"Aphrodite's_Flame_023" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Twenty

Izzy sat in the front row of the ballroom at the Montcraig Hotel in midtown Manhattan, her arm hooked through Mordi’s, only their sleeves touching, as she clutched the program for the seventh annual Thomas Edison Award Ceremony. Her father was up on that stage, Mordi was beside her—staying blissfully silent about his doubts regarding his father—and Izzy was in heaven.
The chairman finished introducing Harold, and everyone clapped. Then her father moved behind the podium, and Izzy lost herself in his speech, sharing his moment in the sun.
“... but most of all, I must give credit where credit is due,” Harold said. He fumbled at the podium, papers spread out before him, then shoved his glasses more firmly up his nose. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been fortunate, recently. The last few years have been inspirational for me, most likely because I’ve had some income to inspire me.”
He paused for effect, then waggled his bushy eyebrows. The crowd laughed, just as they were supposed to, and Izzy smiled so hard her face hurt.
Mordi leaned toward her. “He’s a good speaker.”
She nodded. Her father’s natural nervousness was fading as he basked in the glory of finally realizing a lifelong dream.
“Not just financial inspiration, though,” he continued. “I need to thank my daughter for her support and her love—”
Izzy beamed, ducking her head slightly as the applause swelled. Beside her, Mordi also clapped, but when she turned to look at him, she saw that he was scanning the sea of faces nearby.
“What is it?” she whispered.
A shadow crossed his face, and she inhaled the earthy scent of guilt.
She frowned, confused. “Mordi?”
“Nothing. I just thought I saw ... nothing.”
She wanted to press him, but her father’s words caught her attention, and she was consumed by a little guilt of her own.
“I also need to thank those behind-the-scenes folks who help in so many ways. In ways both bankable and inspirational.” He leaned forward toward the microphone and cast his gaze over the crowded room. “You know who you are, but let’s just say that an enthusiastic silent partner can be good for the soul.”
Again, the crowd tittered. Izzy’s father’s nose turned slightly red, and Izzy felt a little ill. Reflexively, she tugged at her arm, wanting to extricate herself from Mordi, this man who could so easily destroy her career. He turned to her and smiled. She stayed put, feeling a little weak. In truth, however, she liked being close to him.
Her father plowed on, finishing his speech with a finesse she would never have expected. Certainly, he never could have performed this well before.
Before.
Sweet Hera, did her father really owe this new confidence to Hieronymous? He did. And that, even more than what she’d seen of Hieronymous’s soul, convinced her that the Outcast was sincere. Why else would the super villain help a man like her father?
She tilted her head, watching her father on the podium. So happy. So alive.
Her whole life, she would have given anything to see his face light up like that. She wanted everything good for her father, for this man who’d raised her and loved her, who’d joked with her and kept her secrets. Without a mother, it had been her father who’d gone with her to buy her first bra—though before setting foot in the store he had offered to simply invent one for her. And he’d been there when the very first boy she’d had a crush on ignored her, studiously managing to avoid any recognition whatsoever that Izzy existed.
He’d spent a lot of time in his lab, sure. But when she’d needed him, her father had been there. Always, and without fail.
Her father paused again in his speech, and she applauded enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, if the sidelong looks from her neighbors were any indication. Mordi, however, only looked amused, and his amusement encouraged her. She threw a grin in the dissenters’ direction, then let out a wolf whistle for her father. After all, she wanted him to know she was out here.
And even though Mordi applauded wildly as well— going so far as to toss in a whistle of his own—when Izzy leaned back in her seat, her satisfaction was tainted with regret. Not for her. For Mordichai.
What must it have been like, she wondered, growing up as the son of Hieronymous Black?
Not pleasant. Of that much, she was certain. Hieronymous might be determined to re-assimilate—and his desire might even be sincere—but Izzy didn’t doubt for a second that what everyone said about his notorious past was one-hundred-percent true. Even now, he wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.
She frowned, pondering the current Re-Assimilation Act and her place in it. Some Outcasts could be brought back in, sure. But was Hieronymous really the kind they wanted? Could he ever really be an asset to the Council?
She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts.
“Anything wrong?”
Mordi’s voice, low and intense, startled her, and her heart began to race.
“No. Nothing. Just thinking. About Dad. And... stuff.”
“Stuff,” he repeated, but while she’d expected him to sound amused, he looked deadly serious.
She stilled, sure he was on to her. That he’d heard her father’s reference to a silent partner and put two and two together. Oh, sweet Hera, what was she supposed to do now?
“What kind of stuff?” he pressed.
“You know. Stuff.” She shrugged, determined not to give anything away.
He didn’t appear thrilled by her oh-so-eloquent answer. She decided to elaborate. “Daddy and his inventions and how he used to torment me with all his gizmos and stuff. Just memories.”
His eyes narrowed, and her stomach twisted, but she held his gaze dead-on. She sniffed a little, then wished she hadn’t. The scent of suspicion was heavy in the air between them, and she realized just what a huge fool she’d been to let Mordichai Black into her apartment last night.
She’d been an even bigger fool to let him into her life.
She lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to watch my dad.” She turned back toward the stage and watched with rapt attention as the ceremony finished up.
Her father had switched to a PowerPoint presentation, and was taking the audience through the ins and outs of the Polarity Reversal Prototype, the pocket-sized machine that had landed him this award, and that Izzy absolutely did not understand. Mordi shifted beside her, then pulled his arm free of hers. She stifled a little gasp, fighting an unreasonable sense of loss. She knew she shouldn’t, but she turned to him. His features were still hard, but the familiar softness was returning, and she relaxed a little.
“I need to run to the lobby. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, and as soon as he slipped down the row and up the aisle toward the lobby door, her face relaxed, and she realized she’d been clenching her jaw. She wanted him back—wanted his arm on hers—but at the moment, she was absurdly glad that he was gone. Her thoughts were too much in a ramble, and even though she knew intellectually that he couldn’t pick up on what she was thinking, emotionally she wanted to hide.
She didn’t want him to see the truth. Didn’t want him to know that she wanted Hieronymous far away from the Council even as much as she wanted him back in, a full-fledged, card-carrying Protector. And none of those desires had to do with the Outcast’s intentions or beliefs or motives. Instead, she wanted him on the Council because once he was there, her father would be safe.
With a slow sigh, her thoughts drifted to Mordi. He would hate that—
Mordichai!
Suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of him, her senses overwhelmed by his essence. Her heart thrummed in her chest and she sat up sharply, confused and terrified. She was sensing something that was entirely removed from how she felt about Mordi or how she feared he might discover her deception. It was simply about the man himself.
Danger... harm ... deception.
The thoughts surrounded her, the bitter smell of animosity, and she twisted in her seat, trying to find their source. Who? Who wanted to harm Mordichai? She had to find his attacker ... had to warn him.
She couldn’t bear the thought that harm might come to him. And that realization scared her as much as the knowledge that she might already be too late.

Chapter Twenty

Izzy sat in the front row of the ballroom at the Montcraig Hotel in midtown Manhattan, her arm hooked through Mordi’s, only their sleeves touching, as she clutched the program for the seventh annual Thomas Edison Award Ceremony. Her father was up on that stage, Mordi was beside her—staying blissfully silent about his doubts regarding his father—and Izzy was in heaven.
The chairman finished introducing Harold, and everyone clapped. Then her father moved behind the podium, and Izzy lost herself in his speech, sharing his moment in the sun.
“... but most of all, I must give credit where credit is due,” Harold said. He fumbled at the podium, papers spread out before him, then shoved his glasses more firmly up his nose. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been fortunate, recently. The last few years have been inspirational for me, most likely because I’ve had some income to inspire me.”
He paused for effect, then waggled his bushy eyebrows. The crowd laughed, just as they were supposed to, and Izzy smiled so hard her face hurt.
Mordi leaned toward her. “He’s a good speaker.”
She nodded. Her father’s natural nervousness was fading as he basked in the glory of finally realizing a lifelong dream.
“Not just financial inspiration, though,” he continued. “I need to thank my daughter for her support and her love—”
Izzy beamed, ducking her head slightly as the applause swelled. Beside her, Mordi also clapped, but when she turned to look at him, she saw that he was scanning the sea of faces nearby.
“What is it?” she whispered.
A shadow crossed his face, and she inhaled the earthy scent of guilt.
She frowned, confused. “Mordi?”
“Nothing. I just thought I saw ... nothing.”
She wanted to press him, but her father’s words caught her attention, and she was consumed by a little guilt of her own.
“I also need to thank those behind-the-scenes folks who help in so many ways. In ways both bankable and inspirational.” He leaned forward toward the microphone and cast his gaze over the crowded room. “You know who you are, but let’s just say that an enthusiastic silent partner can be good for the soul.”
Again, the crowd tittered. Izzy’s father’s nose turned slightly red, and Izzy felt a little ill. Reflexively, she tugged at her arm, wanting to extricate herself from Mordi, this man who could so easily destroy her career. He turned to her and smiled. She stayed put, feeling a little weak. In truth, however, she liked being close to him.
Her father plowed on, finishing his speech with a finesse she would never have expected. Certainly, he never could have performed this well before.
Before.
Sweet Hera, did her father really owe this new confidence to Hieronymous? He did. And that, even more than what she’d seen of Hieronymous’s soul, convinced her that the Outcast was sincere. Why else would the super villain help a man like her father?
She tilted her head, watching her father on the podium. So happy. So alive.
Her whole life, she would have given anything to see his face light up like that. She wanted everything good for her father, for this man who’d raised her and loved her, who’d joked with her and kept her secrets. Without a mother, it had been her father who’d gone with her to buy her first bra—though before setting foot in the store he had offered to simply invent one for her. And he’d been there when the very first boy she’d had a crush on ignored her, studiously managing to avoid any recognition whatsoever that Izzy existed.
He’d spent a lot of time in his lab, sure. But when she’d needed him, her father had been there. Always, and without fail.
Her father paused again in his speech, and she applauded enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastically, if the sidelong looks from her neighbors were any indication. Mordi, however, only looked amused, and his amusement encouraged her. She threw a grin in the dissenters’ direction, then let out a wolf whistle for her father. After all, she wanted him to know she was out here.
And even though Mordi applauded wildly as well— going so far as to toss in a whistle of his own—when Izzy leaned back in her seat, her satisfaction was tainted with regret. Not for her. For Mordichai.
What must it have been like, she wondered, growing up as the son of Hieronymous Black?
Not pleasant. Of that much, she was certain. Hieronymous might be determined to re-assimilate—and his desire might even be sincere—but Izzy didn’t doubt for a second that what everyone said about his notorious past was one-hundred-percent true. Even now, he wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of guy.
She frowned, pondering the current Re-Assimilation Act and her place in it. Some Outcasts could be brought back in, sure. But was Hieronymous really the kind they wanted? Could he ever really be an asset to the Council?
She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts.
“Anything wrong?”
Mordi’s voice, low and intense, startled her, and her heart began to race.
“No. Nothing. Just thinking. About Dad. And... stuff.”
“Stuff,” he repeated, but while she’d expected him to sound amused, he looked deadly serious.
She stilled, sure he was on to her. That he’d heard her father’s reference to a silent partner and put two and two together. Oh, sweet Hera, what was she supposed to do now?
“What kind of stuff?” he pressed.
“You know. Stuff.” She shrugged, determined not to give anything away.
He didn’t appear thrilled by her oh-so-eloquent answer. She decided to elaborate. “Daddy and his inventions and how he used to torment me with all his gizmos and stuff. Just memories.”
His eyes narrowed, and her stomach twisted, but she held his gaze dead-on. She sniffed a little, then wished she hadn’t. The scent of suspicion was heavy in the air between them, and she realized just what a huge fool she’d been to let Mordichai Black into her apartment last night.
She’d been an even bigger fool to let him into her life.
She lifted her chin. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to watch my dad.” She turned back toward the stage and watched with rapt attention as the ceremony finished up.
Her father had switched to a PowerPoint presentation, and was taking the audience through the ins and outs of the Polarity Reversal Prototype, the pocket-sized machine that had landed him this award, and that Izzy absolutely did not understand. Mordi shifted beside her, then pulled his arm free of hers. She stifled a little gasp, fighting an unreasonable sense of loss. She knew she shouldn’t, but she turned to him. His features were still hard, but the familiar softness was returning, and she relaxed a little.
“I need to run to the lobby. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, and as soon as he slipped down the row and up the aisle toward the lobby door, her face relaxed, and she realized she’d been clenching her jaw. She wanted him back—wanted his arm on hers—but at the moment, she was absurdly glad that he was gone. Her thoughts were too much in a ramble, and even though she knew intellectually that he couldn’t pick up on what she was thinking, emotionally she wanted to hide.
She didn’t want him to see the truth. Didn’t want him to know that she wanted Hieronymous far away from the Council even as much as she wanted him back in, a full-fledged, card-carrying Protector. And none of those desires had to do with the Outcast’s intentions or beliefs or motives. Instead, she wanted him on the Council because once he was there, her father would be safe.
With a slow sigh, her thoughts drifted to Mordi. He would hate that—
Mordichai!
Suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of him, her senses overwhelmed by his essence. Her heart thrummed in her chest and she sat up sharply, confused and terrified. She was sensing something that was entirely removed from how she felt about Mordi or how she feared he might discover her deception. It was simply about the man himself.
Danger... harm ... deception.
The thoughts surrounded her, the bitter smell of animosity, and she twisted in her seat, trying to find their source. Who? Who wanted to harm Mordichai? She had to find his attacker ... had to warn him.
She couldn’t bear the thought that harm might come to him. And that realization scared her as much as the knowledge that she might already be too late.