"Aphrodite's_Flame_039" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Thirty-six

“Mr. Black! Welcome, welcome!” Harold Frost’s round face flushed with happiness, and Hieronymous beamed, enjoying his current role of savior and inspiration. Soon, that would be all but erased, the joy in Frost’s eyes replaced by fear. Fear and awe. Just as it should be. As all mortals should feel toward those of Hieronymous’s superior breed.
He clenched his fist at his side, forcing his thoughts back on track. He already knew what he had to do. Now was not the time to justify—in his mind, or aloud—to someone as low and insignificant as Harold Frost.
Hieronymous’s gaze swept over the workbench, and he moved forward, his black cape swishing behind him. Or perhaps not so insignificant after all.
“You are finished, then?” he asked. “The second batch is complete? All is in working order?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The man’s expression shifted, and his gaze drifted to the floor.
“You wish to say something?” Hieronymous asked, graciously allowing his minion to speak.
“I, well... yes.” The little man pushed on the bridge of his glasses, shoving them more firmly into place, Hieronymous pulled himself up to his full height, looking down at the man from an eighteen-inch vantage point. Intimidating, no doubt. The little man swallowed, bucking up and continuing. “I, uh, just wanted to say thanks. Yes. Thanks. I, um, recently was honored with an inventors award, and if it weren’t for your inspiration and financial backing—”
“And helping you with the trickier bits,” Hieronymous put in.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Frost contemplated his feet. “I owe you much.”
“Indeed you do,” Hieronymous said. He softened the words with a smile. “Of course, your success has been my pleasure.” He crossed to the workbench and picked up one of eight purple fountain pens. He unscrewed the inkwell portion and peered inside at the tiny mechanism, then smiled. “It has been a joy to watch you so deftly bring my ideas to life.” Each pen was designed to write the thoughts of its holder. Hieronymous had engineered the implements, however, to be easily manipulated. Instead of simply taking thoughts, the pens emitted them—capturing a Protector’s brain waves and switching his thoughts and beliefs to whatever Hieronymous deemed appropriate.
Unfortunately, the device didn’t work on some Protectors. Himself, of course. And also that gargoyle Zephron—or, for that matter, anyone in his line.
“Might I... I mean, could I ask a question?”
Hieronymous inclined his head, silently granting permission.
“You have such a knack, such obvious skill. And yet you’ve chosen to mentor me. Why?”
Why, indeed? Because he had no choice. Because the Inner Circle could discern if Hieronymous utilized his own skill. And because the punishment for an Outcast utilizing his skill was severe, and he could not directly challenge the Council’s power. Not yet.
No, that was a risk Hieronymous could not afford. Not now. Not when he’d finally conceived of a plan so brilliant, so foolproof, that it would ensure his ultimate rise to power... and the concurrent subjugation of the entire mortal race.
“Mr. Black?”
Hieronymous replaced the smile that had faded during his reverie. He waved a hand in an offhand gesture. “I wanted to help you,” he said, once again grateful that Harold Frost, though he had a Halfling daughter, was so utterly ignorant of the Protector world. “It benefited you, and it benefited me.” He picked up one of the pens and examined it in the light. “Exemplary work.”
“Thank you.” Frost cocked his head. “What do you intend to use them for?”
“Ah, Harold, you know I can’t tell you that.”
Frost nodded, then ran his fingers through his silver-white hair, causing it to stand on end. The little man vaguely resembled a rumpled porcupine. “Top secret. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’d only hoped to have some idea. I mean ...” He shook his head, trailing off.
“You mean that the device could be altered—so that it doesn’t channel the energy in one’s mind, but instead controls it.”
“Oh, no. I’d never thought of—what?.” His eyes widened as the import of Hieronymous’s words caught up with him.
Pathetic little mortal. Hieronymous had only to make the choice and the little man would be squashed like the pathetic little insect he was. But no. Not yet. There still was a use for Harold Frost.
Hieronymous sidled up to the mortal and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, stooping a bit to make the contact. “I need your help on another matter,” he said. “A matter involving your daughter.”
“Izzy?” Fear colored the man’s voice. “How do you know Izzy?”
“She and I are quite well acquainted, actually,” Hieronymous said. “And I intend for us to become more so.”
“I... I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Hieronymous said. “You, my dear Mr. Frost, are bait.” He held out his hand to grasp the startled mortal. “Shall we go?”

Chapter Thirty-six

“Mr. Black! Welcome, welcome!” Harold Frost’s round face flushed with happiness, and Hieronymous beamed, enjoying his current role of savior and inspiration. Soon, that would be all but erased, the joy in Frost’s eyes replaced by fear. Fear and awe. Just as it should be. As all mortals should feel toward those of Hieronymous’s superior breed.
He clenched his fist at his side, forcing his thoughts back on track. He already knew what he had to do. Now was not the time to justify—in his mind, or aloud—to someone as low and insignificant as Harold Frost.
Hieronymous’s gaze swept over the workbench, and he moved forward, his black cape swishing behind him. Or perhaps not so insignificant after all.
“You are finished, then?” he asked. “The second batch is complete? All is in working order?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The man’s expression shifted, and his gaze drifted to the floor.
“You wish to say something?” Hieronymous asked, graciously allowing his minion to speak.
“I, well... yes.” The little man pushed on the bridge of his glasses, shoving them more firmly into place, Hieronymous pulled himself up to his full height, looking down at the man from an eighteen-inch vantage point. Intimidating, no doubt. The little man swallowed, bucking up and continuing. “I, uh, just wanted to say thanks. Yes. Thanks. I, um, recently was honored with an inventors award, and if it weren’t for your inspiration and financial backing—”
“And helping you with the trickier bits,” Hieronymous put in.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Frost contemplated his feet. “I owe you much.”
“Indeed you do,” Hieronymous said. He softened the words with a smile. “Of course, your success has been my pleasure.” He crossed to the workbench and picked up one of eight purple fountain pens. He unscrewed the inkwell portion and peered inside at the tiny mechanism, then smiled. “It has been a joy to watch you so deftly bring my ideas to life.” Each pen was designed to write the thoughts of its holder. Hieronymous had engineered the implements, however, to be easily manipulated. Instead of simply taking thoughts, the pens emitted them—capturing a Protector’s brain waves and switching his thoughts and beliefs to whatever Hieronymous deemed appropriate.
Unfortunately, the device didn’t work on some Protectors. Himself, of course. And also that gargoyle Zephron—or, for that matter, anyone in his line.
“Might I... I mean, could I ask a question?”
Hieronymous inclined his head, silently granting permission.
“You have such a knack, such obvious skill. And yet you’ve chosen to mentor me. Why?”
Why, indeed? Because he had no choice. Because the Inner Circle could discern if Hieronymous utilized his own skill. And because the punishment for an Outcast utilizing his skill was severe, and he could not directly challenge the Council’s power. Not yet.
No, that was a risk Hieronymous could not afford. Not now. Not when he’d finally conceived of a plan so brilliant, so foolproof, that it would ensure his ultimate rise to power... and the concurrent subjugation of the entire mortal race.
“Mr. Black?”
Hieronymous replaced the smile that had faded during his reverie. He waved a hand in an offhand gesture. “I wanted to help you,” he said, once again grateful that Harold Frost, though he had a Halfling daughter, was so utterly ignorant of the Protector world. “It benefited you, and it benefited me.” He picked up one of the pens and examined it in the light. “Exemplary work.”
“Thank you.” Frost cocked his head. “What do you intend to use them for?”
“Ah, Harold, you know I can’t tell you that.”
Frost nodded, then ran his fingers through his silver-white hair, causing it to stand on end. The little man vaguely resembled a rumpled porcupine. “Top secret. Yes, of course. I’d forgotten. I’d only hoped to have some idea. I mean ...” He shook his head, trailing off.
“You mean that the device could be altered—so that it doesn’t channel the energy in one’s mind, but instead controls it.”
“Oh, no. I’d never thought of—what?.” His eyes widened as the import of Hieronymous’s words caught up with him.
Pathetic little mortal. Hieronymous had only to make the choice and the little man would be squashed like the pathetic little insect he was. But no. Not yet. There still was a use for Harold Frost.
Hieronymous sidled up to the mortal and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, stooping a bit to make the contact. “I need your help on another matter,” he said. “A matter involving your daughter.”
“Izzy?” Fear colored the man’s voice. “How do you know Izzy?”
“She and I are quite well acquainted, actually,” Hieronymous said. “And I intend for us to become more so.”
“I... I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Hieronymous said. “You, my dear Mr. Frost, are bait.” He held out his hand to grasp the startled mortal. “Shall we go?”