"Aphrodite's_Flame_045" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Forty-two

Camera flashes strobed around him, and Hieronymous turned slowly, not wanting to thwart any of the reporters’ attempts to achieve the perfect camera angle. Because they’d been visible during the rescue, he, Mordi, and Isole were now the subject of the news media’s collective feeding frenzy. The other Protectors— those who’d been able to vanish under the shield of an invisibility cloak—had already surreptitiously departed.
Now, though Hieronymous knew that the Council elders would prefer silence, the three of them had no choice but to answer questions. The MLO would step in later and clear up the mess.
In the meantime, Hieronymous intended to make the most of this media-op. He had arranged it, after all. He would be a fool to let it simply pass by.
“Mr. Black! Mr. Black!” A reporter cried out for his attention. “Witnesses say you were flying. The footage from the news helicopters confirms this. Can you explain it? How did you and your companions accomplish something Like that?”
Mordichai stepped forward. “I don’t think—”
Hieronymous put an arm out, intercepting his son at chest level. “What my son means, Mr....”
“Branson,” the reporter said. “Roger Branson, Channel Two.”
“Mr. Branson,” Hieronymous acknowledged. “As my son was about to explain, that information is on a need-to-know basis only. If I were you, I’d simply be thankful that such technology does exist, and that it was able to come to the aid of those poor children. They, not me or my companions, should be the subject of your cameras.”
He flashed what he hoped seemed a genuine smile. He was a little out of practice, but he thought he managed okay. Branson looked suitably chastised and, Hieronymous knew, he himself would come off looking all the more like a hero for trying to deflect the media attention away toward the little brats.
It wouldn’t work, of course. The spotlight would remain firmly on him—as it should. But by having tried, he would raise his PR quotient a point or two. And, after all, this was all about perception.
Beside him, he saw Isole sidle toward Mordi. All doubts had left her; of that, Hieronymous was certain. Good. He wanted the pathetic Halfling to feel all the more foolish when she finally realized the truth: that she was nothing more than a pawn in a plan he’d been hatching for so very many years.
Reporters shouted more questions, and he deftly fielded them. As he spoke, his eyes skimmed the crowd, looking for any sign of Clyde or others of his soldiers. No one. Good. They’d faded back into the crowd, losing themselves in the sea of faces. They’d stay hidden, he knew, until next he called on them.
His mouth curved in the tiniest of smiles. Everything was coming together perfectly. Even the close proximity of his son couldn’t spoil his plan or his mood. Hieronymous was a new hero to the mortals. And soon—very soon—he’d be hailed as the most supreme of all Protectors.
And when he was once again swaddled in the warm and welcoming embrace of the Council, only then would he take final action.
And, yes, he would prevail. Failure was simply not an option.

Chapter Forty-two

Camera flashes strobed around him, and Hieronymous turned slowly, not wanting to thwart any of the reporters’ attempts to achieve the perfect camera angle. Because they’d been visible during the rescue, he, Mordi, and Isole were now the subject of the news media’s collective feeding frenzy. The other Protectors— those who’d been able to vanish under the shield of an invisibility cloak—had already surreptitiously departed.
Now, though Hieronymous knew that the Council elders would prefer silence, the three of them had no choice but to answer questions. The MLO would step in later and clear up the mess.
In the meantime, Hieronymous intended to make the most of this media-op. He had arranged it, after all. He would be a fool to let it simply pass by.
“Mr. Black! Mr. Black!” A reporter cried out for his attention. “Witnesses say you were flying. The footage from the news helicopters confirms this. Can you explain it? How did you and your companions accomplish something Like that?”
Mordichai stepped forward. “I don’t think—”
Hieronymous put an arm out, intercepting his son at chest level. “What my son means, Mr....”
“Branson,” the reporter said. “Roger Branson, Channel Two.”
“Mr. Branson,” Hieronymous acknowledged. “As my son was about to explain, that information is on a need-to-know basis only. If I were you, I’d simply be thankful that such technology does exist, and that it was able to come to the aid of those poor children. They, not me or my companions, should be the subject of your cameras.”
He flashed what he hoped seemed a genuine smile. He was a little out of practice, but he thought he managed okay. Branson looked suitably chastised and, Hieronymous knew, he himself would come off looking all the more like a hero for trying to deflect the media attention away toward the little brats.
It wouldn’t work, of course. The spotlight would remain firmly on him—as it should. But by having tried, he would raise his PR quotient a point or two. And, after all, this was all about perception.
Beside him, he saw Isole sidle toward Mordi. All doubts had left her; of that, Hieronymous was certain. Good. He wanted the pathetic Halfling to feel all the more foolish when she finally realized the truth: that she was nothing more than a pawn in a plan he’d been hatching for so very many years.
Reporters shouted more questions, and he deftly fielded them. As he spoke, his eyes skimmed the crowd, looking for any sign of Clyde or others of his soldiers. No one. Good. They’d faded back into the crowd, losing themselves in the sea of faces. They’d stay hidden, he knew, until next he called on them.
His mouth curved in the tiniest of smiles. Everything was coming together perfectly. Even the close proximity of his son couldn’t spoil his plan or his mood. Hieronymous was a new hero to the mortals. And soon—very soon—he’d be hailed as the most supreme of all Protectors.
And when he was once again swaddled in the warm and welcoming embrace of the Council, only then would he take final action.
And, yes, he would prevail. Failure was simply not an option.