"Aphrodite's_Flame_054" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Fifty-one

Mordi strode into the room, his bearing regal, just as Zephron’s would be. He’d assumed the High Elder’s form. He moved to the head of the table, took up one of the binders that contained the treaty’s terms, and turned to page one.
“We will be signing this today,” he said. “The treaty will go forward.”
“I believe a vote is in order,” Hieronymous said, pure hatred burning in his eyes.
“Indeed it is,” Mordi replied. It took every ounce of strength in his body not to spit in his father’s eye. “The vote will be between me and the mortals.”
“And the Inner Circle!” Hieronymous protested, as the Protectors voiced similar thoughts.
“Am I not the High Elder? Do I not have supreme veto power? We can skip the voting. I assure you, any indication that the Council intends to set aside the treaty will be vetoed by me.”
“But Zephron—” Bilius stated, rising to his feet.
“Silence!” That from Hieronymous. He spoke so brashly and loudly that even Mordi cringed.
Hieronymous turned to face his son dead-on. Mordi stood straight, remembering—telling himself—that he was the High Elder and he wasn’t about to shrink from the likes of his father.
“I’ll do nothing that you say,” Hieronymous said, his voice low and menacing. “And neither will these men.”
“Oh, but they will. I am Zephron. The High Elder. And in the end, they’ll have no choice.”
“Perhaps,” Hieronymous said, and something in his voice gave Mordi pause. “Perhaps that would be true if you were in fact the High Elder.” And then, without warning, he leaped forward, grabbing Mordi’s arms and hooking them behind his back. “Be still, son,” he said. And Mordi felt his plan fall to pieces.
Hieronymous’s grip tightened on his arm, and the other Protectors moved closer. Damn it to Hades, he hadn’t considered that he’d be fighting half the Council! Damn his father and that ridiculous mind-control pen!
“He’s brainwashed you,” Mordi howled. “The pens!”
The Protectors all looked blank, but Senator Banyon apparently got it. He started grabbing pens off the table, presumably planning to toss them out the door. Hieronymous let go of Mordi long enough to attack Banyon. The senator flew threw the air, landing in a heap in the corner, the pens scattering everywhere.
Mordi drew in a breath, then shifted back to his normal appearance.
“You,” Hieronymous sneered. “You are not my son.”
“Actually,” Mordi said, “I am. And for the first time in my life, I’m glad of it.”
Hieronymous stared at him, baffled, and Mordi waved toward the pens. “You’re genetically not affected,” Mordi explained. “And, as your son, neither am I.” He smiled and said a silent thank-you to his nephew, who’d given him a theoretical rundown on the mysterious fountain pens as they’d raced from the catacombs.
“You will not best me,” Hieronymous said. “Not this time. Not ever again. You aren’t worthy of my blood, and you are certainly no match for me. You’re a pathetic Halfling.”
For the first time, Hieronymous’s personal attacks didn’t draw blood, and Mordi stood tall against his father. Even so, he had to agree that the odds were against him. In an effort to increase his chances, he jumped on top of the table and raced toward the door. Hieronymous was at his heels, and his father practically flew into the antechamber just as Mordi did.
Mordi ducked and rolled, and Hieronymous tumbled over him. Mordi raced back and locked the door, effectively trapping the other Protectors inside. Hopefully, they were too mind-muddled to use their powers to escape without Hieronymous there to guide them.
He didn’t have much time to worry about it, though, because his father was on him. Usually, the man had Clyde do the dirty work. Mordi had only seen his father fight once, and in that instance he’d slunk away pretty quickly—plus, Mordi had had the benefit of weapons.
As it turned out, though, Daddy Dearest was quite the fighter. He lunged at Mordi, tackled him, and then the two went down, rolling over and over. Mordi drew in a breath, gathered his energy, and conjured enough faux fire to engulf his father.
The ploy worked, and Hieronymous leapt back, howling as he beat at the flames. His eyes brimmed with anger when he realized the fire was fake. The anger seemed to fuel his strength, and Hieronymous raced toward Mordi, shouting a battle cry as he clutched Mordi’s shoulders and pushed him back. He moved so fast that Mordi couldn’t even keep his feet under him.
They slammed against a wall and rolled against it, then crashed into the glass side of the mortalization tube. Mordi saw the moment the idea hit Hieronymous, but there was nothing he could do; his father had him in his grip, and he shoved Mordi soundly into the cylinder.
Mordi’s head struck the inside of the tube, and he blinked, slightly dazed. He moved forward, trying to grab his father, but Hieronymous slammed the door and locked it. Mordi howled, then banged against the bluish glass, but Hieronymous only smiled.
“This is for the best, son,” Hieronymous said. “Trust me.”
And then, as Mordi’s nerves fractured and frayed, Hieronymous went to the control panel, turned the dial, and pushed the button.
The mortalization tube kicked into high gear.

Chapter Fifty-one

Mordi strode into the room, his bearing regal, just as Zephron’s would be. He’d assumed the High Elder’s form. He moved to the head of the table, took up one of the binders that contained the treaty’s terms, and turned to page one.
“We will be signing this today,” he said. “The treaty will go forward.”
“I believe a vote is in order,” Hieronymous said, pure hatred burning in his eyes.
“Indeed it is,” Mordi replied. It took every ounce of strength in his body not to spit in his father’s eye. “The vote will be between me and the mortals.”
“And the Inner Circle!” Hieronymous protested, as the Protectors voiced similar thoughts.
“Am I not the High Elder? Do I not have supreme veto power? We can skip the voting. I assure you, any indication that the Council intends to set aside the treaty will be vetoed by me.”
“But Zephron—” Bilius stated, rising to his feet.
“Silence!” That from Hieronymous. He spoke so brashly and loudly that even Mordi cringed.
Hieronymous turned to face his son dead-on. Mordi stood straight, remembering—telling himself—that he was the High Elder and he wasn’t about to shrink from the likes of his father.
“I’ll do nothing that you say,” Hieronymous said, his voice low and menacing. “And neither will these men.”
“Oh, but they will. I am Zephron. The High Elder. And in the end, they’ll have no choice.”
“Perhaps,” Hieronymous said, and something in his voice gave Mordi pause. “Perhaps that would be true if you were in fact the High Elder.” And then, without warning, he leaped forward, grabbing Mordi’s arms and hooking them behind his back. “Be still, son,” he said. And Mordi felt his plan fall to pieces.
Hieronymous’s grip tightened on his arm, and the other Protectors moved closer. Damn it to Hades, he hadn’t considered that he’d be fighting half the Council! Damn his father and that ridiculous mind-control pen!
“He’s brainwashed you,” Mordi howled. “The pens!”
The Protectors all looked blank, but Senator Banyon apparently got it. He started grabbing pens off the table, presumably planning to toss them out the door. Hieronymous let go of Mordi long enough to attack Banyon. The senator flew threw the air, landing in a heap in the corner, the pens scattering everywhere.
Mordi drew in a breath, then shifted back to his normal appearance.
“You,” Hieronymous sneered. “You are not my son.”
“Actually,” Mordi said, “I am. And for the first time in my life, I’m glad of it.”
Hieronymous stared at him, baffled, and Mordi waved toward the pens. “You’re genetically not affected,” Mordi explained. “And, as your son, neither am I.” He smiled and said a silent thank-you to his nephew, who’d given him a theoretical rundown on the mysterious fountain pens as they’d raced from the catacombs.
“You will not best me,” Hieronymous said. “Not this time. Not ever again. You aren’t worthy of my blood, and you are certainly no match for me. You’re a pathetic Halfling.”
For the first time, Hieronymous’s personal attacks didn’t draw blood, and Mordi stood tall against his father. Even so, he had to agree that the odds were against him. In an effort to increase his chances, he jumped on top of the table and raced toward the door. Hieronymous was at his heels, and his father practically flew into the antechamber just as Mordi did.
Mordi ducked and rolled, and Hieronymous tumbled over him. Mordi raced back and locked the door, effectively trapping the other Protectors inside. Hopefully, they were too mind-muddled to use their powers to escape without Hieronymous there to guide them.
He didn’t have much time to worry about it, though, because his father was on him. Usually, the man had Clyde do the dirty work. Mordi had only seen his father fight once, and in that instance he’d slunk away pretty quickly—plus, Mordi had had the benefit of weapons.
As it turned out, though, Daddy Dearest was quite the fighter. He lunged at Mordi, tackled him, and then the two went down, rolling over and over. Mordi drew in a breath, gathered his energy, and conjured enough faux fire to engulf his father.
The ploy worked, and Hieronymous leapt back, howling as he beat at the flames. His eyes brimmed with anger when he realized the fire was fake. The anger seemed to fuel his strength, and Hieronymous raced toward Mordi, shouting a battle cry as he clutched Mordi’s shoulders and pushed him back. He moved so fast that Mordi couldn’t even keep his feet under him.
They slammed against a wall and rolled against it, then crashed into the glass side of the mortalization tube. Mordi saw the moment the idea hit Hieronymous, but there was nothing he could do; his father had him in his grip, and he shoved Mordi soundly into the cylinder.
Mordi’s head struck the inside of the tube, and he blinked, slightly dazed. He moved forward, trying to grab his father, but Hieronymous slammed the door and locked it. Mordi howled, then banged against the bluish glass, but Hieronymous only smiled.
“This is for the best, son,” Hieronymous said. “Trust me.”
And then, as Mordi’s nerves fractured and frayed, Hieronymous went to the control panel, turned the dial, and pushed the button.
The mortalization tube kicked into high gear.