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Chapter Four

Mordi pulled his Ferrari up in front of the Los Angeles bungalow, and killed the engine. The sun was just starting to set, and so he sat in the car for a bit, watching the vibrant streaks of purple slice the sky over the trees.
He told himself that he was simply watching the celestial show. Of course, that was a lie. In truth, he was stalling.
He’d paged his cousin Zoë that morning, wanting to talk to her about their shared role as the token Halflings for the treaty negotiations. She’d insisted they meet here. At the time, Mordi hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d wanted to meet; it was only fair they do it at her convenience.
Now, though, he had to wonder. Was she making an overture? Telling him without telling him that he was welcome back in the family? The thought pleased him more than he’d expected. For years, he’d told himself that it didn’t matter. He’d done what he’d had to do, and if his family couldn’t accept that, well, that was just too damn bad. He’d spent his whole life alone. He’d gotten rather used to it.
If that was really true, though, then why was he still camped out in the car wondering about Zoë‘s motives?
Frustrated, he yanked the door open, climbed out, and marched toward the house, noting for the first time the banner hung over the doorway of Nicholas Goodman’s house:



Deena and Hoop .. . About Damn Time!


Mordi couldn’t help but grin.
Deena and Hoop had been flirting with a serious relationship since before Mordi had met either of them. An artist, Deena worked part-time at the elementary school where Zoë used to work as a librarian, before her entry into the Venerate Council had taken her in another professional direction.
Hoop was a private investigator, a guy who pretty much fit all the stereotypes of a rumpled gumshoe. The man truly loved Deena, though, any idiot could see that, and Mordi wondered what had taken them so long to finally set a wedding date.
Then again, considering he himself had never once let a relationship with a woman get to such a serious level, he was hardly the man to criticize the speed—or lack thereof—with which Hoop had finally popped the question.
“Mordi!” Inside, across the living room, his cousin Zoë waved. He returned the gesture, then started walking that way through the crowd. “You look well,” she said before moving closer and pulling him into an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder, figured that satisfied propriety, then stepped back.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” she added.
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down, frowning. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it would be such a terrible ordeal for you to come. I actually thought you might enjoy the party.”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but closed it with a sigh. “We need to talk about this committee stuff.”
She studied him, her expression earnest as always. “We know you were undercover,” she said, and since that had nothing to do with their committee responsibilities, Mordi knew that he’d been right: His cousin was making an overture of sorts.
He almost kept silent, but if she was going to make an effort, then so would he. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you but, like you said, I was undercover.” He hadn’t been at first, of course, but Zoë knew that as well as Mordi.
She nodded, a tiny frown marring her serious expression. “And we know you stood up to your father.”
“And so you up and invited me to Deena’s engagement party?” He crossed his arms, feeling more manipulated than welcome. “Come on, Zo. I might be part of the family, but you and I know I’ve never really belonged.”
“I just thought—”
He shifted his weight. In theory, he appreciated the overture. In practice, he felt as though he’d been thrust under a microscope. “Let’s just get down to business, okay?”
He thought she was going to protest again, but instead she turned away, leading him across the room. The house belonged to Deena’s brother, Nicholas, and his wife Maggie. And although he’d never been there before, he could see that this building was more than just a house—it was a home. A sharp contrast to the austere studio apartment he kept in Manhattan.
Zoë aimed them toward the buffet, and though Mordi expected her to continue past to some private room, instead she stopped. A man stood by a plate piled high with sandwiches, his back to Zoë‘ and Mordi, and Mordi could see the straps of some sort of gear crisscrossing his back. The man turned, and Mordi realized who it was—and what he was holding.
George Bailey Taylor met his eyes. “Mordi. Good to see you.” The words were polite enough, but Mordi didn’t miss the way Taylor’s hand moved to protectively cup the tiny head of a baby girl, swaddled in pink and snuggled into the papoose-like pack that nestled against his chest.
“You haven’t seen Talia since she was born,” Zoë said, beaming at the sight of her daughter.
Mordi reached out a tentative finger, and the little urchin took it, her tiny finger closing tight around his. “She’s so big.”
“Time passes,” Zoë said. She looked up at Taylor, who didn’t move a muscle, but still Mordi was sure some silent communication passed between them. Zoë cleared her throat. “Listen, you can come by any time if you want. I mean, if you want to see the baby or something. We’d like to see you and all.”
“Building bridges?” Mordi asked.
Her eyes flashed. “At least I’m trying.”
She was, and Mordi had to give her credit. He nodded. “Well, thanks. I’d like that. Really.” He drew in a breath, then cast around for a distraction. He wanted to talk about this committee thing. Wanted to get it over with and get out of there. But he’d brought it up twice now, and it was obvious Zoë intended to take her own sweet time.
He glanced around the room. “So, who’s here?” Over the years, Mordi’d had run-ins with many of Zoë‘s friends. She might be gunning for a reconciliation, but he wasn’t certain about the rest of them.
“Well, Hale, of course.” She frowned as she lifted up on her tiptoes and scanned the room. “But I don’t see him.”
Mordi exhaled, relieved. Hale was Zoë‘s half brother and also Mordi’s cousin. Unlike Zoë and Mordi, though, Hale was a full-fledged Protector. He was also arrogant as hell and had a tendency to be unforgiving.
Considering Mordi had given Tracy—Hale’s wife— a bit of a rough time a few years ago, Mordi rather hoped Hale didn’t suddenly appear.
The clatter of toenails on the hardwood floor drew Mordi away from his thoughts, and he looked down as Elmer skittered up. The little ferret glared at him and started bouncing up and down, his tail straight up and his sharp teeth gleaming.
“Come on, Elmer,” a disembodied voice behind Mordi said. “He’s okay... now.”
As Mordi turned toward the voice, the air seemed to shimmer. And then, without any fanfare Hale appeared, looking picture-perfect as usual.
The ferret scurried to Hale’s pant leg, then climbed all the way up until he perched on Hale’s shoulder, chattering wildly.
“Where’s his collar?” Zoë asked. “I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”
“Didn’t wear it,” Hale said, nodding to Mordi. “We were running late. He’s saying he doesn’t trust our cousin.”
“For the love of Hera,” Mordi began. “I don’t care what the little rodent—”
“No, no. It’s okay. I trust you.” He rolled his shoulder, and Elmer struggled for balance. “This one will just have to get used to the idea.”
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“Why? You mean why do I trust you?”
Mordi nodded.
Hale shrugged, then grimaced as Elmer’s claws dug in. “Zephron says you’re one of the good guys now.” Hale’s steady gaze met Mordi’s. “He’s always right. Are you saying he was misinformed?”
“No,” Mordi said firmly. “He’s right.”
“Well, then. You’ve got my vote until you screw up again.” Hale held out a hand. “Welcome to the party.”
Mordi purposely didn’t shake. “Thanks.”
Hale pulled his hand back and shoved it in his pocket, his eyes fixed on Mordi’s. “See you around,” he said, then turned and headed across the room. There Tracy was laughing with a woman with short dark hair.
Mordi turned back to Zoë. “I really didn’t come here to—”
“I know. You came to discuss business.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry about the negotiations. I imagine Zephron will only expect you to sit there and look friendly and cooperative. After all, he only wanted us for our blood.”
He had to agree with her. They were both Halflings, and Zephron wanted Halflings at the negotiating table. Someone with whom mortals would feel a kinship.
Well, if Mordi’s blood made him useful, then so be it. For that matter, it would be the first time in his life his mother had ever done anything for him. Other than giving him birth, that is.
He frowned, Zoë words finally registering. “Expect us,” he said. “You meant to say that Zephron will expect us to sit there and look friendly.”
Her face shifted, taking on a determined yet embarrassed quality. “Well, the thing is—”
Little Talia let out a piercing wail, and Zoë immediately started fussing with her, finally quieting the little girl. “She’s the thing,” Zoë said. “I just don’t feel right leaving her, especially not when the meetings are so erratically scheduled.”
The import of her words hit him. “Alone?” It was bad enough wheeling and dealing with politicos, but to have to do it alone?
She shook her head. “Zephron said he’d appoint another Halfling to replace me.”
Small comfort, but Mordi couldn’t argue the point because Zoë lifted Talia out of the carrier, wrinkled her nose and sniffed in the general vicinity of the little girl’s bottom, then took off, leaving Mordi quite alone.
Well, damn.
He poked at the buffet, piling crackers and cheese on a plate while his thoughts drifted to what Hale had said. Yes, he was one of the good guys. But when, exactly, had that happened?
When he’d first agreed to Zephron’s offer to be a mole, Mordi’s sole motivation had been self-preservation. In his mind, he hadn’t actually turned away from his father. How could he have? He’d spent his whole life trying to meet his father’s expectations, trying to wrest some hint of approval out of the man’s cold, hard eyes.
It had never come.
Hieronymous had been his father by birth, but that didn’t mean the man loved him. Mordi was a Halfling, and in Hieronymous’s view, that made him an object of contempt and derision—hardly someone worthy of inheriting Hieronymous’s empire, such that it was.
Idly, Mordi looked around the room for his half brother. Jason was a full-fledged Protector, and Hieronymous had been more than willing to pour love and glory on that son.
But Jason had wanted nothing to do with Hieronymous. Hieronymous had promised Jason everything that Mordi had ever wanted, and Jason had thrown it back in his face.
Mordi had thought his brother a fool.
Now, he saw Jason standing with his wife Lane, Taylor’s sister. Both were chatting with Tracy and the dark-haired woman.
He inched toward Taylor, who, having been relieved of his infant burden, was sucking down a beer. “Who is that?”
Taylor followed the direction of Mordi’s finger. “That’s Maggie. Nick’s wife.”
That figured. As far as he could tell, everyone at the party was quite attached, bound to husbands and wives, starting families. They were each loved, and they each had someone to love.
Mordi grimaced. He hated sappy sentimentality, and yet here he was, being all sappy and sentimental. But the truth was the truth, and he’d never known that kind of love. Never had another human being—mortal or Protector—who cared about him above all others. And how could he, with the stigma of his father hanging over his head? Even free of the man, Mordi was still haunted by his presence.
“Mordi?”
He jumped. Zoë had come back and now had a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged away from her touch. “I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to Jason.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, just headed across the room until he was standing outside the little circle of people, slightly behind Jason. After a second, his brother realized he was there and turned.
“Well, well, the prodigal brother.”
Mordi searched Jason’s face, looking for a hint of emotion. There wasn’t any, and he started to take a step backward. This was a mistake. After all, he and Jason had had the roughest patch of all, and if—
“Where the hell are you going?” Jason’s fingers clamped down on Mordi’s shoulder.
“Nowhere,” Mordi said.
Jason studied him.
Mordi stood a little straighter. Since the first moment he’d met Jason, his brother had intimidated the hell out of him. Well, no longer. “I’m leaving,” Mordi said. “Where in Hades did it look like I was going?”
To his surprise, Jason started laughing. “Hopping Hera, Mordi—you are so damn touchy.”
Mordi started to argue, but then stopped himself. He was too damn touchy. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
Jason looked him up and down for a moment, then stepped back to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So I guess congratulations are in order.”
Mordi squinted. “Are they?”
“I skim the website,” Jason said. “You’ve brought in thirteen traitors in as many months. Not a bad record.”
“I’m proud of it,” Mordi said.
“I’ll bet.”
Mordi frowned, not certain if the sarcasm he heard in Jason’s voice was real or imagined. “What do you mean by that?”
Jason shrugged. “I just wonder if you’re not trying too hard.”
A chill ran down Mordi’s spine. He ignored it. “I’m a Protector,” Mordi said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” Mordi said. “Really.”
“So you’re not out to prove that you don’t care what Daddy Dearest thinks of you? You’re really past all of that.”
“Of course I am,” Mordi said. “I don’t care what he thinks about me at all.” But that was a lie. He did care. He cared one hell of a lot. He’d simply pushed caring aside.
He sighed. He knew he’d made the right choice, taken the right path.
Why, then, was it always so damn hard?

Chapter Four

Mordi pulled his Ferrari up in front of the Los Angeles bungalow, and killed the engine. The sun was just starting to set, and so he sat in the car for a bit, watching the vibrant streaks of purple slice the sky over the trees.
He told himself that he was simply watching the celestial show. Of course, that was a lie. In truth, he was stalling.
He’d paged his cousin Zoë that morning, wanting to talk to her about their shared role as the token Halflings for the treaty negotiations. She’d insisted they meet here. At the time, Mordi hadn’t thought anything of it. He’d wanted to meet; it was only fair they do it at her convenience.
Now, though, he had to wonder. Was she making an overture? Telling him without telling him that he was welcome back in the family? The thought pleased him more than he’d expected. For years, he’d told himself that it didn’t matter. He’d done what he’d had to do, and if his family couldn’t accept that, well, that was just too damn bad. He’d spent his whole life alone. He’d gotten rather used to it.
If that was really true, though, then why was he still camped out in the car wondering about Zoë‘s motives?
Frustrated, he yanked the door open, climbed out, and marched toward the house, noting for the first time the banner hung over the doorway of Nicholas Goodman’s house:



Deena and Hoop .. . About Damn Time!


Mordi couldn’t help but grin.
Deena and Hoop had been flirting with a serious relationship since before Mordi had met either of them. An artist, Deena worked part-time at the elementary school where Zoë used to work as a librarian, before her entry into the Venerate Council had taken her in another professional direction.
Hoop was a private investigator, a guy who pretty much fit all the stereotypes of a rumpled gumshoe. The man truly loved Deena, though, any idiot could see that, and Mordi wondered what had taken them so long to finally set a wedding date.
Then again, considering he himself had never once let a relationship with a woman get to such a serious level, he was hardly the man to criticize the speed—or lack thereof—with which Hoop had finally popped the question.
“Mordi!” Inside, across the living room, his cousin Zoë waved. He returned the gesture, then started walking that way through the crowd. “You look well,” she said before moving closer and pulling him into an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder, figured that satisfied propriety, then stepped back.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” she added.
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down, frowning. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it would be such a terrible ordeal for you to come. I actually thought you might enjoy the party.”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but closed it with a sigh. “We need to talk about this committee stuff.”
She studied him, her expression earnest as always. “We know you were undercover,” she said, and since that had nothing to do with their committee responsibilities, Mordi knew that he’d been right: His cousin was making an overture of sorts.
He almost kept silent, but if she was going to make an effort, then so would he. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you but, like you said, I was undercover.” He hadn’t been at first, of course, but Zoë knew that as well as Mordi.
She nodded, a tiny frown marring her serious expression. “And we know you stood up to your father.”
“And so you up and invited me to Deena’s engagement party?” He crossed his arms, feeling more manipulated than welcome. “Come on, Zo. I might be part of the family, but you and I know I’ve never really belonged.”
“I just thought—”
He shifted his weight. In theory, he appreciated the overture. In practice, he felt as though he’d been thrust under a microscope. “Let’s just get down to business, okay?”
He thought she was going to protest again, but instead she turned away, leading him across the room. The house belonged to Deena’s brother, Nicholas, and his wife Maggie. And although he’d never been there before, he could see that this building was more than just a house—it was a home. A sharp contrast to the austere studio apartment he kept in Manhattan.
Zoë aimed them toward the buffet, and though Mordi expected her to continue past to some private room, instead she stopped. A man stood by a plate piled high with sandwiches, his back to Zoë‘ and Mordi, and Mordi could see the straps of some sort of gear crisscrossing his back. The man turned, and Mordi realized who it was—and what he was holding.
George Bailey Taylor met his eyes. “Mordi. Good to see you.” The words were polite enough, but Mordi didn’t miss the way Taylor’s hand moved to protectively cup the tiny head of a baby girl, swaddled in pink and snuggled into the papoose-like pack that nestled against his chest.
“You haven’t seen Talia since she was born,” Zoë said, beaming at the sight of her daughter.
Mordi reached out a tentative finger, and the little urchin took it, her tiny finger closing tight around his. “She’s so big.”
“Time passes,” Zoë said. She looked up at Taylor, who didn’t move a muscle, but still Mordi was sure some silent communication passed between them. Zoë cleared her throat. “Listen, you can come by any time if you want. I mean, if you want to see the baby or something. We’d like to see you and all.”
“Building bridges?” Mordi asked.
Her eyes flashed. “At least I’m trying.”
She was, and Mordi had to give her credit. He nodded. “Well, thanks. I’d like that. Really.” He drew in a breath, then cast around for a distraction. He wanted to talk about this committee thing. Wanted to get it over with and get out of there. But he’d brought it up twice now, and it was obvious Zoë intended to take her own sweet time.
He glanced around the room. “So, who’s here?” Over the years, Mordi’d had run-ins with many of Zoë‘s friends. She might be gunning for a reconciliation, but he wasn’t certain about the rest of them.
“Well, Hale, of course.” She frowned as she lifted up on her tiptoes and scanned the room. “But I don’t see him.”
Mordi exhaled, relieved. Hale was Zoë‘s half brother and also Mordi’s cousin. Unlike Zoë and Mordi, though, Hale was a full-fledged Protector. He was also arrogant as hell and had a tendency to be unforgiving.
Considering Mordi had given Tracy—Hale’s wife— a bit of a rough time a few years ago, Mordi rather hoped Hale didn’t suddenly appear.
The clatter of toenails on the hardwood floor drew Mordi away from his thoughts, and he looked down as Elmer skittered up. The little ferret glared at him and started bouncing up and down, his tail straight up and his sharp teeth gleaming.
“Come on, Elmer,” a disembodied voice behind Mordi said. “He’s okay... now.”
As Mordi turned toward the voice, the air seemed to shimmer. And then, without any fanfare Hale appeared, looking picture-perfect as usual.
The ferret scurried to Hale’s pant leg, then climbed all the way up until he perched on Hale’s shoulder, chattering wildly.
“Where’s his collar?” Zoë asked. “I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”
“Didn’t wear it,” Hale said, nodding to Mordi. “We were running late. He’s saying he doesn’t trust our cousin.”
“For the love of Hera,” Mordi began. “I don’t care what the little rodent—”
“No, no. It’s okay. I trust you.” He rolled his shoulder, and Elmer struggled for balance. “This one will just have to get used to the idea.”
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“Why? You mean why do I trust you?”
Mordi nodded.
Hale shrugged, then grimaced as Elmer’s claws dug in. “Zephron says you’re one of the good guys now.” Hale’s steady gaze met Mordi’s. “He’s always right. Are you saying he was misinformed?”
“No,” Mordi said firmly. “He’s right.”
“Well, then. You’ve got my vote until you screw up again.” Hale held out a hand. “Welcome to the party.”
Mordi purposely didn’t shake. “Thanks.”
Hale pulled his hand back and shoved it in his pocket, his eyes fixed on Mordi’s. “See you around,” he said, then turned and headed across the room. There Tracy was laughing with a woman with short dark hair.
Mordi turned back to Zoë. “I really didn’t come here to—”
“I know. You came to discuss business.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry about the negotiations. I imagine Zephron will only expect you to sit there and look friendly and cooperative. After all, he only wanted us for our blood.”
He had to agree with her. They were both Halflings, and Zephron wanted Halflings at the negotiating table. Someone with whom mortals would feel a kinship.
Well, if Mordi’s blood made him useful, then so be it. For that matter, it would be the first time in his life his mother had ever done anything for him. Other than giving him birth, that is.
He frowned, Zoë words finally registering. “Expect us,” he said. “You meant to say that Zephron will expect us to sit there and look friendly.”
Her face shifted, taking on a determined yet embarrassed quality. “Well, the thing is—”
Little Talia let out a piercing wail, and Zoë immediately started fussing with her, finally quieting the little girl. “She’s the thing,” Zoë said. “I just don’t feel right leaving her, especially not when the meetings are so erratically scheduled.”
The import of her words hit him. “Alone?” It was bad enough wheeling and dealing with politicos, but to have to do it alone?
She shook her head. “Zephron said he’d appoint another Halfling to replace me.”
Small comfort, but Mordi couldn’t argue the point because Zoë lifted Talia out of the carrier, wrinkled her nose and sniffed in the general vicinity of the little girl’s bottom, then took off, leaving Mordi quite alone.
Well, damn.
He poked at the buffet, piling crackers and cheese on a plate while his thoughts drifted to what Hale had said. Yes, he was one of the good guys. But when, exactly, had that happened?
When he’d first agreed to Zephron’s offer to be a mole, Mordi’s sole motivation had been self-preservation. In his mind, he hadn’t actually turned away from his father. How could he have? He’d spent his whole life trying to meet his father’s expectations, trying to wrest some hint of approval out of the man’s cold, hard eyes.
It had never come.
Hieronymous had been his father by birth, but that didn’t mean the man loved him. Mordi was a Halfling, and in Hieronymous’s view, that made him an object of contempt and derision—hardly someone worthy of inheriting Hieronymous’s empire, such that it was.
Idly, Mordi looked around the room for his half brother. Jason was a full-fledged Protector, and Hieronymous had been more than willing to pour love and glory on that son.
But Jason had wanted nothing to do with Hieronymous. Hieronymous had promised Jason everything that Mordi had ever wanted, and Jason had thrown it back in his face.
Mordi had thought his brother a fool.
Now, he saw Jason standing with his wife Lane, Taylor’s sister. Both were chatting with Tracy and the dark-haired woman.
He inched toward Taylor, who, having been relieved of his infant burden, was sucking down a beer. “Who is that?”
Taylor followed the direction of Mordi’s finger. “That’s Maggie. Nick’s wife.”
That figured. As far as he could tell, everyone at the party was quite attached, bound to husbands and wives, starting families. They were each loved, and they each had someone to love.
Mordi grimaced. He hated sappy sentimentality, and yet here he was, being all sappy and sentimental. But the truth was the truth, and he’d never known that kind of love. Never had another human being—mortal or Protector—who cared about him above all others. And how could he, with the stigma of his father hanging over his head? Even free of the man, Mordi was still haunted by his presence.
“Mordi?”
He jumped. Zoë had come back and now had a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
He shrugged away from her touch. “I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to Jason.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, just headed across the room until he was standing outside the little circle of people, slightly behind Jason. After a second, his brother realized he was there and turned.
“Well, well, the prodigal brother.”
Mordi searched Jason’s face, looking for a hint of emotion. There wasn’t any, and he started to take a step backward. This was a mistake. After all, he and Jason had had the roughest patch of all, and if—
“Where the hell are you going?” Jason’s fingers clamped down on Mordi’s shoulder.
“Nowhere,” Mordi said.
Jason studied him.
Mordi stood a little straighter. Since the first moment he’d met Jason, his brother had intimidated the hell out of him. Well, no longer. “I’m leaving,” Mordi said. “Where in Hades did it look like I was going?”
To his surprise, Jason started laughing. “Hopping Hera, Mordi—you are so damn touchy.”
Mordi started to argue, but then stopped himself. He was too damn touchy. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
Jason looked him up and down for a moment, then stepped back to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So I guess congratulations are in order.”
Mordi squinted. “Are they?”
“I skim the website,” Jason said. “You’ve brought in thirteen traitors in as many months. Not a bad record.”
“I’m proud of it,” Mordi said.
“I’ll bet.”
Mordi frowned, not certain if the sarcasm he heard in Jason’s voice was real or imagined. “What do you mean by that?”
Jason shrugged. “I just wonder if you’re not trying too hard.”
A chill ran down Mordi’s spine. He ignored it. “I’m a Protector,” Mordi said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” Mordi said. “Really.”
“So you’re not out to prove that you don’t care what Daddy Dearest thinks of you? You’re really past all of that.”
“Of course I am,” Mordi said. “I don’t care what he thinks about me at all.” But that was a lie. He did care. He cared one hell of a lot. He’d simply pushed caring aside.
He sighed. He knew he’d made the right choice, taken the right path.
Why, then, was it always so damn hard?