"Aphrodite's_Flame_011" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Eight

Why else, indeed?
Perhaps because he intended to infiltrate the Council and sabotage the ridiculous treaty negotiations. Perhaps because he was determined to finally prevail in creating a better world where Protectors ruled rather than served, wasting their time helping puny mortals with their insignificant little problems.
Yes, that was Hieronymous’s goal. His dream.
And this necessary first step had worked beautifully. Of course, he’d known it would. Being a super genius gave him such an edge. Isole Frost had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous’s invention had tricked her, making her see only the happy mortal-phile thoughts he’d conjured specifically for the occasion.
He bit back a snort, remembering to keep his face schooled with sincerity. Mortals on a par with Protectors!? The idea was absurd. Any treaty signed between his race and the mortals should have the mortals cowering in fear, slaves to the superior race. Not working together in mediocre symbiosis.
As if the mortals were worthy...
Try as he might, Hieronymous couldn’t understand how the Inner Circle abided the creatures. Useless. The entire lot of mortals were nothing more than useless insects.
Then again, he amended, casting his gaze toward Isole, perhaps not entirely useless. Her father, for example, was proving to be most useful indeed. Certainly the balm Mr. Frost had created from Hieronymous’s meticulous directions had performed as required. Hieronymous would have made it himself, of course, except that the use of his powers would have blipped on the Council monitoring boards. He’d had to enlist a mortal’s aid, and Harold Frost had been the perfect choice.
The balm was performing perfectly, too. First it had functioned well in the test run with that idiot Patel. And now, despite her empathic abilities, Isole Frost, Level V Re-Assimilation Counselor, had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous was anything but sincere.
“... followed by a series of practical tests.” She stopped talking and looked at him, her clipboard on her lap, the absolute height of efficiency.
Hieronymous regarded her calmly. He’d not been listening.
After an uncomfortable bit of silence, she cleared her throat. “So, perhaps Friday would be good?”
“Friday would be perfect,” he said, wondering what he was agreeing to.
It didn’t matter. Aside from being locked for eternity in the catacombs, he would agree to anything. Anything at all so long as it furthered his cause.
“Excellent.” She made a tick mark on her clipboard.
Hieronymous nodded, and tried to affect the appearance of a mortal-phile. It wasn’t easy.
“Are you staying in the dormitories?” she asked.
“No,” Hieronymous said. “The Council was gracious enough to allow me the use of my Manhattan apartment during the re-assimilation.” They’d taken it from him, of course. Zephron—that Gorgon’s ass— had probably enjoyed the formal divestiture proceeding. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, the Council had actually sublet the penthouse apartment to a mortal financier.
The news had burned through Hieronymous’s veins like wildfire, relieved only when he received word that the unfortunate financier had met an untimely death. A hit-and-run. Very sad.
Hieronymous would have to remember to commend Clyde once they rendezvoused. Despite Clyde’s fugitive status, Hieronymous’s former Chief of Guards was still performing his job with admirable skill.
“Perhaps we could hold Friday’s session in the penthouse, then. I like to interact with candidates as much as possible in a familiar environment.”
“Of course, my dear. Of course.”
He smiled, magnanimous and friendly. And why not? Things were going his way even more than expected. In fact, in light of fortuitous recent events, he was even considering revising his plan just slightly. Less risk for him, and the payoff would be exactly the same.
The desktop holo-pager buzzed, and Isole excused herself to answer it, then turned her back to him and began a long, dull conversation with another counselor about some formal testing procedure.
Really, the things he put up with in order to nurture his plan!
That very plan had germinated with the instigation of the Re-Assimilation Act. And as the treaty negotiations drew closer, Hieronymous realized that he had no time to lose. He had to be re-admitted into the Council’s fold; that much was imperative if he wanted to thwart the treaty negotiations.
But how to pull off such a feat? Fortunately, since he was a super genius, determining the best method of infiltrating the Council was a task easily tackled. He would re-assimilate, of course, taking care to ensure that his assigned counselor didn’t pick up on any little clues that perhaps Hieronymous was not as sincere as some of his predecessors.
Harold Frost’s balm had proved invaluable in that regard. But it was the assignment of the actual counselor that was now making Hieronymous’s brain hum.
Isole Frost. Harold’s daughter. A Halfling, desperately attached to her mortal father. A daughter who would undoubtedly do anything to protect her father. Anything at all...
He’d intended to use her all along, of course, but in a much reduced role. During his planning, she’d been a Level I Counselor, and he hadn’t even dared to dream.
Now that the impossible had come to pass, Hieronymous knew exactly what he had to do—or rather, what Izzy had to do. She would, too. If anyone understood the subtle art of persuasion, it was Hieronymous. He’d simply explain in small, easy-to-understand concepts that if she chose not to recommend him for re-assimilation, she would also be choosing to hurt her father.
He didn’t doubt the decision she’d make, not even for an instant.
He glanced at her: still speaking to her colleague, her voice calm and assured, without even an inkling of what was in store for her.
Ah, by Zeus, the empath-balm had to be one of his most brilliant inventions. And he, of course, was a brilliant, brilliant man.
For just a moment he considered laying the plan out for Isole the moment she put down the phone. He longed to see her face as she realized that her innate abilities had been thwarted, and then watch surprise turn to anger, then fear, then resignation as he explained why, exactly, she would agree to help him.
And what, exactly, he needed her to do.
But no. Better to bide his time. Allow the Protector and mortal presses to cite him as a hero as he did good deed after good deed after nauseatingly good deed. He would put the pieces of his plan into place even as he built her trust, letting her sink deeper and deeper into believing in him. Only when all the pieces were in place would he drop the bomb.
His plan was, quite simply, perfect. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.
The thought had barely settled in his head when the door to Isole’s office burst open and Mordichai marched in. His son. And for the first time, Hieronymous had to admit the possibility that, perhaps, possibly, something could go wrong after all.

Chapter Eight

Why else, indeed?
Perhaps because he intended to infiltrate the Council and sabotage the ridiculous treaty negotiations. Perhaps because he was determined to finally prevail in creating a better world where Protectors ruled rather than served, wasting their time helping puny mortals with their insignificant little problems.
Yes, that was Hieronymous’s goal. His dream.
And this necessary first step had worked beautifully. Of course, he’d known it would. Being a super genius gave him such an edge. Isole Frost had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous’s invention had tricked her, making her see only the happy mortal-phile thoughts he’d conjured specifically for the occasion.
He bit back a snort, remembering to keep his face schooled with sincerity. Mortals on a par with Protectors!? The idea was absurd. Any treaty signed between his race and the mortals should have the mortals cowering in fear, slaves to the superior race. Not working together in mediocre symbiosis.
As if the mortals were worthy...
Try as he might, Hieronymous couldn’t understand how the Inner Circle abided the creatures. Useless. The entire lot of mortals were nothing more than useless insects.
Then again, he amended, casting his gaze toward Isole, perhaps not entirely useless. Her father, for example, was proving to be most useful indeed. Certainly the balm Mr. Frost had created from Hieronymous’s meticulous directions had performed as required. Hieronymous would have made it himself, of course, except that the use of his powers would have blipped on the Council monitoring boards. He’d had to enlist a mortal’s aid, and Harold Frost had been the perfect choice.
The balm was performing perfectly, too. First it had functioned well in the test run with that idiot Patel. And now, despite her empathic abilities, Isole Frost, Level V Re-Assimilation Counselor, had absolutely no idea that Hieronymous was anything but sincere.
“... followed by a series of practical tests.” She stopped talking and looked at him, her clipboard on her lap, the absolute height of efficiency.
Hieronymous regarded her calmly. He’d not been listening.
After an uncomfortable bit of silence, she cleared her throat. “So, perhaps Friday would be good?”
“Friday would be perfect,” he said, wondering what he was agreeing to.
It didn’t matter. Aside from being locked for eternity in the catacombs, he would agree to anything. Anything at all so long as it furthered his cause.
“Excellent.” She made a tick mark on her clipboard.
Hieronymous nodded, and tried to affect the appearance of a mortal-phile. It wasn’t easy.
“Are you staying in the dormitories?” she asked.
“No,” Hieronymous said. “The Council was gracious enough to allow me the use of my Manhattan apartment during the re-assimilation.” They’d taken it from him, of course. Zephron—that Gorgon’s ass— had probably enjoyed the formal divestiture proceeding. And as if that wasn’t punishment enough, the Council had actually sublet the penthouse apartment to a mortal financier.
The news had burned through Hieronymous’s veins like wildfire, relieved only when he received word that the unfortunate financier had met an untimely death. A hit-and-run. Very sad.
Hieronymous would have to remember to commend Clyde once they rendezvoused. Despite Clyde’s fugitive status, Hieronymous’s former Chief of Guards was still performing his job with admirable skill.
“Perhaps we could hold Friday’s session in the penthouse, then. I like to interact with candidates as much as possible in a familiar environment.”
“Of course, my dear. Of course.”
He smiled, magnanimous and friendly. And why not? Things were going his way even more than expected. In fact, in light of fortuitous recent events, he was even considering revising his plan just slightly. Less risk for him, and the payoff would be exactly the same.
The desktop holo-pager buzzed, and Isole excused herself to answer it, then turned her back to him and began a long, dull conversation with another counselor about some formal testing procedure.
Really, the things he put up with in order to nurture his plan!
That very plan had germinated with the instigation of the Re-Assimilation Act. And as the treaty negotiations drew closer, Hieronymous realized that he had no time to lose. He had to be re-admitted into the Council’s fold; that much was imperative if he wanted to thwart the treaty negotiations.
But how to pull off such a feat? Fortunately, since he was a super genius, determining the best method of infiltrating the Council was a task easily tackled. He would re-assimilate, of course, taking care to ensure that his assigned counselor didn’t pick up on any little clues that perhaps Hieronymous was not as sincere as some of his predecessors.
Harold Frost’s balm had proved invaluable in that regard. But it was the assignment of the actual counselor that was now making Hieronymous’s brain hum.
Isole Frost. Harold’s daughter. A Halfling, desperately attached to her mortal father. A daughter who would undoubtedly do anything to protect her father. Anything at all...
He’d intended to use her all along, of course, but in a much reduced role. During his planning, she’d been a Level I Counselor, and he hadn’t even dared to dream.
Now that the impossible had come to pass, Hieronymous knew exactly what he had to do—or rather, what Izzy had to do. She would, too. If anyone understood the subtle art of persuasion, it was Hieronymous. He’d simply explain in small, easy-to-understand concepts that if she chose not to recommend him for re-assimilation, she would also be choosing to hurt her father.
He didn’t doubt the decision she’d make, not even for an instant.
He glanced at her: still speaking to her colleague, her voice calm and assured, without even an inkling of what was in store for her.
Ah, by Zeus, the empath-balm had to be one of his most brilliant inventions. And he, of course, was a brilliant, brilliant man.
For just a moment he considered laying the plan out for Isole the moment she put down the phone. He longed to see her face as she realized that her innate abilities had been thwarted, and then watch surprise turn to anger, then fear, then resignation as he explained why, exactly, she would agree to help him.
And what, exactly, he needed her to do.
But no. Better to bide his time. Allow the Protector and mortal presses to cite him as a hero as he did good deed after good deed after nauseatingly good deed. He would put the pieces of his plan into place even as he built her trust, letting her sink deeper and deeper into believing in him. Only when all the pieces were in place would he drop the bomb.
His plan was, quite simply, perfect. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.
The thought had barely settled in his head when the door to Isole’s office burst open and Mordichai marched in. His son. And for the first time, Hieronymous had to admit the possibility that, perhaps, possibly, something could go wrong after all.