swept away from her face and pinned up in a no-muss/no-fuss style. All in all, the picture of professionalism.
Footfalls clattered on the marble floor, and a young Protector rounded the corner, clipboard held in front of him like a shield. “Oh, good. You’re here. Right on time. Shall we? Elder Bilius is ready for you.”
“Excellent,” she said, lifting her chin and making sure to put the appropriate note of authority in her voice. “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
The guide straightened, and from his scent she could tell that he was used to responding to authority—and that now he saw her in that light. Good.
He turned briskly and led the way, marching down the hall with purpose. Izzy followed, her footfalls echoing as they passed through hallways lined with file cabinets and cubicles, each cubicle staffed by a mortal busy entering information into the vast Protector databases. There were dozens of mortals working as salaried employees of the Council (the health insurance was an especially nice perk). Other mortals worked with the Council on a project-by-project basis, most often employed by the Mortal-Protector Liaison Office to concoct some sort of cover story to keep all Protectors’ activities secret.
Did a battle break out at Sea World, with Outcasts and Protectors streaking through the sky, throwing fire and talking with the cetaceans? Did a Protector leap from a Los Angeles skyscraper, then rescue a small boy from wandering into oncoming traffic? No problem. The MLO’s mortal stringer would figure out a plausible explanation. And by the time the story was run in every major newspaper, even the eyewitnesses would begin to think they misremembered.
Needless to say, being a spin doctor for the MLO was a highly popular job.
She could use one of the spin doctors’ talents now, that was for sure. As it was, she still hadn’t decided what to do about the little bombshell her father had let drop yesterday.
He was actually working with Hieronymous Black!
She’d followed him and Mr. Tucker back into the house, asking just enough innocuous questions to confirm that her father had no idea that Hieronymous was a Protector, much less that he was an Outcast, currently wanted by the Council as a result of a lifetime of heinous acts culminating most recently in the kidnapping of a Halfling child.
No, all her dad knew was that the man had money (Hieronymous did) and that he had great insight into her father’s inventions (Hieronymous was big into inventing things).
She’d almost opened her mouth right then to tell her father just who Hieronymous was. After all, her father had a right to know that he’d been working with villainous scum determined to end the mortal race. But in the end, she hadn’t said a word. Right as she’d opened her mouth, Mr. Tucker had started his spiel about the success of her dad’s newest inventions, and how honored they were to name him Inventor of the Year after he’d spent a lifetime struggling, and her father’s eyes had sparkled and he’d held Izzy’s hand and squeezed.
Her powers might not work on her father, but at that moment, she hardly needed them. This was what her father had been living for. How could she take that away from him?
She couldn’t. She’d opened her mouth—once, twice, even three times—but no words had come out. Nothing except congratulations.
“Zephron will be in right after your meeting with Elder Bilius,” the guide said.
Izzy’s head snapped up in surprise, but she only nodded curtly, taking care to make sure her expression held no hint that her mind had wandered ... or that she was now worried. She’d had no idea her uncle was coming by. Did he already know about her father?
The guide was still standing there, as if he was expecting some sort of reaction from her. She waved her hand in a manner she hoped looked unconcerned, as if he’d just delivered old news and he should really quit boring her. “I thought I asked you to hurry,” she said, just a teensy bit amazed that she managed to pull off an authoritarian tone. She really was getting good at this professional-woman-on-the-go thing.
His face flushed and he hurried off. She followed, her mind occupied by the irony of her current situation. Here she was playing the totally together counselor when the truth was, she could be Outcast at any moment.
Her stomach twisted with the thought, and she wanted to go home and hide, the covers pulled high over her head. But there was no escaping the truth. Her father had entered into a commercial arrangement with a known Outcast... and Izzy was aware of the situation. Regulations were crystal clear. Failure to immediately report such Outcast intervention in mortal affairs was an outcastable offense.
She had to report it.
But reporting it would devastate her father.
Her stomach twisted some more and the hall seemed suddenly very cramped.
The guard stopped, and Izzy almost plowed into his back, her professional facade starting to falter. “Conference room,” he said, looking at her with a slightly furrowed brow. “Elder Bilius should be here soon.”
“Right.” She nodded in dismissal. “Thank you for the escort.”
For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, but in the end he simply left, pulling the door closed behind him. As soon as she heard the latch click, she relaxed, rolling her shoulders and glancing around the austere room dominated by a huge mahogany table surrounded by twelve chairs. The walls were bare, painted stark white and seeming to reflect back the overly bright lights, giving the conference room an otherworldy quality, as if its occupants had stepped into a cloud.
She’d been here twice before, and each time the room had intimidated the hell out of her. The first time, she’d been thirteen, a gawky Halfling doing nothing more than visiting a newly discovered relative, to say nothing of a newly discovered heritage.
The second time, she’d been less self-conscious and certainly less confused, but the intimidation factor had still been there. She’d been twenty-five, and the purpose of her visit was to go over her Halfling application for admission to the Council. Zephron had told her she’d been accepted despite her pathetic failings, and the bright light of the room had seemed like the light of a hundred angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus in perfect harmony.
That had been an amazing day. She’d been so certain that her application would be rejected. But Zephron had brushed off her doubts and quelled her feelings of inadequacy, telling his niece simply that her skills were needed.
Needed. She’d practically preened. To be part of the Venerate Council: that esteemed, secret organization dedicated to protecting mortals and making the world a better place. From the moment she’d learned of her heritage, that had been all she’d ever wanted. She’d fought hard, worked hard, and she’d gotten in. Her peers might turn up their noses and whisper of nepotism, but Izzy knew that she’d worked her tush off.
She deserved to be on the Council. She deserved her job. And she couldn’t muck it all up by failing to disclose a known incident of Outcast Intervention in Mortal Affairs.
She had to speak up. Right here. Right now.
She knew that, and yet...
Frowning, she circled the table, her arm outstretched so that her fingertips brushed the polished surface of the walls. Her hands were probably leaving fingerprints, but she didn’t care. For that matter, she barely realized what she was doing; she was too caught up in the memory of her father. In the recollection of that light in his eyes.
It was a light she rarely saw, and she would do anything to make sure it didn’t fade. Including staying quiet.
Breaking a rule, yes. But hopefully she wouldn’t get caught. After all, it was for a very good cause.
And she’d be careful. She’d keep a sharp eye on her father. If it looked like Hieronymous was up to any nefarious activities, then she’d report him and simply say she’d just found out.
Until then... well, so help her, she was going to keep silent. If that’s what it took for the light to continue to burn in her father’s eyes, then she’d stay quiet forever.
The door opened and Bilius strode in, a forest-green cape billowing behind him as he walked. He didn’t look at her, merely perused a tablet held in front of him. Izzy stood on tiptoes, trying to appear unobtrusive, but also trying to see what the document said.
She couldn’t see a thing.
He snapped the tablet down to his side and looked at her, his pale gray eyes seeming to absorb the light in the room. His face was harsh, all lines and angles, and she had to remind herself to stand up straight and not cower like a little girl.
“I want you to know I did not support the decision to promote you,” he said without preamble.
“Oh.” She reached out, steadying herself against the wall. She blinked, fast and hard. She would not cry.
He stared at her, as if expecting her to say something else. Well, he was going to be damned disappointed, because she was truly at a loss.
Finally, he sighed, then lifted his tablet again. He made a tick mark, and she imagined him putting a check by Humiliate Isole Frost.
She frowned, then sniffed, picking up subtle hints of Bilius’s emotions. He hid his feelings well, but still she caught the edges: no-nonsense professionalism and a deep contempt. Contempt for her, of course. By now, she really ought to be used to it.
Bilius focused on her for a few more minutes, as if once again waiting for her to speak. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. He glowered, but finally spoke. “As I said, I do not approve of this promotion, but there is no doubt that your record—on paper, at least—supports it.”
Izzy bristled, her entire body tensing at the suggestion that somehow her work record had been forged.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, “I have only your record to work with, and the ultimate decision regarding promotions is, unfortunately, not up to me.”
Great. She’d be reporting to a man who had absolutely no interest in seeing her succeed. This just kept getting better and better.
“The decision for upcoming assignments has been made, and you have been selected to evaluate a somewhat challenging candidate. Were it up to me, I would not leave the responsibility for such a vile Outcast in your hands.”
She frowned, the scent of his contempt for this particular candidate almost overwhelming. The stench of his distrust seemed to fill the air; this was not an Outcast that Bilius wanted re-assimilated. Of that, she was certain. Who, though, could the Outcast be?
She was just about to ask when the elder continued. “The responsibility is too great to entrust it to someone with less than perfect credentials,” Bilius said, as Izzy’s cheeks burned with shame. “It is not, however, up to me. For that matter, I will not be your supervisor for this endeavor.”
“Excuse me?” she said, sure she’d heard wrong. Bilius’s absence was simply too much to hope for.
“My duties have become increasingly time-consuming as the treaty negotiations heat up. I am, therefore, temporarily stepping aside at the request of the Inner Circle of Elders.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Zephron will be the interim director of the Re-Assimilation Program.”
“Oh.” This was good news. She tried to keep her face passive. “I understand.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you do.”
“Um.” She focused on the floor, not sure what to say but decidedly relieved.
“Keep in mind that I am only stepping aside temporarily.” She looked up and saw the steely glint of his eyes. “I will be returning.”
She swallowed. “Of course,” she said, then nodded deferentially. But as soon as he left and the door closed behind him, she let out a little cheer.
Her mini-celebration was cut short by the return of reality. Bilius might be temporarily handing over command to Zephron, but that didn’t change the one inescapable underlying fact: Her own supervisor didn’t believe she was worthy of this new job.
She sighed and rubbed her temples, all her insecurities returning to ride roughshod over her ego. When she’d received word of the promotion, she’d thought she’d finally found a place where she fit in and where they believed in her on her merit. Where they weren’t whispering behind her back and saying she didn’t really belong.
Apparently, she’d been wrong.
A tear clung to her lashes, then fell, landing with a plop on the polished wood. Before she’d been accepted into the Council, she’d had to make a decision, just like every other Halfling. She’d had to formally choose to join the Council, and she’d had to formally reject the process of mortalization.
She had done so, of course. She’d been awed by her uncle when she’d first met him, then blown away by the very existence of Protectors and their mission to protect and aid mortals. How could she have turned away from something both heroic and exciting? She couldn’t, of course—but now she had to wonder if maybe she would have been happier living her life as a mortal after all.
Certainly her colleagues seemed to think she was no better than a mortal.
No. She was not going to think like that. Her record was stellar—so stellar that Bilius couldn’t even believe it was true. But it was. And she’d show him. She might only have herself to rely on, but in the end, she’d show him. She’d show them all.
The door opened, and Zephron strode in, moving with the grace of one much younger than his long white beard would suggest.
“Uncle Zephron!” And then, remembering that this was an official meeting, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Zephron, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
She thought she saw a faint twitching at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes turned serious. “Bilius has many qualities,” he said, “but tact is not one of them. You earned this promotion. Don’t let his ramblings sway you to think otherwise.”
Even though she’d been thinking that very thing only moments before, right then she was having a hard time believing in herself. So much for her bold plan to “show them all.”
Apparently Zephron didn’t pick up on her discomfiture, though. He was smiling at her, a broad, open smile that was almost paternal.
“What?”
“Your skills as a Level I Re-Assimilation Counselor exceeded even my expectations. You have a gift, my dear. As we all do, of course, but yours is particularly strong in this area.”
She felt her cheeks warm under the praise. “Thank you.”
“And while your excellent performance may have resulted in this promotion, I’m afraid it will also put you a bit on display. And perhaps even earn you some enemies.”
“So I noticed. Though I suppose I should be used to it by now.”
His eyebrow twitched. “Gossip is only gossip, my dear.”
“Even when it’s founded in truth?” The words came out more biting than she’d intended, and she took an involuntary step back, focusing on her shoes rather than on her uncle.
His deep sigh drew her back to him, and she looked up, noticing how deep the lines on his face had become in the years since they’d first met. “We’ve had this conversation several times now, Isole. I thought you finally understood.”
She shrugged, feeling like an impudent child but unable to help it. Though she loved him, being with her uncle—the High Elder of the Council, a man who seemed practically omnipotent—always brought her own failings into stark relief.
A tender smile touched his lips. “We all have our weaknesses, Isole. Even me.”
She grimaced. “I thought I was supposed to be the mind reader.”
“Perhaps you’re just too transparent,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Or you’re too good.” She tilted her head back and sighed with frustration. “I can’t even levitate.”
“Did you know that I am completely incapable of discerning the approach of most mosquitoes?”
She blinked, then gaped at him, entirely confused as to where the conversation was heading. “You’re what?”
“Six hundred hertz,” he said. “I have a deaf spot for that particular frequency. I simply don’t hear it.”
At that, her eyes widened. “You? A weakness?”
He chuckled. “Shocking, I know. But, yes, it’s true. Mosquitoes have sought and claimed my blood on many occasions ... and I was unable to stall their nefarious advance.”
Now she was laughing outright. “You’re making fun of me.”
He moved closer, pulling her into his embrace. “No, child, I’m not. I’m simply pointing out that we all have our weaknesses ... and we all have our skills.” He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she met his eyes. “You are here because of your skill. There is no other reason.”
She nodded, but her gaze drifted away. Here today, perhaps. But that didn’t answer the question of how she got admitted to the Council in the first place. Now, however, wasn’t the time to argue. She was on the Council, she was doing a good job, and she intended to continue doing just that.
Except...
She grimaced, realizing that by keeping the secret about Hieronymous, she was violating her oath.
Time for a reality check... and also time for the truth, no matter how much it would hurt her father.
She straightened, drawing her shoulders back as if the movement would give her courage. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He waved her words away. “Isole, my praise of your job skills is sincere. However, you must learn when to be familiar and when that is inappropriate. We need to discuss your next assignment. You may address another topic, personal or Council-related, once our business is complete.”
Her cheeks burned, but she merely nodded. “Yes, Zephron.” She cleared her throat. “You were saying I’d be on display with my new assignment. Why is that?”
“The nature of your first Outcast,” Zephron said. “We’ve never before had such a prominent Outcast apply for re-assimilation. The process will undoubtedly be covered daily in columns on the Council website, news and editorials in the Daily Protector, and, of course, gossip.”
“Oh.” It sounded horrible. Idly, Izzy wondered if it wasn’t too late to request reassignment. Maybe working undercover as a lifeguard at some beach resort. A few daring rescues ...
“Izzy?”
She licked her lips. “Sorry. I’m still here.”
“You aren’t going to disappoint me.” It was a statement, not a question, and she couldn’t help but smile at his confidence.
“No. I won’t.” She cleared her throat. “But, um, why me? I mean, if this Outcast is that big a deal, why not assign one of the Level-Fives that have been around for a while?”
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I thought that this assignment should go to you. I was able to persuade the other members of the committee to my point of view.”
His gaze settled on her, his kind yet penetrating eyes. A chill seemed to settle over her, and she knew that she should ask what he meant, but somehow she couldn’t manage the question.
He was watching her expectantly, but after a few moments of silence, he shifted his gaze back toward the door. He’d entered with a briefcase, now resting by the closed door, a portfolio peeking out of the top. He crooked a finger and the portfolio levitated, lifting free of the briefcase, then glided across the room to land in his outstretched hand. Izzy tried not to look jealous.
Zephron flipped pages. “Also under the circumstances,” he said after a moment, “I thought it best if you had an assistant. I intend to assign someone to help you out.”
She frowned, her forehead creasing. An assistant? Whatever for? “Who are we talking about?”
“The assistant?”
“The Outcast!” Her voice rose in frustration.
“Ah, of course. The Outcast, my dear, is Hieronymous Black.”
She blinked, positive she’d heard wrong.
She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it when she realized she had no idea what to say.
She tried again. “Hier—Hieronymous Black. Hieronymous Black? He wants to be re-assimilated?”
“So he says.”
“Why?”
“He has seen the error of his ways, according to his application.”
“And you believe him?”
Zephron smiled. “What I believe is immaterial, my dear. You are the one who will make the final recommendation to the Inner Circle.”
“Oh.” She rubbed her temples. “Oh.”
“I will say that if he is sincere it couldn’t come at a better time.”
“The treaty negotiations, you mean.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
Izzy sank into a chair, her fingers tight on the leather armrests and her thoughts in a whirl. The first Mortal-Protector Treaty had been signed in 1970. It was a complicated document, but the basic deal was that Protectors would remain secret, but would do what they could to assist the human race. The treaty also created the Mortal/Protector Liaison Office, or MLO, which employed that handful of mortals who were aware of Protectors and what they did.
For years, Zephron had been lobbying to renegotiate the treaty so that Protectors played a more open role in society. The formal negotiations were to take place in two weeks—with lots of meetings and positioning and politicking going on in the meantime. At the moment, except for a few dissenters, it looked as if the mortal governments were leaning toward accepting full Protector disclosure.
She voiced all that to Zephron, and he nodded. “I’m pleased you’ve been following our efforts,” he said. “In fact, the mortals’ only real hesitation at this point centers around the Outcasts.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The very existence of Outcasts disturbs some mortals. They fear that if the ban of secrecy is lifted, mortals may not trust any Protectors. They also fear that Outcasts would decide to ignore the rules and start a full-scale war with the mortals.”
“They could have done that already,” Izzy said.
Zephron nodded. “And the mortals well know it. They also know that Hieronymous is the most vocal of the Outcasts, the only one currently with the clout to band the others together.”
“And they know that Hieronymous really doesn’t want Protectors on par with mortals,” Izzy said, finally getting it.
“Exactly.”
“But if Hieronymous is out of the Outcast business, everything will be better. The mortals won’t be as afraid, the negotiations will go smoothly, and the treaty will go off without a hitch.”
“That, of course, is my hope,” Zephron said.
Izzy nodded, still a little uncertain. Zephron knew more than anyone how deep Hieronymous’s hatred of mortals went. Could he truly be turning over a new leaf? Or was Zephron grasping at the best hope he saw of pushing the treaty through? For years, Izzy knew, the renegotiation of the treaty had been her uncle’s pet project. To have it now be so close ...
As if reading her mind, Zephron spoke, his face clouded. “Of course, if it’s all a ruse ...”
She nodded, understanding. If it was a ruse and Hieronymous was merely trying to infiltrate the Council to further some nefarious plan, well, that would be disaster.
But if he was sincere ...
Could he be sincere? The prospect was almost too much to hope for, and she wondered if she, like her uncle, was grasping at a foolish notion.
Because if Hieronymous Black was really coming over to the good side, then there was no reason at all to reveal her father’s deep, dark secret to Zephron. After all, re-assimilated Protectors could associate with whomever they pleased.
Which meant that, for the time being at least, she was justified in keeping her mouth shut.