When the young man turned toward Jeb his smile deepened as if greeting an old friend. Something about him seemed familiar but Jeb couldn’t place it. The impression disappeared as Philippe raised his leonine, artistic head and stepped forward, both hands outstretched.
He greeted Jeb in the French way, grasping both Jeb’s hands while leaning forward to kiss his cheeks. The action was sincere and heartfelt but not from Jeb’s background so he still braced himself. It wasn’t the male-to-male kiss that bothered him as some might suspect, but the feeling of entrapment the closeness created. If anyone other than Philippe forced the action Jeb would have no problem putting him in his place.
Pádraig, for that must be who the young man was, appeared to understand intrinsically, or Philippe had coached his protégé, as the Irishman extended his hand for a friendly, without competition shake. No proving who was stronger or higher in the pecking order. Just a quick strong motion and then a step back, allowing plenty of space to remain between them.
“Jeb, this is the young rascal I’ve told you so much about.” Philippe’s smile took years off his face as he glanced between Jeb and the younger man. “Pádraig, you can ask for no finer friend or better ally than Jebediah. Remember that.”
There were undercurrents here that were as obscure as the first time Jeb traveled from the physical realm to the spiritual many years ago. Jeb knew Pádraig was a druid as was Philippe, but there were different levels of druidism and even regional variants as to druid practice, which set the true druids apart from the neo-druidism that served as a reference point for many contemporary humans.
Neo-druidism was to druidism like Wiccan practices were to true-born witches such as his daughter Alex or his wife Aideen. Philippe was not only Druid born but an arch druid, which one could only obtain after decades of intense study including shamanistic knowledge. It was one of the reasons Jeb and Philippe were drawn together. They were the only two on the Council, and among the few non-humans, who could easily traverse to the spirit world, travel and return to their corporeal form.
Jeb didn’t know where Pádraig was on the druid hierarchy. His physical appearance indicated a younger age but the shell was often only that, an external manifestation that hid the true soul. How strong a druid he was, or what sort of druid he was, remained to be learned.
Jeb kept his expression neutral as he nodded to the Irishman. “Please, call me Jeb.”
The man’s smile ratcheted up. “A pleasure and one I’ve looked forward to for some time.” A quick glance back at his mentor before he lowered his voice and replaced warmth with wariness. “I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
Van? Had something happened to his son while Jeb was in transit?
He had not earned his position on the Council by hasty thought or action and now was no exception. He cast a quick look at his friend. No need to ask outright what was happening and how it involved the three of them, but he held his tongue, and his temper.
Instead of answering directly, the Frenchmen waved them toward a weathered table and sturdy chairs that looked at home in the sculpted garden in spite of their wear.
“S'il vous plait,” Philippe murmured, steering first Jeb and then Pádraig to their seats before he took the third chair.
Jeb could tell his friend’s unease by the lapse into his native language, a sure sign of distress.
“Would you care for something to drink? Or eat after your flight. I could. . .” Philippe turned to wave over the butler hovering in the doorway when Jeb laid a hand on the Frenchman’s sleeve and lowered his arm.
“Tell me what I have come over five thousand miles to hear. All else can wait.”
The Frenchman sighed as Pádraig cast an anxious glance at Jeb as if saying, see the state he’s in.
When Philippe held his tongue Jeb prompted, “There is nothing you can not tell me, old friend.” Shooting a look at Pádraig to include him, Jeb continued. “What are friends for if not to lessen one’s worries?”
Philippe leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together. “I have no words to tell you this.” He raised his head enough for his gaze to latch on to Jeb’s before he glanced at his protégé. “You brought the news. Will you share?”
“Certainly.” The younger man scooted forward in his chair, concern creasing his forehead, his gaze turned inward until it snapped to Jeb’s. “I have learned some disturbing news.”
As if a rubber band pulled to breaking point Jeb wanted to clip the young pup along the head as he would his own sons if they dawdled over telling an unwelcome tale. Avoidance only prolonged the tension, making everyone suffer.
But this was Philippe’s home, his friend, so Jeb schooled his features to betray nothing except a willingness to listen.
Pádraig leaned further forward and lowered his voice. “It’s about your clan.”
Jeb glanced at Philippe. “Your family. Your offspring.” Jeb knew what the younger man meant but bought himself some time as his heart stuttered and he struggled to keep his pain under leash. “Van?”
Pádraig cast a quick glance at Philippe who was the one shaking his head. “No.”
Jeb considered himself a man of reason. A man who held to his code, no matter the cost, of temperate response unless action was needed and then he would execute that action swiftly and surely. No gray areas for him. But such restraint cost and his voice roughened as he faced Philippe. “Tell me. Now.”
The Frenchman nodded. “It’s about your daughter.”
“Alex?” Jeb spoke as if far away, braced for one blow but reeling under a different one. “Is she hurt?”
By the Great Spirits don’t let her be dead. Anything but that.
“Not hurt. Not yet.”
Like a wounded animal ready to lunge Jeb latched onto the hard edges of the chair, his skin biting into the wood. “Tell me.”
“She’s in Paris,” Pádraig answered, his gaze not meeting Jeb’s. “And there’s a price on her head.”
“For what?”
“Someone wants her alive. No questions asked. Collateral damage acceptable. The sooner the better.”
CHAPTER 15
Van Noziak lifted his head, spying the late afternoon light filtering through a shuttered window high over his head. He couldn’t see the gap shackled as he was against the wall, but he tracked the wedge of light spilling on the packed dirt floor, memorizing its movement as if doing so would create sense of what was happening to him.
The ten-by-ten-foot stone-walled room smelled of damp, old straw, sewage, and despair. Wherever he was it had been used as a cell of last resort before. For many years would be Van’s guess.
His tongue felt swollen and fuzzy. Dehydration? Or drugs? Or a combination of the two? His head pounded as if the bells of Notre Dame rang insistently within it.
No idea how long he’d been here. The first days had been the worst, then his captors, all wearing hoods to disguise their faces, backed off on the interrogation, and the torture.
Obviously he was now worth more to them alive than dead, but no idea how long that would last.
They clearly knew he was a shifter, which explained the silver wrist and ankle cuffs burning into his skin, as well as the collar around his throat, but they seemed to ignore the fact that cloaked as they were he could still identify them by their stench. Either they ignored that fact or didn’t give a damn as they assumed he wouldn’t live to ferret them out. Only one of their mistakes.
He’d memorized each and every one of them. Revenge was the only thing keeping him going now. That and the knowledge others would be looking for him. Not his NATO allies but his family. Daily, whenever he was aware enough to do so, he reached out with his thoughts, searching for his dad, who would not be stopped by the underground location or the thickness of the stone surrounding him.
If he could just hold on a little longer. Hell, he had no choice, he was a Noziak and no matter how rough the going got he’d never give up. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t die.<
br />
He was coming to terms with that. Not in an abstract but as a distinct and very real possibility. Whoever these people were, and so far only one or two carried the scent of humans, they wanted something from him. And it was no longer the intel they had tried to extract the first week.
Down a far hallway he heard the squeal of metal against metal. A door opening. Another detail he’d memorized, too far away to see it, but his shifter hearing knew when someone was coming to check on him long before they appeared.
The silver bands holding him kept him in his human form but the second he was given the chance he’d shift. Then they’d have to kill him for sure, either that or be killed.
Three distinct sets of footsteps drew closer. The thick-soled one was human, and a regular visitor. He was the one who brought Van tepid water and surprisingly good food, though lately Van accepted that the French cuisine hid drugs that made him groggy and sluggish. He ate the meals anyway, knowing that when the time came he could fight through whatever he was being fed. Some kind of Dextromethorphan was his best guess, which explained the dizziness, blurred vision and fast heartbeat. Once he shifted he could burn the effects out of his system. At least he hoped he could.
The second shuffle belonged to someone Van mentally called the Doc, a Were by his scent. He possessed some kind of medical background by the questions he always asked. Not that Van gave him straight answers. Why make anything easy for his captors?
The third steps were new. Someone who walked with precision and force, each step tattooing authority as they marched across the cement floor. Not a lackey doing a job. One of the power operators?
If so things could be about to change.
Van braced himself even if he might still appear to be weak and not dangerous.
The steps stopped beyond the bars covering one side of the square cell. Three men. The human stoop-shouldered and avoiding eye contact, even beneath his Ku Klux Klan cowl. The doctor leaning forward as if near-sighted. And the third. Something different? Not human. Something Van didn’t cross often and without a reference point he had to guess what type of preternatural he was dealing with. A warlock? Possibly. There was that power stance they usually held. But what would a warlock want with him?
“Mr. Noziak. So nice to see you.” The voice sounded cultured, educated, and supercilious, which also fit a warlock’s description. But there was something else about him. A stillness masking emotion. Excitement?
Van raised his head an inch or two, as if responding to the summons, but more to see if he could identify this third individual.
“I hope you have been treated well during your stay with us.”
Van didn’t bother with a response. The a-hole was goading him, seeing if he could spark a rise, but it’d take more than verbal prodding to get Van to dance to these people’s tune.
The new man glanced at the Doc and nodded. The Doc then moved deeper into the cell.
“How much have you given him?” the newcomer asked, treating Van as invisible.
“Enough to keep him calm. No more.”
“I want nothing to interfere with the trial tomorrow. Cease administration.”
The Doc turned his back to Van who kept his smile to himself. They were growing complacent, which he could work to his advantage.
The Doc stuttered as he spoke. “W-without the drugs he can become violent. Hard to manage.”
They had no idea how hard to manage he would be.
“He might even break free.”
That was the plan.
“Then you must find another way.” Newcomer ordered, adding, “With no risk, there is no reward.” He stepped forward, close enough to raise Van’s head and stare with calculating brown eyes into Van’s own. But he spoke to the Doc as he said, “The trial must be flawless.”
He dropped Van’s head then brushed his palms together as if removing the taint of Van from his cultivated hands.
It took everything Van had not to snarl and betray that seventy percent of his weakness was being faked. He needed to lull them into a false sense of control.
Newcomer pivoted and strolled to the cell door, speaking over his shoulder to the Doc who remained near Van, fear and anger sweating from his skin.
“Till tomorrow Jean-Claude. No mistakes.”
Then he was gone. Jean-Claude, the Doc, shook his head and shuffled after the first man, only stopping long enough to growl at the human. “Do as he says.”
“But-“
“Those are direct orders.”
“And if he breaks free?”
“Either way we’ll die.”
The cell door clanged shut and the footsteps receded.
Van didn’t have any idea what they’d meant by a trial but he’d be ready. A quick glance at the path of the light trail on the floor. It couldn’t move fast enough.
CHAPTER 16
I walked into the Hotel Le Meurice and knew I was in deeper trouble than even I could imagine. And at times I could have a very active imagination.
It wasn’t Mandy and Jaylene silently flanking me like I was on the way to the gallows but they didn’t help. They’d been waiting for me outside Bran’s office building and “escorted” me into a waiting cab, neither saying a word. Jaylene gave me a headshake but it was Mandy’s smug look that was getting to me. I wanted to tell them that I hadn’t ditched them to slight them, but only because I needed to make sure myself, that Bran had not set us up back in the street. It wasn’t something I didn’t want my team aware of immediately if he had. Plus I needed to see if he knew anything else about Vaverek that he wasn’t sharing and thought he might be more open to telling me alone.
That was a big fat no. The telling part at least.
Now, walking through the lobby of a hotel that made frou-frou look pedestrian, I was actually glad for their presence. At least I wasn’t the only one glancing around me, expecting royalty or some VIP to brush past.
So this was how the other half, and Ling Mai, lived.
Sheesh!
By the time we arrived outside her door and knocked my throat was bone-dry and my heart rate double-timing it.
Jaylene must have heard Ling Mai say something from inside as Jaylene opened the door and nodded for me to step in. Alone.
Chicken-hearts.
Then she closed the door behind me.
I was gobsmacked. Silks and brocades, that fancy French furniture with curly-cued legs and gold detailing, and a white with black veined marble fireplace along one wall. A real one.
I wasn’t in a hotel room, I was in a palace. Even the bouquets in big glass vases were real and larger than life.
This had to be the fanciest place I’d ever been in and, given I’d traveled with Bran for almost two weeks from one luxury spot to another, that was saying something.
An intimidation factor? No doubt. Or was this just the way Ling Mai traveled? Yeah, with her timeless Amerasian looks and elegance that dripped from her fingertips, I could see where she’d feel comfortable here.
Not me.
But then that could be a good thing as I straightened my shoulders and braced myself to take her best shot. I had no doubt she planned to use her big guns. Let her try.
I wasn’t the scared little witch that I had been when I’d first come to the Agency. I still wasn’t proficient with my spells and skills, but I was a damn site better than I had been. Her returning me to prison wasn’t the same threat it had been when I first arrived at the Agency. Now if I was sent back it’d cost me time in finding my brother that I couldn’t afford. So I’d do what I had to do to stay in Paris. I’d miss the team if I was booted, but Ling Mai had better know I was not the same witch/shaman she’d hired on only weeks ago.
I looked around the room, not seeing the agency director right away until she walked from a side room to the main room, her footsteps silent as she crossed the patterned silver rug. She was shorter than I was but it took only about two seconds to realize that size didn’t matter around her. She was in charge and
everyone knew it.
“Would you like a seat Ms. Noziak?” It wasn’t really a question as she gestured toward the nearest chair. Good grief the room was big enough to contain half a dozen chairs and not look crowded.
I shook my head. Best to face the firing squad standing upright.
Ling Mai eyed me, watching me from those calm, impenetrable eyes. Ever since first meeting her I felt she was nonhuman, but the silver ring I wore to identify preternaturals never heated around her. On the other hand, the rings all of the team had worn this morning hadn’t worked either, so I’d go with my gut and walk wary around the director. No telling what she could morph into to lop my head off.
She said nothing as she took one of the two chairs facing one another across a coffee table that mirrored the afternoon light off its pristine white surface. I waited, expecting the worst.
Immediate transportation back to the Women’s Correctional facility in Pocatello, Idaho? A strong possibility. Or, now that Ling Mai was aware that I possessed a wildcard magical ability, for I was sure Stone had told her what had happened earlier, there could be other fallout. The Council of Seven didn’t have a holding cell for nonhumans deemed too dangerous to let them remain amongst the human population. They simply killed the offender for the greater good. Could Ling Mai do the same?
Damn, I should have read the fine print on my one-year contract with the agency, but I was jumping so fast at the chance of leaving prison that I would have signed away my soul. Maybe I had.
“You abandoned your team, Miss Noziak.” she paused, then continued, digging my grave deeper. “Plus you ignored a directive from your senior instructor to remain away from the warlock.” Her tone dared me to justify or refute.
There was no need. She was in the right. But she wasn’t finished either.
INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) Page 6
