"Aphrodite's_Flame_017" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Fourteen

“This?” Hieronymous’s voice rose in incredulity, one hand indicating the tree several stories below him and the kitten trapped in its upper branches. “This is how you intend to examine my goodwill and veracity?”
Izzy shrugged, forcing her expression to remain stern and serious. “For starters,” she said. In truth, it was a rather odd assignment for a superhero, but with the likes of Hieronymous, she thought it best that they start small.
So here they were: she, Mordi, and Hieronymous, standing on the balcony of his penthouse apartment, looking down at Fifth Avenue and the park across the wide street, where a tiny kitten was trapped in a treetop.
She wished she could convince Mordi of his father’s sincerity. At the moment, Mordi was standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like this was one big waste of time. They hadn’t talked much about it since the other night, and she’d been glad. There’d grown an easy comfortableness between them, a feeling in the air that was decidedly absent now, and she was grateful to have shared a few hours without doubt and disbelief hanging between them.
She didn’t begrudge Mordi his doubts, of course. Frankly, had she not felt the change in Hieronymous herself, she never would have believed it. But she had felt it, and she’d never once failed where her powers were concerned. She just wished (foolish, really, since she hardly knew the man) that Mordi would trust her, even if he didn’t trust his father.
From the way he was shooting vile glances toward Hieronymous, she really didn’t think that would happen.
The ex-Outcast in question was still at the balcony, his back to them, a pair of binocs in his hand as he peered down toward the street.
“A kitten?” he said once again, his voice still reflecting his bafflement. “I’m to rescue a pet?”
“Well, yes.” Isole cleared her throat. “We’re starting small. Regulations require me to present a series of tests of increasing difficulty. Considering who you are, I think it’s best that we follow protocol to the letter. I certainly don’t want someone later raising a question as to whether you received special treatment. Do you?”
His face darkened, and she recoiled. But then the shadow passed and he drew in a breath. “You’re right, of course, my dear. I guess I’m simply anxious to get to the meat of it. I’ve been so long without helping mortals, my fingers are itching to jump into the fray. To do some real good.”
Mordi had been standing beside her through all of this, a permanent scowl darkening what she’d come to regard—from a purely empirical standpoint of course—as a perfectly handsome face. He had an air of sophistication, even despite his anger. The veneer cracked, however, as he faked a cough, the sound half disguising a bitter curse, “Bullshit.”
She glared at him and turned back to Hieronymous. “You are helping mortals. That little girl who owns the cat is devastated.”
“Of course,” Hieronymous said. “Of course. I only meant—”
“This is absurd,” Mordi cut in. “You’re not interested in helping mortals, you’re—”
“Son.” Hieronymous’s tone was sharp, cutting, and Izzy straightened in surprise. Mordi, she noticed, had also drawn himself up. But his stance didn’t seem surprised. No, he seemed ready for battle.
Need and hatred and disappointment and love meshed together in the air between father and son, like a dense tapestry, so interwoven that Izzy couldn’t tell whose thoughts were whose, and she felt a wash of sadness for both of them.
She took Mordi’s arm, careful to touch his shirt and not skin, and rugged him back. “We’ll wait here,” she said to Mordi. Then she looked at Hieronymous. “Go on. Help them.”
His face hardened as he stared at his son. She couldn’t blame him. Mordi wasn’t giving an inch.
“The sooner you rescue the kitten, the sooner we can move on to bigger things,” she said.
He blinked, his face clearing as he smiled at her, white teeth shining brilliantly. “Of course, my dear. You’ll be watching from here?”
“Right.”
Hieronymous drew in a breath and pulled his cloak tight around him, stepped up onto the ledge, and readied himself to jump off into nothingness. Izzy lurched forward and grabbed his hem, tugging him back before anyone down below looked up and thought they were witnessing a suicide.
He whipped around to face her, irritation flashing in his eyes. And why not? She was interrupting him once again. “You, uh, know the rules, right?” she said.
He peered over the edge, then looked back at her. “The elevator?”
“ ‘Fraid so. Regulation 876(B)(2)(a) is quite clear--Protector powers are to be revealed to mortals only as a last resort. Minimal powers, Mr. Black. Please keep that in mind.”
“Of course,” he said, then moved back inside, presumably toward the elevator.
“ ‘Of course,’ ” Mordi mimicked, his tone undeniably smarmy.
Izzy ignored him, moving toward the railing and peering over, waiting for Hieronymous to appear below.
“You can’t possibly believe he’s serious,” Mordi finally said.
She sighed. “Can we stop beating a dead Gorgon?” She turned away and concentrated on the street below, waiting for Hieronymous to emerge. Where was he?
Mordi moved up beside her, his own binocs in hand. “I’m sorry.”
She turned just enough to add him to her field of vision, but didn’t say anything.
He exhaled noisily. “For the love of Zeus, at least do me the courtesy of talking to me. I’m your assistant in this, after all.”
She still didn’t face him, but she did answer. “An assistant, by definition, assists.”
He backed up against the railing, forcing himself to remain in the periphery of her vision. “You know, I may not have your empathic powers, but I’m still picking up on a little hostility here.”
“It’s not coming from me,” she said, turning to face him.
He had the good grace to at least look a little sheepish. “I don’t believe my father is interested in doing good.”
“I picked up on that,” she said. “But I do believe it. I looked.”
She spoke the words firmly, and he stared at her for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, full of suspicion.
“It’s against regulations to poke around in someone’s head without a mind warrant,” he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not against regulations if they’re applying for re-assimilation.”
His eyes burned like emerald fire, and she could see the steel inside him as he examined her. That same steel drove him now to hunt traitors, and it had helped him survive a life with the evil Hieronymous. “And?”
“I saw.” She didn’t bother telling him that Hieronymous had made her look before she’d wanted to. “I saw that he wants to do good.”
“You saw wrong.”
She stiffened. “I told you. I never see wrongly.”
He turned away from her, peering out toward the park. “This time you did.”
She bit back a rude retort, choosing instead to focus not on Mordi’s words, but on him—on what she’d seen the other night, and on what she felt now. Deep hunger. Need. Loneliness. And a keen desire to be loved, to be needed.
The swell of his emotions crested over her, so powerful that she had to stifle the urge to put her arms around him, to be the one who gave him the comfort he craved. Fearing her own reaction, she moved away, letting the distance between them grow until the pressure on her chest lifted and she could breathe normally again without getting lost in the scent of his thoughts.
“There’s a lot of bad blood between you and your father,” she finally said. “Maybe it’s coloring your perception. Blinding you.”
At first, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he turned to her, his face hard. “There’s more bad blood than you know. But believe me, it’s not coloring anything. Not unfairly, at least. I know him better than you can ever hope to. The man has no interest in being on the Council. Not to help people. He’s trying to further some scheme.”
She didn’t need to touch him to know that he truly believed his words, and she fought a stab of pity for this man who’d grown up with only a shadow of a father. Her own had been the center of her world. If it had been different, though... if he’d failed her at every turn, could she suddenly believe in him now?
She had an inkling of what Mordi was feeling, and without thought she reached out for him, wanting to touch him, to feel the anger that cut through him and to discover if it was tempered with love... or only hate.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
She drew her hand back as if burned. “Sorry.”
“I’m telling you how I feel. What I know. And what I know is, Hieronymous Black doesn’t have a good bone in his body. He’s evil. Manipulative. He wants something, and I’m going to figure out what.”
She nodded, accepting the gauntlet that he was throwing down. “You’re right,” she said. “He does want something. He wants back on the Council. He wants to make amends. And he’s going to pass the tests.” She shrugged, wanting to reach some sort of truce with Mordi, the idea that there was a rift between them bothering her more than it should. How could his good opinion mean so much to her already? “Besides, what I think doesn’t really matter. I only make a recommendation. He might ace all the tests, and the Inner Circle can still refuse him re-assimilation.”
She could see Mordi’s mouth twist, but was spared his retort by the appearance of Hieronymous on the street below. She was certain he’d pass this test—after all, how much easier could it get?
Even so, she held her breath—and that one little bit of doubt ate at her gut. Because, if there was room for doubt, then there was also room for error. Her error. Her power’s error.
And oh, sweet Hera, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.

Chapter Fourteen

“This?” Hieronymous’s voice rose in incredulity, one hand indicating the tree several stories below him and the kitten trapped in its upper branches. “This is how you intend to examine my goodwill and veracity?”
Izzy shrugged, forcing her expression to remain stern and serious. “For starters,” she said. In truth, it was a rather odd assignment for a superhero, but with the likes of Hieronymous, she thought it best that they start small.
So here they were: she, Mordi, and Hieronymous, standing on the balcony of his penthouse apartment, looking down at Fifth Avenue and the park across the wide street, where a tiny kitten was trapped in a treetop.
She wished she could convince Mordi of his father’s sincerity. At the moment, Mordi was standing off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world like this was one big waste of time. They hadn’t talked much about it since the other night, and she’d been glad. There’d grown an easy comfortableness between them, a feeling in the air that was decidedly absent now, and she was grateful to have shared a few hours without doubt and disbelief hanging between them.
She didn’t begrudge Mordi his doubts, of course. Frankly, had she not felt the change in Hieronymous herself, she never would have believed it. But she had felt it, and she’d never once failed where her powers were concerned. She just wished (foolish, really, since she hardly knew the man) that Mordi would trust her, even if he didn’t trust his father.
From the way he was shooting vile glances toward Hieronymous, she really didn’t think that would happen.
The ex-Outcast in question was still at the balcony, his back to them, a pair of binocs in his hand as he peered down toward the street.
“A kitten?” he said once again, his voice still reflecting his bafflement. “I’m to rescue a pet?”
“Well, yes.” Isole cleared her throat. “We’re starting small. Regulations require me to present a series of tests of increasing difficulty. Considering who you are, I think it’s best that we follow protocol to the letter. I certainly don’t want someone later raising a question as to whether you received special treatment. Do you?”
His face darkened, and she recoiled. But then the shadow passed and he drew in a breath. “You’re right, of course, my dear. I guess I’m simply anxious to get to the meat of it. I’ve been so long without helping mortals, my fingers are itching to jump into the fray. To do some real good.”
Mordi had been standing beside her through all of this, a permanent scowl darkening what she’d come to regard—from a purely empirical standpoint of course—as a perfectly handsome face. He had an air of sophistication, even despite his anger. The veneer cracked, however, as he faked a cough, the sound half disguising a bitter curse, “Bullshit.”
She glared at him and turned back to Hieronymous. “You are helping mortals. That little girl who owns the cat is devastated.”
“Of course,” Hieronymous said. “Of course. I only meant—”
“This is absurd,” Mordi cut in. “You’re not interested in helping mortals, you’re—”
“Son.” Hieronymous’s tone was sharp, cutting, and Izzy straightened in surprise. Mordi, she noticed, had also drawn himself up. But his stance didn’t seem surprised. No, he seemed ready for battle.
Need and hatred and disappointment and love meshed together in the air between father and son, like a dense tapestry, so interwoven that Izzy couldn’t tell whose thoughts were whose, and she felt a wash of sadness for both of them.
She took Mordi’s arm, careful to touch his shirt and not skin, and rugged him back. “We’ll wait here,” she said to Mordi. Then she looked at Hieronymous. “Go on. Help them.”
His face hardened as he stared at his son. She couldn’t blame him. Mordi wasn’t giving an inch.
“The sooner you rescue the kitten, the sooner we can move on to bigger things,” she said.
He blinked, his face clearing as he smiled at her, white teeth shining brilliantly. “Of course, my dear. You’ll be watching from here?”
“Right.”
Hieronymous drew in a breath and pulled his cloak tight around him, stepped up onto the ledge, and readied himself to jump off into nothingness. Izzy lurched forward and grabbed his hem, tugging him back before anyone down below looked up and thought they were witnessing a suicide.
He whipped around to face her, irritation flashing in his eyes. And why not? She was interrupting him once again. “You, uh, know the rules, right?” she said.
He peered over the edge, then looked back at her. “The elevator?”
“ ‘Fraid so. Regulation 876(B)(2)(a) is quite clear--Protector powers are to be revealed to mortals only as a last resort. Minimal powers, Mr. Black. Please keep that in mind.”
“Of course,” he said, then moved back inside, presumably toward the elevator.
“ ‘Of course,’ ” Mordi mimicked, his tone undeniably smarmy.
Izzy ignored him, moving toward the railing and peering over, waiting for Hieronymous to appear below.
“You can’t possibly believe he’s serious,” Mordi finally said.
She sighed. “Can we stop beating a dead Gorgon?” She turned away and concentrated on the street below, waiting for Hieronymous to emerge. Where was he?
Mordi moved up beside her, his own binocs in hand. “I’m sorry.”
She turned just enough to add him to her field of vision, but didn’t say anything.
He exhaled noisily. “For the love of Zeus, at least do me the courtesy of talking to me. I’m your assistant in this, after all.”
She still didn’t face him, but she did answer. “An assistant, by definition, assists.”
He backed up against the railing, forcing himself to remain in the periphery of her vision. “You know, I may not have your empathic powers, but I’m still picking up on a little hostility here.”
“It’s not coming from me,” she said, turning to face him.
He had the good grace to at least look a little sheepish. “I don’t believe my father is interested in doing good.”
“I picked up on that,” she said. “But I do believe it. I looked.”
She spoke the words firmly, and he stared at her for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, full of suspicion.
“It’s against regulations to poke around in someone’s head without a mind warrant,” he said.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not against regulations if they’re applying for re-assimilation.”
His eyes burned like emerald fire, and she could see the steel inside him as he examined her. That same steel drove him now to hunt traitors, and it had helped him survive a life with the evil Hieronymous. “And?”
“I saw.” She didn’t bother telling him that Hieronymous had made her look before she’d wanted to. “I saw that he wants to do good.”
“You saw wrong.”
She stiffened. “I told you. I never see wrongly.”
He turned away from her, peering out toward the park. “This time you did.”
She bit back a rude retort, choosing instead to focus not on Mordi’s words, but on him—on what she’d seen the other night, and on what she felt now. Deep hunger. Need. Loneliness. And a keen desire to be loved, to be needed.
The swell of his emotions crested over her, so powerful that she had to stifle the urge to put her arms around him, to be the one who gave him the comfort he craved. Fearing her own reaction, she moved away, letting the distance between them grow until the pressure on her chest lifted and she could breathe normally again without getting lost in the scent of his thoughts.
“There’s a lot of bad blood between you and your father,” she finally said. “Maybe it’s coloring your perception. Blinding you.”
At first, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he turned to her, his face hard. “There’s more bad blood than you know. But believe me, it’s not coloring anything. Not unfairly, at least. I know him better than you can ever hope to. The man has no interest in being on the Council. Not to help people. He’s trying to further some scheme.”
She didn’t need to touch him to know that he truly believed his words, and she fought a stab of pity for this man who’d grown up with only a shadow of a father. Her own had been the center of her world. If it had been different, though... if he’d failed her at every turn, could she suddenly believe in him now?
She had an inkling of what Mordi was feeling, and without thought she reached out for him, wanting to touch him, to feel the anger that cut through him and to discover if it was tempered with love... or only hate.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said.
She drew her hand back as if burned. “Sorry.”
“I’m telling you how I feel. What I know. And what I know is, Hieronymous Black doesn’t have a good bone in his body. He’s evil. Manipulative. He wants something, and I’m going to figure out what.”
She nodded, accepting the gauntlet that he was throwing down. “You’re right,” she said. “He does want something. He wants back on the Council. He wants to make amends. And he’s going to pass the tests.” She shrugged, wanting to reach some sort of truce with Mordi, the idea that there was a rift between them bothering her more than it should. How could his good opinion mean so much to her already? “Besides, what I think doesn’t really matter. I only make a recommendation. He might ace all the tests, and the Inner Circle can still refuse him re-assimilation.”
She could see Mordi’s mouth twist, but was spared his retort by the appearance of Hieronymous on the street below. She was certain he’d pass this test—after all, how much easier could it get?
Even so, she held her breath—and that one little bit of doubt ate at her gut. Because, if there was room for doubt, then there was also room for error. Her error. Her power’s error.
And oh, sweet Hera, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.