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Chapter Seventeen

“Absurd,” Hieronymous said, anger burning through him like whiskey. “The hoops that I must jump through ...” He trailed off, hands clenched at his side. “In the end, I hope posterity will recognize the sacrifices I’ve made.”
He was deep beneath the streets of Manhattan in an abandoned subway runnel. He’d met Clyde there, and now his former Chief of Guards was standing at attention, his scarred face full of awe and loyalty.
“Your sacrifices will be our salvation, sire,” Clyde said with a reverential tip of his head.
Hieronymous snorted. “Fool,” he spat. “Perhaps that will be so if I do prevail, but in order to fulfill my destiny and bring about the subjugation of mortals, my plan must go forth without the slightest of bumps.”
Clyde swallowed, his throat moving. “Has there ... has there been a bump, sire?”
“Yes, of course there’s been a bump. Why else would I have risked this meeting with you?” He spread out his arm, silently indicating the filthy chamber in which they stood. “And why would I choose such a putrid forum in which to discuss the matter?”
Clyde—wisely—said nothing.
Hieronymous paced along the yellow line bordering the subway platform, his fingers itching for a flat surface on which to drum. Finding nothing, he settled for rounding on Clyde. “A Rorschach test. Why, pray tell, was I not aware that I would be subjected to such ridiculousness?”
Clyde seemed to shrink under Hieronymous’s wrath. “I don’t know, sire. Our intelligence must be faulty.”
“Faulty?” he repeated. “Faulty?” He moved toward Clyde, watching his second cower in fear. “And do you believe that such a ... fault is acceptable?”
“No, sire. It won’t happen again.”
Hieronymous drew in a deep breath and collected himself. He could, after all, be magnanimous when necessary. “I trust that it will not. Even so, there are changes to be made. Precautions to be taken.”
He turned away, pacing the platform, his hands clasped before him, his incredible intellect on overdrive.
“Are we abandoning the plan, sire?”
Hieronymous spun around. “Of course we are not going to abandon the plan. I’ve spent the past year putting all the pieces into place. I have no intention of abandoning the plan now—not even if I must rescue a dozen more kittens and return lollipops to petulant little brats.” He aimed a sharp glare at Clyde. “The inkblot test was a minor setback. With my superior cognitive skills I, of course, am certain that Ms. Frost remains entirely unaware of my deception. Even so...”
He trailed off. Even so, it would be best to move up his timetable and kick his plan into overdrive.
Once again, he turned to Clyde. “You do know what I expect of you?”
“Yes, sire. Of course, sire.”
“Good. I shall expect the diversion in four days.”
Clyde’s eyes went wide. “Four days? I had anticipated a week. Perhaps more.”
“What you anticipated is not my concern. I’ve told you what I expect of you.” He turned slightly, meeting his servant’s gaze. “Or are you telling me that you are unable to deliver?”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”
Hieronymous nodded, satisfied. He had no reason to doubt Clyde. The burly Outcast had been nothing but loyal since he’d first sworn fealty so many years ago. He would come through. He had to.
But it wasn’t Clyde’s loyalty or his skill that preyed on Hieronymous now. It was the lack of loyalty from where he’d expected it most.
Not Jason—he’d lost that connection before it had ever been forged.
Mordichai...
Though he hated to admit it, Hieronymous had become complacent, used to his Halfling son’s constant presence. For that matter, he had even become resigned to the likelihood that Mordichai would inherit the empire once he himself ceased to be.
Not ideal, of course. Certainly, Hieronymous would have preferred a pureblood offspring. But he’d made do, resigning himself to the unfortunate fact that his heir would be an imperfect recipient of a perfect legacy.
Then he’d learned of his son’s deception. Of his treason.
Some things could be forgiven. Betrayal could not.
He clenched his fists, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as he fought to quell the burst of anger. Control. Control was ever so important in such matters.
Control over others, and control over one’s emotions.
He had such control now. And he knew what he had to do.
Slowly, he faced Clyde who was standing at attention, still awaiting his dismissal.
“There is one other thing,” Hieronymous said, taking care to keep his voice blank, emotionless. “My son is proving to be an impediment to my plan. I think it’s time that we take Mordichai out of the equation. Tonight. When we acquire the bait.” He met Clyde’s eyes, saw both surprise and joyous anticipation reflected there. “And Clyde,” he added. “I hope you understand that I want a permanent solution.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Absurd,” Hieronymous said, anger burning through him like whiskey. “The hoops that I must jump through ...” He trailed off, hands clenched at his side. “In the end, I hope posterity will recognize the sacrifices I’ve made.”
He was deep beneath the streets of Manhattan in an abandoned subway runnel. He’d met Clyde there, and now his former Chief of Guards was standing at attention, his scarred face full of awe and loyalty.
“Your sacrifices will be our salvation, sire,” Clyde said with a reverential tip of his head.
Hieronymous snorted. “Fool,” he spat. “Perhaps that will be so if I do prevail, but in order to fulfill my destiny and bring about the subjugation of mortals, my plan must go forth without the slightest of bumps.”
Clyde swallowed, his throat moving. “Has there ... has there been a bump, sire?”
“Yes, of course there’s been a bump. Why else would I have risked this meeting with you?” He spread out his arm, silently indicating the filthy chamber in which they stood. “And why would I choose such a putrid forum in which to discuss the matter?”
Clyde—wisely—said nothing.
Hieronymous paced along the yellow line bordering the subway platform, his fingers itching for a flat surface on which to drum. Finding nothing, he settled for rounding on Clyde. “A Rorschach test. Why, pray tell, was I not aware that I would be subjected to such ridiculousness?”
Clyde seemed to shrink under Hieronymous’s wrath. “I don’t know, sire. Our intelligence must be faulty.”
“Faulty?” he repeated. “Faulty?” He moved toward Clyde, watching his second cower in fear. “And do you believe that such a ... fault is acceptable?”
“No, sire. It won’t happen again.”
Hieronymous drew in a deep breath and collected himself. He could, after all, be magnanimous when necessary. “I trust that it will not. Even so, there are changes to be made. Precautions to be taken.”
He turned away, pacing the platform, his hands clasped before him, his incredible intellect on overdrive.
“Are we abandoning the plan, sire?”
Hieronymous spun around. “Of course we are not going to abandon the plan. I’ve spent the past year putting all the pieces into place. I have no intention of abandoning the plan now—not even if I must rescue a dozen more kittens and return lollipops to petulant little brats.” He aimed a sharp glare at Clyde. “The inkblot test was a minor setback. With my superior cognitive skills I, of course, am certain that Ms. Frost remains entirely unaware of my deception. Even so...”
He trailed off. Even so, it would be best to move up his timetable and kick his plan into overdrive.
Once again, he turned to Clyde. “You do know what I expect of you?”
“Yes, sire. Of course, sire.”
“Good. I shall expect the diversion in four days.”
Clyde’s eyes went wide. “Four days? I had anticipated a week. Perhaps more.”
“What you anticipated is not my concern. I’ve told you what I expect of you.” He turned slightly, meeting his servant’s gaze. “Or are you telling me that you are unable to deliver?”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”
Hieronymous nodded, satisfied. He had no reason to doubt Clyde. The burly Outcast had been nothing but loyal since he’d first sworn fealty so many years ago. He would come through. He had to.
But it wasn’t Clyde’s loyalty or his skill that preyed on Hieronymous now. It was the lack of loyalty from where he’d expected it most.
Not Jason—he’d lost that connection before it had ever been forged.
Mordichai...
Though he hated to admit it, Hieronymous had become complacent, used to his Halfling son’s constant presence. For that matter, he had even become resigned to the likelihood that Mordichai would inherit the empire once he himself ceased to be.
Not ideal, of course. Certainly, Hieronymous would have preferred a pureblood offspring. But he’d made do, resigning himself to the unfortunate fact that his heir would be an imperfect recipient of a perfect legacy.
Then he’d learned of his son’s deception. Of his treason.
Some things could be forgiven. Betrayal could not.
He clenched his fists, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as he fought to quell the burst of anger. Control. Control was ever so important in such matters.
Control over others, and control over one’s emotions.
He had such control now. And he knew what he had to do.
Slowly, he faced Clyde who was standing at attention, still awaiting his dismissal.
“There is one other thing,” Hieronymous said, taking care to keep his voice blank, emotionless. “My son is proving to be an impediment to my plan. I think it’s time that we take Mordichai out of the equation. Tonight. When we acquire the bait.” He met Clyde’s eyes, saw both surprise and joyous anticipation reflected there. “And Clyde,” he added. “I hope you understand that I want a permanent solution.”