I stepped back from the wall, holding my hands straight away from me like an extended cross, palms facing skyward. Inhaling a deep breath I skipped the closing my eyes part as just too stupid given the situation.
By Moon beam and Star light heed my will.
By three and nine your power I bind.
I angled myself more toward the moonlight inching through the door.
By Air and Night, keep harm from me and mine.
By two and ten, this power thus bend.
A chill breeze brushed from the outdoors and across my arms. I steadied my voice for the last part.
By Rock and Stone, cast you away.
By one and seven, so mote it be!
Bully be gone. Cast from me and mine.
Now and then, then and now.
So mote it be!
I shouted the last line, shutting my eyes in spite of best intentions. Behind my closed eyes I waited, my breath held, hearing no sounds. No cat, no dog, not even the scuffle in the kitchen.
Spirits be did I kill them all? Again?
Afraid to find out the truth I hesitated then snapped my eyes open.
In front of me only the mastiff remained, rolling its massive shoulders and scanning the room as if to find where his opponent was hiding.
But the Were was gone. Where to?
Did I care?
Suddenly I had to blink against a blinding light that came on overhead.
“What did you do?” Bran said from across the room, looking disheveled and sweaty and very put out as he stood silhouetted in the door jam leading into what I assumed was the kitchen area.
I took a deep breath but didn’t move. Not with the Fido from hell still way too close for my comfort. “Why do you always assume I’m the one at fault?”
“Because you usually are.”
“Tosh.”
His brows raised so high they were hidden in locks of his dark hair. “Where did you send them?”
“Don’t know.” Didn’t care. Just damn glad I was alive. For now. I shrugged, twisting my neck to ease the tightness there, wondering how one coaxed a mastiff outside. “Shoo,” I said, waving my hands. “Go, fetch.”
“Fetch what?” Bran asked, stepping further into the room and closer to the dog.
“I don’t care what, I just want him gone.”
“Why?”
I pointed at the dog, half expecting Bran to act like the massive beast wasn’t there. The dog at least had enough good manners to flop down on the floor and lay its head in its man-sized paws.
Bran started laughing as he walked around the dog to reach and close the still open door. “Are you talking about François?”
“That’s not François. He’s a poodle.”
“He was a poodle.” the arrogant warlock used a tone no doubt meant to calm children. “Now he’s a mastiff.”
No way.
“Shifters can’t do that.” Now that I wasn’t afraid for my life I was starting to get pissed and my tone said so.
“He’s not exactly a shifter.” Bran lifted one shoulder as he returned to the dog and leaned over to scratch François between the ears.
François just growled, which I understood perfectly. When he shifted or morphed back to his human form he’d have a lot of explaining to do but right now I had other questions for Bran.
“What were you fighting in the kitchen?” I asked, moving to a fifties-style couch set dead center in the cavernous room and sinking down on it. My legs no longer felt steady.
“Another Were. No idea what kind.” he said, crossing over to sit beside me. He shot me one of his classic focused looks. The kind you want to squirm under. “You hurt?”
“Mostly my pride.” No way was I going to admit I felt bruised from one end to the other. Noziaks took their lumps and kept on going. “You?”
“A few scratches.”
It was my turn to glance at him, too many questions pushing against me. “Why do you think they didn’t immediately attack as Weres? They’d have been a lot deadlier.”
“Don’t think they wanted corpses.”
“What did they want?”
“Hostages? Something other than to kill us that’s for sure.”
“Did you recognize them?” I asked, bracing for the answer.
He gave me a WTH look then he must have decided not fighting with me was a better idea as he sighed and shook his head. “Never saw them before.”
“Did they follow us?”
“Only thing that makes sense. No one knew where we’d be otherwise.”
“Were they after all of us?”
“Not likely.” He sounded tired, or maybe it was just thoughtful. “If they followed us they would have had to have known we’d been at the museum, which indicates forethought and planning.”
“Vaverek?” The name popped out.
“That would be my guess.”
“But why?”
“Tell me what happened back at the museum, with Cheverill.”
I summarized as succinctly as I could, aware that even with the door closed, I was shaking. Muscle burn? Possibly. Fear was more likely. Fear of the unknown. Someone was pulling strings, playing a game I didn’t understand. One with high stakes.
I finished telling Bran everything I knew, except for the dying man’s words about the Seekers and the name Jebediah. The first was strictly agency business and the latter was nobody’s business but my own.
He remained quiet, which usually worried me because his silences were not the peaceful kind. They were more the all-hell-is-going-to-break-loose once the thought process was finished. But here in this open, strange place I found I liked just sitting next to him. François, if that was indeed who the mastiff was, acted more like a family pet instead of a killer Fido at our feet.
I leaned against the couch back, aware how tired I was. What happened to Jaylene and Mandy? Had they told Ling Mai what had transpired at the museum? Why I’d bombed out of the place? Or was I on my own?
And what was happening with Van? Another day had passed and still no word on my brother.
“When was the last time you ate?” Bran asked, his shoulder brushing mine.
Good question. “I had some pastry while at the café waiting for Fido here to show up.”
The dog cocked one ear toward me but otherwise didn’t stir.
“You hungry?”
“Nah.” I wasn’t. I was too tired to be hungry. Was it only this morning that we’d had the rumble outside of Vaverek’s apartment? I glanced at Bran, seeing the way the single room light cast shadows across his face, slashing lines that made him more dangerous warlock. It was a good look and I could feel the kick start of my libido responding.
I never did have the sense not to get involved with the bad boys. And Bran was as bad-ass a bad boy as I’d ever crossed paths with, even when dressed like the international businessman he was.
“Why are you being nice to me?” I asked, so wiped out the words escaped before I could corral them.
He turned his head, a lazy smile playing about his lips. I remembered the taste of those lips. Man, did I remember. His words sounded like slow, warm molasses. “Maybe because you look like you were on the losing end of a fight with a Were.”
“You charmer you.” But there was no heat behind my words. To have sparks you needed energy.
As if he heard my exhaustion, or wondered who was sitting next to him without taking his head off, he straightened, facing me. “Turn around,” he said.
“Why?” Okay, maybe there were a few sparks left.
“I want to give your shoulders a rub. Looks like it might help.”
Damn, way to sneak under a woman’s defenses. I was so stiff though that it took a while to turn enough to give him access to my back.
By all the Spirits his hands felt good. Strong and sure and perfect. He kneaded muscles like he did everything else, very thorough and intense.
I may have released a small moan as his fingers started loosening knots I didn’
t know I possessed.
“The only thing holding you together is tension,” he murmured in that low, sexy way he had. Sort of a cross between a rumble and a caress.
“Hmmmmmm.”
“You keep this up and you won’t be any good to anybody.”
I had to smile as his words implied I mattered, at least a little. Something he’d never dare to tell me face-to-face. Guess it’d be hard to threaten and compliment in the same sentence.
“You should give up dress designing and become a masseuse,” I sighed as the silence stretched between us. Not the usual tautness since Dominique’s death, but a calm hush that let my shoulders relax, the misgivings of the day slide away. I leaned forward, wallowing in the warmth of his hands along my neck, down my spine, heating my lower back.
If he kept it up I’d weep. Or turn around and crawl all over him.
“Your tensing up again,” he said, stroking my back with long, sure touches. “What are you thinking about?”
“Us.”
I didn’t realize I’d said the word aloud until I heard his chuckle. I twisted to glance over my shoulder but found I couldn’t speak. Not with the way he looked, heat in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils, the tightening of his jaw. I swear I could smell his arousal. Or was it my own.
“Bran . . .”
I didn’t know what I wanted other than him. And that was pure stupid.
He said nothing, as if waiting for me to dig both our graves.
I shook my head as if one or both of us had spoken. “Not a good idea.”
His lips quirked upwards but no smile reached his eyes.
It took everything I had to move, to pull myself away, and stand up, locking my legs because they quivered. Not exhaustion this time but with a need I wasn’t willing to admit. “It’s late.”
Stupid comment but better than asking where the nearest bedroom was, though that was my implication. Even I knew not to throw kerosene onto a fire.
He nodded toward a door I hadn’t noticed yet. The space felt more like it had originally been, a warehouse rather than a home, so it threw me for a few seconds as to what he meant by his gesture.
“Your room,” he said at last, his voice raspy and raw, as if he was struggling as much as I was.
Thank the Spirits. I hated being the only puddle of need.
Fido François yawned at my feet, which helped give me enough umph to move. I’d forgotten all about his presence, which only went to show how far gone I was.
I waited until I was across the room, as far from Bran as possible before I turned and trusted my tone enough to say, “Thank you. For the back rub.”
It was meant to be light and casual. But all I could see was Bran’s look that promised we were not done yet. What smoldered between us was not over. Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER 28
Jeb woke shortly after nine though it’d been after six when he finally returned to his bedroom last night, or better yet, that same morning.
The French police were less aggressive than he expected, or maybe the first go around was only meant as a warm-up. No questions about Alex. Most about his relationship with Philippe. From some of the questions asked Jeb realized his old friend had fingers in far more pies than even Jeb knew about. Business interests. Politics. International connections.
Before he’d closed his eyes, jet lag and grief pummeling him, Jeb had tried a journey to the other side, to see if he could connect with Philippe. No such luck. Not that Jeb held high hopes. One didn’t dabble in the spirit world like a quick day trip to the seashore. To really learn anything he needed to treat his gift as the responsibility it was.
Later then, after he asked some more questions of Pádraig. And after he found new lodgings. He didn’t feel right being in his old friend’s home alone. Not because of fear of a threat against his own life, but Philippe possessed a bounty of possessions and, in spite of the Frenchman’s words to the contrary, Jeb didn’t trust Pádraig enough yet. All the protégé had to do was point a finger or raise some doubts as to what might be missing in the house and Jeb would suffer. One’s reputation, once stained, remained stained.
Stretching and mentally reviewing what needed to be done first, Jeb’s eye was caught by a piece of paper slipped beneath the door. The cream color stood out against the silk Isfahan rug of golds and blues.
How did someone get the note get into the house and know which door to slide it under?
Jeb felt the quality of the note as he picked it up. It was handwritten in older fashioned ink, in a style it took a few moments to decipher. When he did his heart stuttered.
Your son is in danger. Your daughter is not safe.
If you wish to see either again:
Noon – Small park behind 72 Rue de Varenne.
Come alone.
The last line felt like a kick. With Philippe dead, Jeb had no one else to come with him. He had no doubt he’d go. As soon as he figured out how to grab a taxi and find the location.
He dressed with a jerky, rough urgency, though he had several hours before he was supposed to arrive at the location noted. But he wanted to get a feel of the place, a sense if this was a trap or worse.
By the time he opened the door he had a rudimentary plan. But he didn’t expect to see Pádraig waiting for him in the hallway. Last time he’d seen the young man was exiting his own interrogation last night. By the time Jeb finished with his and showed the police out of the townhouse Pádraig was long gone.
“What are you doing here?” he said, his voice brusquer than he meant as the younger man stepped back.
“I was sent to summon you to a meeting of the Council today.” Jeb remembered that Pádraig was involved with Council business in a periphery capacity. Sort of a Sergeant-at-Arms, who had acted as Philippe’s right hand. Most of the members, except for Jeb, had an associate. That individual had no say in decisions made but was held to the same level of accountability and secrecy. Right now Pádraig looked as tired and strained as Jeb felt. “At one. Chamber locations.”
Good. Whatever was going to happen at the designated park took precedence. Depending on the outcome there, whatever had been set up, Jeb would attend the Council meeting. Since there would only be six present it could not be a formal meeting, and no doubt it’d been convened as a result of Philippe’s death. But the speed of calling all the remaining members told Jeb one thing for sure. The other associates, who represented all seven continents, must be in close enough proximity with such short notice.
“Will all the Council be in attendance?” he asked Pádraig.
“Oui. We have been called to discuss the issue of the dress designer and the possibility of drugs that could expose non-humans to the human population.”
But Jeb had not officially been summoned. Not yet at least. Interesting. Jeb’s tone must have said as much as Pádraig cleared his throat and added, “Five of the members were at the soiree last night. Where . . . where, you know. . .”
“Where Philippe was killed?”
“Oui.”
Jeb’s radar just tilted from interesting to dangerous. Were some factions within the Council banding together against other members? “Was there Council business being held there?”
Pádraig gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Not that I was aware of, though Philippe might have had his own agenda, outside of the Council.”
Then why have the Council members near? Unease rode Jeb. Too many coincidences happening. Van’s disappearance. Jeb being in Paris at the summons of an old friend. The threats against Alex. What drew the other members here, too?
Something was going down, he just wished the hell he understood what.
Without another word he started toward the door, his duffel bag clenched in his hand.
“You going somewhere?” Pádraig asked, a frown carving a groove between his brows.
“I’ll be staying elsewhere.” Jeb’s tone indicated his mind was on more pressing issues. It was just half past nine but he felt the time pushing at
him.
“You seem disturbed. Did something happen after I left last night?”
“No.” Jeb looked at the Irishman and reined in his impatience. This was still Philippe’s friend, his protégé. He deserved more. “I received some news. About my children. I’m going to look into it now.”
Pádraig lifted his brows but said nothing.
“Did you leave a note under my door last night?” Jeb asked.
“No.”
The word sounded sincere. But if the young man hadn’t done, who had?
“May I help?”
Three of the most powerful words when one needed assistance desperately.
“How well do you know Paris?” Jeb asked, still hesitating.
“I’ve lived here for over ten years.”
That surprised him. Pádraig didn’t look older than his mid-thirties, no doubt because he was a druid, masters at illusions. They could give the fae a run for their money.
“I have a vehicle if that will help you.” The Irishman’s voice not only held assurance, it offered a solution to one of the issues Jeb wrestled with—transportation.
“If you wish me to wait in the car I’ll do that,” he added. “Besides, it’ll give me something to do. This damnable business . . . I need to be doing something. Anything.”
Pádraig sounded like Jeb felt, being driven to action to break the stupor of standing around drowning in uselessness. “Come with me, then.”
The other man smiled, straightening his shoulders and for the first time since Philippe called, Jeb felt like the fog was lifting.
CHAPTER 29
I woke up feeling like I’d been someone’s punching bag and groaned aloud as I rolled over in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar room, trying to orient myself. A slice of sun skimmed a streamlined armoire against a brick wall.
INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) Page 11
