somewhere nearby.
Officer Boreas twisted in the air, the motion jarring Lane from her thoughts. Her fingers were numb, and she realized it was a good thing Boreas was a Protector; otherwise his arm would be in pain from how tightly she’d been clinging to it.
Suddenly the ground was beneath Lane’s feet and she was standing. She gasped, her balance unsteady. They were in Shamu’s theater, and Deena’s arm was around her, steadying, as Boreas ran off to talk with a group of similarly dressed people.
“Zoë must have called in more backup,” Deena said.
“Where
is
Zoë?” Lane asked. “And where’s the bastard who took my son?”
“I don’t know,” Deena said. “She was right there.” Deena pointed to the far corner near a little building. Several Protectors were fluttering around there, looking busy, but no Zoë.
Then one of the Protectors moved aside, and there
he
was: the man who’d taken her son. His head was down, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew he had to be the culprit. For one thing, he was flanked on either side by burly Protectors in bone-white, official-looking cloaks embroidered with gold. In addition, his wrists were bound by golden cuffs. All very prisoner cliché.
The rest of him, however, wasn’t from central casting. Not at all. Shirtless, the man’s broad chest glistened, beads of sweat reflecting the sunlight. A simple white towel was knotted at his waist, and his feet were bare. She couldn’t see his thighs, but his calves were well-formed, with long, lean muscles. His hair was dark, almost black, but other than that, she could see nothing of him from the neck up.
She’d seen enough. From an empirical standpoint, she could tell the man was magnificent. Lane felt a sudden surge of anger that someone so physically perfect could be so morally vile.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she approached, her blood practically boiling. The Protectors might not have been able to wrest from this creep the location of her son, but Lane was quite sure he wasn’t going to be able to withstand the interrogation of an irate mother.
“Where is my son?” she called out as she stomped forward. “What did you do with Da—”
She snapped her mouth shut, her voice suddenly blocked by her heart, which had leapt up into her throat the second the man lifted his head.
Jason.
The one man she’d ever truly loved, the only man she’d ever truly hated, was standing right in front of her, accused of stealing her child.
Hieronymous stepped from his private yacht onto the dock of his secret island in the South Pacific. Unlike some of his property, he’d managed to keep this island unregistered. And, despite his son Jason’s escape from this very island, Hieronymous believed the Council remained unaware of its existence.
He allowed himself a small, self-congratulatory smile. Thanks to yet another of his brilliant inventions, he’d hidden this place from prying eyes. It was unknown and uncharted, and he intended to keep it that way.
In fact, he usually arrived by Propulsion Cloak— the Council’s ridiculous rule prohibiting Outcasts from using any powers or equipment be damned— but on this trip his boat served the necessary purpose of transporting both his equipment and the irritating little Davy. He only hoped his device jamming the Council’s satellite had functioned properly. Now was certainly not the time to have his little secret discovered.
He’d been surprised but pleased that Mordichai had actually managed to pull off the stunt without any setbacks. He’d been leery of sending the boy on so important an assignment, but Mordi’s shape shifting abilities had proven beneficial.
The clatter of little feet sounded on wooden steps, then Davy emerged from the yacht and stopped short, his eyes once again widening with fear as he saw Hieronymous. Automatically, Hieronymous plastered on a smile, despite the hypocrisy of it. Why in Hades should he care if the child was afraid?
Officer Boreas twisted in the air, the motion jarring Lane from her thoughts. Her fingers were numb, and she realized it was a good thing Boreas was a Protector; otherwise his arm would be in pain from how tightly she’d been clinging to it.
Suddenly the ground was beneath Lane’s feet and she was standing. She gasped, her balance unsteady. They were in Shamu’s theater, and Deena’s arm was around her, steadying, as Boreas ran off to talk with a group of similarly dressed people.
“Zoë must have called in more backup,” Deena said.
“Where
is
Zoë?” Lane asked. “And where’s the bastard who took my son?”
“I don’t know,” Deena said. “She was right there.” Deena pointed to the far corner near a little building. Several Protectors were fluttering around there, looking busy, but no Zoë.
Then one of the Protectors moved aside, and there
he
was: the man who’d taken her son. His head was down, so she couldn’t see his face, but she knew he had to be the culprit. For one thing, he was flanked on either side by burly Protectors in bone-white, official-looking cloaks embroidered with gold. In addition, his wrists were bound by golden cuffs. All very prisoner cliché.
The rest of him, however, wasn’t from central casting. Not at all. Shirtless, the man’s broad chest glistened, beads of sweat reflecting the sunlight. A simple white towel was knotted at his waist, and his feet were bare. She couldn’t see his thighs, but his calves were well-formed, with long, lean muscles. His hair was dark, almost black, but other than that, she could see nothing of him from the neck up.
She’d seen enough. From an empirical standpoint, she could tell the man was magnificent. Lane felt a sudden surge of anger that someone so physically perfect could be so morally vile.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she approached, her blood practically boiling. The Protectors might not have been able to wrest from this creep the location of her son, but Lane was quite sure he wasn’t going to be able to withstand the interrogation of an irate mother.
“Where is my son?” she called out as she stomped forward. “What did you do with Da—”
She snapped her mouth shut, her voice suddenly blocked by her heart, which had leapt up into her throat the second the man lifted his head.
Jason.
The one man she’d ever truly loved, the only man she’d ever truly hated, was standing right in front of her, accused of stealing her child.
Hieronymous stepped from his private yacht onto the dock of his secret island in the South Pacific. Unlike some of his property, he’d managed to keep this island unregistered. And, despite his son Jason’s escape from this very island, Hieronymous believed the Council remained unaware of its existence.
He allowed himself a small, self-congratulatory smile. Thanks to yet another of his brilliant inventions, he’d hidden this place from prying eyes. It was unknown and uncharted, and he intended to keep it that way.
In fact, he usually arrived by Propulsion Cloak— the Council’s ridiculous rule prohibiting Outcasts from using any powers or equipment be damned— but on this trip his boat served the necessary purpose of transporting both his equipment and the irritating little Davy. He only hoped his device jamming the Council’s satellite had functioned properly. Now was certainly not the time to have his little secret discovered.
He’d been surprised but pleased that Mordichai had actually managed to pull off the stunt without any setbacks. He’d been leery of sending the boy on so important an assignment, but Mordi’s shape shifting abilities had proven beneficial.
The clatter of little feet sounded on wooden steps, then Davy emerged from the yacht and stopped short, his eyes once again widening with fear as he saw Hieronymous. Automatically, Hieronymous plastered on a smile, despite the hypocrisy of it. Why in Hades should he care if the child was afraid?
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