"Aphrodite's_Flame_019" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Sixteen

Hera’s handbags! His father had actually saved the kitten.
If Mordi hadn’t watched the spectacle with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. But he had seen and Hieronymous had saved, and Mordi wished he’d had a digital image-recording device. This he’d love to share with Jason.
Behind him, Hieronymous burst through the door and onto the balcony. “Fabulous!” Hieronymous raved. “I feel twenty pounds lighter. As if I’m walking on air. As if I’ve just eaten ambrosia and—”
“Cut the clichés, already.” Mordi cast both his father and Izzy a dark look. “I mean, at least be original.”
Hieronymous’s smile evaporated. It slowly returned, but this tune the effect was slightly sinister, and Mordi had a feeling the smile was meant only for him.
“Heartwarming,” the man said, his voice flat. “So sorry if that seems cliché to you, son, but it is the truth.”
“Who am I to argue with my father?”
A pained look crossed Hieronymous’s eyes. “I had hoped ... well, let’s just say that I had hoped that my new outlook would bring us closer. I would like to rebuild bridges. Son.”
His father’s words cut through Mordi like a knife. He was saying all the things Mordi wanted to hear, but Mordi didn’t believe a word. He couldn’t. Even so, he took a step forward, his body seeming to move of its own accord. What was it they said—hope springs eternal?
He caught sight of Izzy looking about ready to melt from the sappy sweetness of it all, and Mordi stopped cold. It was sappy. It was also scripted. Hieronymous didn’t want Mordi in his life. Not unless he could be used. And a Halfling son? Hieronymous didn’t want one. He never had.
Mordi took a deep breath. “Any bridges between us burnt down for good a long time ago. I’m sorry, Dad. I just don’t believe you.”
A familiar fury appeared in Hieronymous’s eyes, but it was already cooling by the time he turned toward Izzy. “He doesn’t understand. I feel as though the world has opened up to me. As if I’ve stepped over a precipice and into a different place.” He sighed, the sound long and drawn out. “A better place, I think.”
Mordi watched as Izzy—supposedly a trained professional with empathic powers—bought into his father’s routine. Had Hieronymous truly convinced her? Or maybe he’d invented something that made her see things Hieronymous’s way? Mordi ruled that possibility out, though. In the past, Hieronymous might have gotten away with it, but in the last year—as a result of past trouble with the man—the Council had implemented a power-usage tracking system. Now, when an Outcast engaged his unique power, the Council knew.
And nothing had blipped about Hieronymous. Which meant that either his father had truly convinced Izzy of his sincerity ... or she was working with him from the inside.
“You did excellent work,” Izzy was saying, her face schooled into a professional expression. She walked Hieronymous back toward the French doors that led into his penthouse.
She took a seat on the overstuffed loveseat, and Hieronymous sat across from her in the only chair. Mordi stood, debating whether or not to sit, when sitting would involve a certain proximity to one Izzy Frost, a woman who definitely got under his skin. Lust, suspicion, and a billion other emotions swarmed through him whenever he was around her.
He remained standing. It seemed easier. And safer.
“Now, then,” she said to Hieronymous, all but ignoring Mordi as she hauled a leather case onto her lap. “It’s time for some of the more mundane aspects of the re-assimilation process.” She opened her case, rummaging through as she continued to talk. “This really is a mindless exercise,” she said, “so please don’t be nervous.”
“My dear,” Hieronymous said, “I have nothing to be nervous about. My intentions are completely pure.”
Mordi managed not to retch when his father dumped that load of B.S., but when Izzy pulled out a series of sturdy white cards with black inkblot images on them, Mordi knew the time had come. He moved nearer, all his attention focused on her, intentionally not looking at his father. “In case you forgot to read his file,” Mordi began, forcing his voice to remain steady, “my father happens to have an intellect that’s off the charts. I think you can safely assume he’s more than capable of faking his way through a Rorschach test.”
His tone was haughty, his manner both superior and condescending. And yet the woman didn’t even blink. For that, at least, Mordi had to give her a few points.
“I’ll make a note of it,” she said, then scowled at him as she tapped the cards on the coffee table, aligning their edges. After a moment, she looked back up, her eyes widening as if she were surprised to find him still standing there. “Was there something else?”
“Plenty,” he said. “But we’ll discuss it tonight.” He held his breath, afraid that she was going to back out of their date. Instead, she just met his eyes and nodded.
Mordi turned just enough to bring his father into his line of sight. His sire’s brown irises burned like hot coals, and Mordi thought he saw a familiar emotion burning deep in those soulless eyes—disappointment.
He swallowed, then forced himself to walk out of the room. Just one foot, then another, in some ridiculous parody of normalcy. But nothing was normal, could never be normal. Once again, Mordi had disappointed his father. And though he knew that he shouldn’t care, damn it all to Hades, he did.
And that was why he walked straight out of the penthouse and didn’t once look back.

Chapter Sixteen

Hera’s handbags! His father had actually saved the kitten.
If Mordi hadn’t watched the spectacle with his own eyes, he never would have believed it. But he had seen and Hieronymous had saved, and Mordi wished he’d had a digital image-recording device. This he’d love to share with Jason.
Behind him, Hieronymous burst through the door and onto the balcony. “Fabulous!” Hieronymous raved. “I feel twenty pounds lighter. As if I’m walking on air. As if I’ve just eaten ambrosia and—”
“Cut the clichés, already.” Mordi cast both his father and Izzy a dark look. “I mean, at least be original.”
Hieronymous’s smile evaporated. It slowly returned, but this tune the effect was slightly sinister, and Mordi had a feeling the smile was meant only for him.
“Heartwarming,” the man said, his voice flat. “So sorry if that seems cliché to you, son, but it is the truth.”
“Who am I to argue with my father?”
A pained look crossed Hieronymous’s eyes. “I had hoped ... well, let’s just say that I had hoped that my new outlook would bring us closer. I would like to rebuild bridges. Son.”
His father’s words cut through Mordi like a knife. He was saying all the things Mordi wanted to hear, but Mordi didn’t believe a word. He couldn’t. Even so, he took a step forward, his body seeming to move of its own accord. What was it they said—hope springs eternal?
He caught sight of Izzy looking about ready to melt from the sappy sweetness of it all, and Mordi stopped cold. It was sappy. It was also scripted. Hieronymous didn’t want Mordi in his life. Not unless he could be used. And a Halfling son? Hieronymous didn’t want one. He never had.
Mordi took a deep breath. “Any bridges between us burnt down for good a long time ago. I’m sorry, Dad. I just don’t believe you.”
A familiar fury appeared in Hieronymous’s eyes, but it was already cooling by the time he turned toward Izzy. “He doesn’t understand. I feel as though the world has opened up to me. As if I’ve stepped over a precipice and into a different place.” He sighed, the sound long and drawn out. “A better place, I think.”
Mordi watched as Izzy—supposedly a trained professional with empathic powers—bought into his father’s routine. Had Hieronymous truly convinced her? Or maybe he’d invented something that made her see things Hieronymous’s way? Mordi ruled that possibility out, though. In the past, Hieronymous might have gotten away with it, but in the last year—as a result of past trouble with the man—the Council had implemented a power-usage tracking system. Now, when an Outcast engaged his unique power, the Council knew.
And nothing had blipped about Hieronymous. Which meant that either his father had truly convinced Izzy of his sincerity ... or she was working with him from the inside.
“You did excellent work,” Izzy was saying, her face schooled into a professional expression. She walked Hieronymous back toward the French doors that led into his penthouse.
She took a seat on the overstuffed loveseat, and Hieronymous sat across from her in the only chair. Mordi stood, debating whether or not to sit, when sitting would involve a certain proximity to one Izzy Frost, a woman who definitely got under his skin. Lust, suspicion, and a billion other emotions swarmed through him whenever he was around her.
He remained standing. It seemed easier. And safer.
“Now, then,” she said to Hieronymous, all but ignoring Mordi as she hauled a leather case onto her lap. “It’s time for some of the more mundane aspects of the re-assimilation process.” She opened her case, rummaging through as she continued to talk. “This really is a mindless exercise,” she said, “so please don’t be nervous.”
“My dear,” Hieronymous said, “I have nothing to be nervous about. My intentions are completely pure.”
Mordi managed not to retch when his father dumped that load of B.S., but when Izzy pulled out a series of sturdy white cards with black inkblot images on them, Mordi knew the time had come. He moved nearer, all his attention focused on her, intentionally not looking at his father. “In case you forgot to read his file,” Mordi began, forcing his voice to remain steady, “my father happens to have an intellect that’s off the charts. I think you can safely assume he’s more than capable of faking his way through a Rorschach test.”
His tone was haughty, his manner both superior and condescending. And yet the woman didn’t even blink. For that, at least, Mordi had to give her a few points.
“I’ll make a note of it,” she said, then scowled at him as she tapped the cards on the coffee table, aligning their edges. After a moment, she looked back up, her eyes widening as if she were surprised to find him still standing there. “Was there something else?”
“Plenty,” he said. “But we’ll discuss it tonight.” He held his breath, afraid that she was going to back out of their date. Instead, she just met his eyes and nodded.
Mordi turned just enough to bring his father into his line of sight. His sire’s brown irises burned like hot coals, and Mordi thought he saw a familiar emotion burning deep in those soulless eyes—disappointment.
He swallowed, then forced himself to walk out of the room. Just one foot, then another, in some ridiculous parody of normalcy. But nothing was normal, could never be normal. Once again, Mordi had disappointed his father. And though he knew that he shouldn’t care, damn it all to Hades, he did.
And that was why he walked straight out of the penthouse and didn’t once look back.