INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS)

by Buckham, Mary

“I shouldn’t have . . .”

  We both stopped and I waved him on. He looked like he’d prefer to swallow his tongue but he cleared his throat and said, “I know what I’m asking you to do here. I should have been more forthright about this being a possibility when we left the hotel this afternoon.”

  And that’s why he kept turning my world topsy-turvy. Warlocks didn’t offer apologies, because they’d have to admit they were in the wrong. Yet that’s exactly what he’d just done. How could you fight a concession? More not playing fair. At this rate he could write the handbook on how to mess with a woman’s head. And heart.

  I angled my head to look at him, really seeing the cost of his words. He was mage-born which meant he understood the price of black magic. Most warlocks and sorcerers not only went down the path of black magic, they raced toward it, arms wide open. White magic was benign and helpful for life’s small things, sort of the Band-Aid on the world’s dings and bruises. Black magic was the opposite. If you had an owie white magic would make you feel better. If your femoral artery was cut you called on black magic. You’d save your limb but lose your soul in the process.

  I glanced away, looking at the circle, stilling the beating of my heart. Bran knew since he’d returned from the Council meeting earlier that we’d end up here. I think that’s what bothered me the most. He knew but hadn’t been honest enough to say up front, hey, remember how you used me yesterday? Well, payback’s a bitch.

  But that’s not what I really wanted to say. I was afraid. For him, for me; if the Council acted against him. If we couldn’t find Vaverek. So many ifs I was swallowed whole by them. The words on the tip of my tongue scared me. Scared me more than what I was about to do.

  Thankfully François and Willie returned before I had to come up with a nice lie – one of the kind that started with, it doesn’t really matter.

  “François thought this should be cold water but I figured warm water would be nicer to put your hands into.” Willie clutched the bowl in his wide grip. “If that’s what you’re going to do.”

  “I am.” I smiled at him. A sight he obviously wasn’t used to, or maybe because it’d been twice in a row, but he ducked his head as if I’d patted him, or scared the crap out of him, disarming him before I attacked.

  Okay, reputation well deserved.

  Before I reached out to grab the bowl I erased a portion of the chalk line with the toe of the fancy shoes François had given me only yesterday. They sure didn’t look like pricey designer shoes anymore.

  I set the bowl in the middle of the circle as I grabbed the candles and thrust them toward François. “Here I need these set in the following directions—To the south, place the red one; North, the brown; West, the blue, and orange in the east.”

  François handed two to Bran, one to Willie and they all set them out as I re-chalked the line and returned to the middle where the bowl of water and the bloodied napkin rested on the floor. I kept my eyes averted from it but it was like a lighthouse beacon pulsing at me, warning me of danger.

  As if I didn’t know that already.

  “When I say so I want you to light the candles.” I took a deep breath before adding, “No matter what happens you must remain absolutely silent and stay outside the circle.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Willie asked.

  “If all goes right I find the general area where Van is.”

  “And if not—ow, I was just asking,” he snapped at François.

  It was Bran who answered, though. “Let’s focus on making sure all goes right.”

  I bet the guys who took up bomb disposal heard the same comment on their first day of the job. Because that’s what it felt like right then. I faced a ten-ton bomb with shaking fingers.

  CHAPTER 51

  The first part of the ritual was the easiest part, consecrating with salt and water before I cast the scrying spell. I raised my anathema dagger, which I’d placed in the middle of the circle before I drew my chalk boundaries. Yes, I knew most witches called it an athame, but one of the last things I remembered about my mother before she disappeared from my world was her asking me for her dagger and calling hers an anathema. The word has stuck ever since. One of these days I was going to find out that meaning, but not right now. I needed to focus. One hundred percent align my intention and my thoughts.

  I touched the tip of my dagger to the water and began the purification chant:

  O creature of water, I banish thee.

  Cast before me all uncleanliness and impurity of illusion, of ghosts, of spirits who seek harm.

  I moved the anathema to the pile of salt I’d poured on the floor and touched it lightly intoning:

  Cast forth all malignancy and hindrances be. Break the barriers held against thy good.

  Enter herein all aid and assistance. I call thee forth to render support. That though mayest be.

  Then I mixed the salt into the water, stirring it with the anathema in easy smooth strokes, using the restraint to calm and center me.

  I set the dagger to the side and glanced to the moon’s light through the window.

  I conjure thee oh orb of light and guidance. Circle of power I call upon thee to guide and protect.

  Between the worlds of men and realms of the Mighty Ones you who see all assist in finding that which I seek.

  Raise within thee thy power to bless and consecrate this search.

  “Light the candles now,” I whispered, closing my eyes and trusting my assistants outside of the circle. “First the east. The south, then west, and last, the north.”

  I listed to the flare of matches struck and called aloud the sacred words.

  Yod He Vau He

  Adonai

  Eheieh

  Agla

  East to the waxing moon.

  South to the heat.

  West to the waning light.

  North to the warrior spirits.

  Cast back the darkness that I may see.

  So mote it be.

  Only then did I open my eyes and reach for the bloodied napkin. Blood of my brother. Focus of my heart. Let me see you.

  I picked up my ritual knife again and sliced a clean line down the palm of my left hand then picked up the napkin and squeezed it tight.

  I expected a jolt. I didn’t expect a tsunami of magic and pain slamming against me.

  A blast of light blinded me as I twirled and twirled through a tunnel of darkness. I gasped for air but there wasn’t any, only cold, ice coating my skin, freezing my blood.

  This was it. I was going to die. Alone. Lost. Caught in a space between realms.

  There wasn’t even time to mourn as one last violent spin spat me through a gap where I splatted onto an unforgiving floor.

  Where the Great Spirits was I?

  CHAPTER 52

  Van slowly, inch by inch roused himself, aware he was once again chained to the wall, but for how long he had no idea. Something had roused him from the stupor weighting his body, numbing the pain but only to a low roar.

  His mouth cracked it was so dry but that wasn’t his first worry. They were going to do something to him, with him. But what? Think.

  Nothing would come except the certainty that he was about to die. That wasn’t what was bothering him though. It was something else.

  A sound stirred his awareness. A rustle.

  The doctor coming back? He’d never entered the cell in the dark hours but that could change. Was that what was pushing at him?

  “Van?” A voice called to him, a familiar voice, but one that had no reason to be here. Another hallucination, like the others that promised on one hand and made him quake on the other.

  “Van, is that really you?” A shuffle of movement against straw and then hands against him.

  He screamed at the pain. The hands withdrew.

  “By the Goddess, what have they done to you?” It was Alex. Only she used that witch-word around him. But she couldn’t be here.

  He raised his chin as high as he could and sucked
in an oath. “Alex?”

  “Of course it is. How many sisters do you have? And how in hells bells are we going to get you out of here?”

  He shook his head. It had to be Alex, no one else could scratch and offer help in the same breath.

  “Escape,” he whispered, aware his lips cracked and bled. “Before they know.”

  “Who are they?” She was poking and prodding at him, tugging at the silver chains, burning his raw skin.

  “Power broker.” There was another. Oh, yeah, how could he forget? “The doctor.”

  “Not helping me,” she snarled, releasing him to tug at the wall attachments. He could have told her it’d do no good. If he as a shifter couldn’t budge them what was a witch going to accomplish? Even as determined a witch as his sister.

  She had to leave. Not only was she making a lot of noise cursing under her breath and straining against the restraints, something niggled his memory. Something about them, what they wanted.

  “Well, you’ve got yourself in a fine pickle,” she huffed, stepping back and glaring as she threw her braid over her shoulder in a gesture so familiar it created a whole new pain in him. He didn’t think she meant the look for him and he could hear the fear beneath her words but he still gave a rusty laugh.

  “Oh sure, yuck it up. Any suggestions about how to release you might be nice.”

  “How’d you . . .” The thought vanished, too hard to hold on to.

  “Get here?” She shook her head. “Stupid spell backfired.” Then she added in a smaller voice he doubted she knew he could hear, “At least I think it backfired.”

  Her words jumpstarted his heart into beating harder, pouring blood through his system, clearing the fogginess for a second. “Can you escape?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, chewing her lip. “Don’t know.“ Then she stepped closer, raising one hand to his chin, her touch very gentle and un-Alex like. She was more the smack-you-once then smack-you-again kind of gal.

  “I’ll kill whoever did this to you.”

  This time his laugh held more spirit. “You and me both.”

  She glanced around the cell again and out the small window. “You know where we are?”

  “Cell.”

  “Duh! I mean any idea where in the city are we? If we’re still in the Paris.”

  He shook his head, each move costing.

  “Great, so we’ll have to do this the hard way,” she muttered, stepping closer and placing her hands on one chain.

  Nothing happened. Or maybe he blacked out again. Either way when he stirred himself and looked over at her there were tears tracking down her cheeks. Alex never cried. Never.

  “What happened?” he growled, his wolf near the surface, willing to fight whoever put the grief he saw in her eyes.

  “Nothing,” she mouthed more than said the word, shaking her head. “I can’t do it. I don’t know any magic to break the binds. Nothing that I can do here. Now.”

  He found himself relaxing, knowing the frustration only too well. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.” There was more power in her words now, her hands clenched as if she wanted to punch someone, just didn’t know who. “We’ve got to get you out of here. Time is running out. I don’t know how long the spell will last.”

  He shook his head. “You’ve got to go.”

  She turned away from him, walking the perimeter of the cell as if looking for a weakness. Against the far bars she stumbled across the corpse and started gagging. With her sleeve over her mouth she managed to ask, “What . . . who . . .”

  “Jailor.” He licked his lips and tried for more. “Power broker got pissed.”

  She stumbled away from the body, not removing her arm from her face until she drew near to Van again. “I can’t believe I didn’t smell him earlier.” With a shudder, she shook herself and stood close so her words wouldn’t carry. “Tell me about the park. Who were you with? Why’d you shift in public?”

  Her words hit like body blows. Vague images danced just outside his thoughts. The more he strained to remember, the faster they tangoed. All he had to offer was a stuttered shaking of his head. Then one image slammed against him. “Dad?”

  Her expression tightened as if she’d sucked on a lemon.

  “Did I . . . did I kill . . .“ His thoughts jarred with his questions. No way. No way would he ever fight his father.

  “You didn’t kill him,” she said, each word a nail against his heart.

  “Why?”

  She knew what he meant. Not why didn’t he kill his beloved father but why would he even consider fighting him.

  “Long story.” She scrubbed a hand over her face, her voice low and tense. “They’re drugging you. Making you do things against your will.”

  “No.” He shook his head, the movement becoming stronger and stronger as he fought what she was telling him. “No.”

  She rested her hands on his shoulders, calming him by touch as she whipped him with each word she uttered, “You have no choice. That’s the way the drug works. Then it wipes your memory.”

  It made no sense. Nothing tracked, not to his human half, not to his wolf self. “Kill me now,” he whispered, aware this might be his only chance. If what she said was true, he wouldn’t risk more lives.

  That’s what he’d remember, the pushing thought that had escaped him before. “Again,” the word trailed off.

  She stepped closer, cupping his chin in as light a touch as possible, one that still burned through him. “They’re going to use you again? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  “Tomorrow.” Isn’t that what they’d said. With a half turn he looked at the moonlight peeking through the slit in the wall. “Today. Don’t know. Soon.”

  “Oh, Van. I won’t let that happen.”

  Hope flared then died within the same breath. Whoever these people were they would not be stopped just because Alex wanted them to stop.

  “Can you give me anything?” she asked, laying her forehead against his chest. “Any hint of who or what they are?”

  There was one thing. Not that it’d do her any good. “Were . . .”

  “Where is something?”

  He shook his head, then heard the sound he’d feared. Adrenaline coursed through him, helping him fight the lethargy, the pain making thought and words so difficult. “Go. Now.” He pulled forward on the chair, masking his words to her with the rattle of his chains. “Were. Find the Were.”

  She looked at the silver binding him, knowing she couldn’t have him shift into his wolf self with so much silver surrounding him. Then she froze, hearing at last what he’d already heard, the squeak and shuffle of the far door opening and some one coming.

  She kept her head, but he expected no less from a Noziak. He could scent her fear as she glanced around the small space. Nowhere to hide. No way out.

  Inhaling a deep breath, she kissed his cheek then retreated to the far corner, one obscured by shadows. He hated to point out that she was still visible and would be the minute whoever was swinging a flashlight turned the illumination on her as he came down the hall.

  He started to growl and rattle his chains, no matter his throat was raked raw, his skin bleeding enough he caught the scent of fresh blood. He hoped to keep the focus of whoever was coming on him, only him.

  With his shifter hearing he could hear Alex’s whispers above his sounds.

  Betwixt and between. Guide and protect.

  Betwixt and between. Shield thine in this darkest hour.

  Betwixt and between. Command the seen to beunseen.

  Enchant those eyes who seek harm.

  So mote it be.

  This was his sister, who rarely even played with her magic. What the hell did she think she was going to accomplish now?

  Whoever was coming was drawing nearer.

  Now they’d both die.

  CHAPTER 53

  Jeb turned off Philippe’s computer, rubbing tired eyes as he looked at the stack of printouts next to
his monitor. He might be a Rez rat from Idaho but even he knew how to find a wealth of information via the Internet. He’d been searching for the last three hours to compile anything and everything he could on this Bran, the warlock.

  Even as exhausted as he was he was still impressed. If he didn’t know the dress designer was a warlock, he might have bought into the rags-to-riches story of a kid from wealth, but more as a pawn between the two egos who’d birthed him, who clawed his way to the top of a small but very competitive industry.

  But Jeb did know warlocks, knew how they thought and how they loved playing the game, no matter who they screwed over in the process. How Alex got herself involved with this mage was out of Jeb’s ken, but he did know that he’d move anything in the physical or spiritual realm to make sure his little girl wasn’t going to get hurt.

  “Late night,” Pádraig spoke from the doorway leading into Philippe’s study.

  Jeb hadn’t even realized the young man was still awake. He was thankful Pádraig had asked to remain at Philippe’s home as that gave Jeb permission to remain too. The more he learned about the intrigues swirling around Philippe and the Council the more he suspected there would be answers here, in this place.

  “Had a little more research to do,” Jeb said, offering Pádraig a tired smile. “You’re up late.”

  “Ever since the Council told me to be prepared for tomorrow my mind has been whirring.” The Irishman rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Can’t sleep.”

  Jeb knew about the closed Council session before the formally convened meeting tomorrow but didn’t have any details about what was going to be discussed among the six remaining members. Getting a bunch of preternaturals sharing information ahead of time wasn’t ever going to happen, at least for another few centuries, after old memories faded. It made sense that the conversation would involve a replacement for Philippe’s spot but beyond that Jeb didn’t have a clue so could offer Pádraig no advice or guidance.

  The Irishman was a druid, as Philippe had been, but fairly young and as a result, lacking in experience. There were not many true-born druids and as a race they were old ones, as old as the fae but more haughty. A running joke among non-humans was that the word arrogance, from the Latin word arrogans, had been coined to describe druid behavior. But then the druids always maintained the word was created for the warlocks, ancient enemies. And so the feuds continued.