Zoë nodded. “That’s true. And Hoop, Deena and Lane,” she added, referring to all the mortals Hale had met when Zoë had battled Mordi.
“Yes, but they’re not... I’m not...” He trailed off. As much as he hated to admit it, he had befriended them.
Damn
.
“You are also an excellent Protector,” Zephron continued. “And you can be very persuasive when it suits you.” He looked Hale in the eye, and Hale was sure he saw a hint of amusement flickering in the Elder’s gaze. “In other words, I’m positive you will prevail.”
Hale nodded in silent acknowledgment of the compliment, then tried another tack. “As much as I might enjoy making another mortal friend,” he lied, “I’m wondering if it’s really necessary.”
“Of course it is,” Zoë said. “Didn’t you hear Zephron? Hieronymous? End of the world? A generally bad situation all the way around?”
“I mean, why don’t we just let Taylor or some other mortal steal the thing? As I’ve pointed out many times, they don’t have any powers to lose.” He turned to Zoë and lifted an eyebrow. “And it would prove that mortals are good for something.”
“I assure you,” Zephron said, “mortals are good for many things. But not this.”
“Why?” he and Zoë asked in unison.
“Aphrodite’s enchantment again. No mortal can steal the belt. It simply isn’t possible. A mortal can receive it as a gift or an inheritance or buy it in a thrift shop if the owner has thrown it away, but a mortal cannot simply take it.” He shrugged. “It’s impossible. The belt will not leave its rightful owner unless the owner gives it away or it is stolen by a Protector—who would then lose his powers.”
A darned finicky fashion accessory, if you ask me
, Elmer piped up. Hale tried his best to ignore him.
“Just remember,” Zephron added. “When we find the belt’s owner, your mission will include providing protection. Any mortal in possession of the girdle will be in danger from Heironymous.”
“Protection from what? He can’t steal the thing,” Zoë spoke up. “We just went over that.” Her eyes went wide. “Can he kill her and just take it?”
Zephron shook his head. “If the mortal owner of the belt dies at the hand of another, the belt’s powers die as well.”
Hale rubbed his temples. “So, let’s see if I’m following— we can’t enlist a mortal to steal the belt for us because Grandma decided that wasn’t part of the playbook. And we can’t steal it because we’d lose our powers. Assuming she won’t hand it over if I just ask nicely, that means I’ll have to”—he shuddered—“
befriend
this Tracy person or whoever has the belt in order to convince her to give it up to me voluntarily.”
Zephron nodded. “Precisely.”
“Not that I’m complaining about the whole mortal bonding thing,” Hale lied—he
was
complaining, and loudly—“but isn’t it unnecessary? I mean, there’s no way Hieronymous could befriend anybody, much less a mortal.”
“True,” Zephron acknowledged. “But there are many other methods of persuasion. Torture, for example.”
“Oh,” Zoë whispered, swallowing.
“Hieronymous could also send one of his minions to persuade the owner with soft words and romantic evenings,” Zephron added. “Or, he could simply resort to other means.”
“Other means?” Zoë repeated.
“Hieronymous has minions, many of whom would sacrifice their powers for his approval. The curse extends only to stealing the belt. Not receiving it.”
Rules, rules, rules
, Elmer said.
You protectors and your rules. I swear, you need a manual to keep up
.
“Anything else we need to know?” Hale asked, silently agreeing with the ferret.
“No,” Zephron said. “As I said, we do not fully understand the belt. At this point, you know everything we’ve confirmed.”
Hale nodded. So, that was it. Their mission was about to begin. He squeezed the armrest and looked at Zoë. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and Hale knew they were thinking on the same lines. If Hieronymous’s followers were so loyal, then Uncle H’s threat to the Council was growing exponentially every day. Once again, they needed to foil their uncle in order to save the world.
But what the heck? He was up to the challenge. And what was the point of being a superhero if there wasn’t a little drama in your life?
Mordichai watched as Hieronymous drummed his fingers on the heavy oak desk.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap
. His father’s incessant habit drove him crazy, and if it didn’t stop soon, Mordi was sure to let out a howl loud enough to shake the heavens.
Or maybe not. No one lost his patience with Hieronymous. Least of all his son.
“It’s there. Aphrodite’s girdle.” Hieronymous stood up, his fingers twitching as if he were stifling the urge to rub his hands together with glee. “We’ve seen the flicker from the monitoring device.”
He pointed toward the bank of monitors on the far side of the room. As usual, ten of the twelve were displaying various financial programs. The eleventh showed an empty stone cell, manacles on the wall, with only a single red chair in the center.
Mordi frowned, trying to figure out what his father was doing monitoring an old castle. “The belt’s in a dungeon?”
Hieronymous shot him a look of contempt. “That ‘dungeon’ as you call it, is part of an old movie set that one of my investment companies is considering acquiring.”
Mordi fought a smile. Hieronymous himself owned nothing. Instead, his property was owned by offshore corporations shielding other offshore corporations. Nothing traceable back to Hieronymous—which was just the way he liked it.
“Why?” Mordi asked.
“I took a fancy to it,” his father said. Mordi imagined that was true. Hieronymous would probably live in a castle once—
if—he
overthrew the Council. “And it may come in useful someday.” Hieronymous pointed a finger toward the last monitor, the one in the middle displaying the Los Angeles skyline. “But you are not here to learn about my investments. Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in that city, and we don’t have a clue where.”
“I know, Father.”
“You
know
?” Hieronymous sneered. “Or you understand?”
Mordi sat up straighter, sucking in a strengthening breath. “I understand.”
“Do you?” His father’s voice was low, menacing. “Tell me, son, what it is you understand?”
Mordi sighed. He’d failed his father recently, and winning back the old man’s trust was proving tricky. Not that Hieronymous had
ever
really had faith in Mordi. No, Mordi was a halfling—a by-product of a tryst with a mortal—and apparently that fact didn’t sit well with dear old Dad. Which meant that time and again Mordi found himself beating his brains out to win respect.
“I understand that Aphrodite’s girdle is somewhere in Los Angeles. I understand that you need it, that with it you can rally the Outcasts and overcome the Council.”
“How?”
Mordichai sighed, hating having to prove himself at every turn. “The girdle will make you invincible. No one will be able to stop you or refuse you. That treaty the Council is trying to work out with the mortal government will be just so much paper. You’ll be the top dog. You’ll be the head honcho. You’ll be the king of the world,” he added, imagining his father living in his newly acquired castle.
A thin smile touched his father’s lips, and his eyes got a faraway expression. “Exactly. A Protector who wears the girdle, even an Outcast, is like a god. I shall rule as our race was meant to rule—not taking a backseat to those mortals and their pesky problems. They should be serving us, not the other way around.”
Hieronymous waved a hand in the air as he paced the length of the room, his heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Treaties and politics and secret negotiations, all for what end? So that perhaps Protectors can come out in the light and be seen for what we really are? Bah. Zephron and his stable of flunkies are fools. We should not negotiate with those ridiculous mortals. We should simply take over—and crush the mortals like the insects they are.”
He turned to Mordi, his eyes aglow with the lust for power. “With the girdle, I can escape this prison.” His arm swept the luxurious highrise in midtown Manhattan that most mortals would kill for. “I can fulfill my destiny.”
“You just need me to find and get it for you,” Mordi said dryly. As an Outcast, Hieronymous was forbidden to use his powers. If he did—and if he was caught—the punishment was severe. Though Mordichai was not a full-fledged member of the Council, his status as a probationer didn’t put any such restrictions on him.
Hieronymous aimed one curt nod in his direction. Not an overwhelming display of affection, but the man wasn’t the type to dole out bucketfuls of praise. “Exactly. No matter how you failed me in the past, it seems that I do have some use left for you. As I cannot use my power to locate the belt’s owner—or convince the owner to give the belt to me—I will have to rely on you. I have no choice.” Again he waved a hand, as if sweeping away a gnat. “And, of course, you shall have to prove yourself to be the heir to my kingdom.” The last was spoken casually, an afterthought intended to placate.
“Yes, Father,” Mordi said. A slow fury rose in him, urging him to lash out, to unleash every bit of hurt and anger toward the man, but he held back. Instead, he simply sat holding his tongue and remembering why he was there.
Because the truth was, he
did
have to find the girdle. And he had to get it away from its owner. Only one question remained. Once he held it in his hands, what would he do? Would he turn it over to his father? Would he deliver it to the Council? Or would Mordichai have the last laugh after all?
Tracy frowned at the broom-and-dustpan-type devices leaning against the Paws In Production trailer. Not the most pleasant of tasks, pooper-scoopering unfortunately came with the territory.
The crew was wrapping up as she headed toward the three set pieces that had been used for the day’s shoot. The premise of this show was pretty simple, and sometimes Tracy found herself wondering at its overnight success. The elderly Mrs. Dolittle, a vet in a small coastal town, treated a bunch of animals—domestic and exotic—and each week she and her nephew got entangled in some wild and wacky crime that one of her animal patients somehow helped her solve.
Unlike her literary counterpart, Mrs. Dolittle didn’t talk to the animals. That was Tracy and Mel’s job—talking to them and making sure they knew their cues and what to do when the camera turned their way.
Mel had left early to tackle a day full of meetings, and none of the interns were scheduled to work. Which left Tracy to handle the parade scene—complete with a Bengal tiger and Mrs. Dolittle’s dog Pepper. The scene had gone fine, but now Tracy was stuck with the unpleasant task of cleaning up.
Tightening her stomach, Tracy took her bucket, and headed out toward the parade route. This was definitely not the part of the job she liked best, but at least Mel or one of the interns usually shared it. Considering the company belonged to Mel, and Tracy was only an employee, the woman could easily have put her on permanent poop patrol.
She’d just filled one bucket and was heading back to the trailer to dump it when Tracy saw him again. Leon leaned against the Volkswagon Beetle he drove in the show, his wavy brown hair gilded by the afternoon light. A group of extras stood around chatting with him. Her first instinct was to turn and run—she wasn’t exactly at her best—but then he waved in her direction and smiled.
She swallowed. Mel had said to talk to him, to be herself. He’d liked her before, surely he’d like her still. Taking a deep breath, she marched toward him. When she was near enough, she waved back. He blinked but didn’t respond. Had he seen her?
Summoning all her courage, she continued on. When she reached the far side of the car, she stopped and smiled. He looked up, his eyes vacant, then he looked off somewhere over her and smiled. A blond extra in a too-tight tank top appeared in Tracy’s peripheral vision.
Tracy suddenly felt cold. She considered just turning away and running as fast as she could back toward the trailer, but no, she was a grown woman. She might as well act like one.
“Hi, Leon,” she began.
He turned back to her, obviously put out. “Can I help you?”
She was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this. “No. I mean yes. I mean, I just wanted to say hello.” She lowered the bucket so it was hidden behind the car, feeling lower than low because she was on poop patrol. “We, uh, met this morning. Over at the trailer. You were looking for Melissa. Remember?”
The blond extra gave Tracy the once-over, then turned away, apparently convinced she wasn’t a threat.
“Oh, yeah.” Leon smiled, and a wave of relief crashed over her. “Elizabeth, right?”
“Tracy,” she said, her mouth dry.
“Oh. Oh,
right
.” He flashed his I’m-so-cool grin. “Sorry. I just didn’t recognize you.” His voice suggested that he was still clueless.
The creep
. He hadn’t been flirting with
her
, he’d just been flirting to get something he wanted. Exactly what Mel had claimed—and what Tracy had foolishly denied. Lord, she was stupid!
The tears that welled in her eyes only added to her humiliation, and she took a step backward, desperate to get away. Unfortunately she misjudged her footing and somehow managed to slip off the curb. Her arms flailed as she tried to. balance, but it just wasn’t working. She tumbled forward.
Horrified, Tracy watched as the bucket flew out of her hands and landed on the roof of the Beetle. Like smelly missiles, the stinky contents shot out toward the far side of the car as Leon and the extras—as if in slow motion— gasped and backed away.
They didn’t move fast enough.
The splattering mess missed most of the extras.
It didn’t miss Leon.
And as he stood there, his eyes wide while tiger poop clung to his hair and clothes, all Tracy could think was that this time, at least, he wouldn’t forget her.
She walloped him
! Elmer howled.
Way to go, girl
!
“Shhh,” Hale whispered. He almost wished he’d brought popcorn, the show going on below his rooftop perch was so much fun. “They’ll hear you.”