“You still there?” Vaughn asked me then spoke to Stone loud enough that I could hear. “Go back to sleep. Nothing to do with you.”
Yet.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I mumbled into the phone, wondering and not for the first time, if this was a bad idea. “I don’t want to put you in the middle of something.”
Vaughn laughed. “Part of the territory. What’s up?”
And there it was. That unconditional support, no questions asked, just an implied I’ve-got-your-back. I never expected it. Never looked for it, especially from a group of strangers and a group of women.
I released a sigh I didn’t even realize I’d been holding and gave her a quick overview of everything, or as much of everything as I could share. The whole Were agitation, potential involvement of the Council, suspicion of how and where my brother was going to be used to destabilize the whole human versus non-human status. When I finished there was silence.
“Damn, you’ve been busy.”
If she’d been closer I’d have given her a big hug and I wasn’t a huggy- feely kind of person.
“So what now?” she asked, all awake.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I was hoping you and the team might be in the vicinity tomorrow. As backup.”
Vaughn’s voice lowered. “You know who probably won’t like it.”
“Our director?” I whispered though there was no one on my end listening in.
“Yup.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that.” I rushed through the next part. “Which is why this is all unofficial and under the table. If the team, or as many members of the team who are okay with the plan, just happen to be at the palace at Versailles tomorrow around ten, and if they see some bad shit going down, and jump in, then I can ask for forgiveness later.”
“As opposed to permission beforehand?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
She paused as I heard my heart beat hard within my chest. Please, please, please, say yes.
“Funny thing,” she said as if chatting girl-to-girl anywhere. “Just happen to want to see Versailles. One of my favorite spots from when I was here as a girl.”
My shoulders dropped from around my ears and my hand unclenched from the phone. “Vaverek will be there, so this could get ugly.” No could about it. Vaverek was a nasty piece of putrid meat and he was willing to do whatever he needed to do to accomplish his agenda. Tough, so was I.
“No worries,” came Vaughn’s casual reply. Damn, I adored her.
“Ten a.m.,” I repeated. “I’ll call you when I have exact location details.”
“We’ll be there.” She made it sound as if we were all meeting for a coffee clutch.
I’d just about hit the disconnect button when I added a rushed, “Thanks, Vaughn. You’re the best.”
“I agree,” Stone mumbled into the phone then the line went dead.
Great. How much had he heard? All of it if he was anything like Bran. Control issues and no sense of playing fair.
Okay, maybe I’d just screwed up Vaughn’s position on the team. Mine was toast already but saving Van’s life was worth it.
I only hoped Ling Mai would agree when Stone told her.
CHAPTER 60
Jeb stood in the liquid sunshine of an early spring morning in one of the side chambers of the Petit Trianon in the palace of Versailles, waiting for the initial formal meeting in the salon. He looked without really seeing the designed pastoral feel of the grounds, a world apart from his idea of a rural landscape. His gaze lighted on the infamous saut-de-loup, or wolf jump, a ten-foot drop used to give the illusion of accessibility to the French people who wished to see their king and queen, but in reality kept the masses away from the royal court.
Jeb knew how those masses felt, frustrated to be kept just out of reach of what was truly happening. Both his shaman self and his shifter wolf could feel the tension among the Council members and their entourages, including Pádraig. Like the lull before a late summer lightning storm, an edgy restlessness skating the razor edge between euphoric and manic, without any clear reason for either. Not as far as Jeb could see.
He’d tried again last night to reach Philippe on the astral plane but failed. It was as if his friend danced just outside Jeb’s reach, always present but at the same time aggravatingly absent. Even this location where Jeb stood had the touch of Philippe in its arrangement, or so it felt as they reached the ornate Palace of Versailles.
Leave it to Philippe to requisition several of the rooms of le Petit Trianon, a building designed for the mistresses of one king and given by another king as a retreat for the young Marie Antoinette. Philippe no doubt had to pull a few strings to have the rooms available but also would have enjoyed the irony of holding a Council meeting in a location known for its illusions.
And that’s what Jeb was battling—a series of illusions, where nothing seemed quite as it was in reality. Zeid, the Dominatui who posed as a butler, was an illusion. So was this warlock who was involved with his daughter. And the traitor? The one Zeid spoke about? Within the Council or close enough to be perceived as belonging. He, or she felt very, very real, though still hidden. Illusion within illusions.
Jeb considered himself a simple man, which is why he’d avoided Council politics. But that same aversion was biting him on the ass now.
“Are you ready?” Pádraig had entered the room from the far door though Jeb had not heard him. Another sign of his distraction.
“Are they prepared for the full Council?” he asked, touching the medallion within his pocket, the only overt sign of rank and power. Others had asked for robes, one even requested a crown, to show his position as one of the privileged Council members. Jeb had helped shoot down both ideas. By this stage all present should know who and what they were. Since few outsiders were invited to Council meetings, unless to face a judgment or place a petition that had been vetted by lesser circles of power, there should be no need to flaunt who they were to one another.
But times changed.
Pádraig nodded his head. “We’re meeting in the red salon.”
Jeb followed the younger man’s lead, noticing as he did how Pádraig walked on the balls of his feet as he moved into the room that drew its name from the ostentatious mirrored walls and watermelon red satin chairs. He was sure they had a different name for the color but they reminded him of the late summer fruit that grew so well in the long hot weather of Mud Lake.
He also realized he was no longer focusing on Pádraig so almost ran into the young man’s back as he came to a sudden halt.
With a quick shuffle Jeb side-stepped the Irishman to see what was happening.
A large, formal table that fit the room had been dragged to the center, with six formal chairs pulled up to it. On the back of each one draped a dark purple robe.
Obviously things were changing faster than Jeb expected.
Cristobal Íñigo de Mendoza, the Council’s vampire representative who was even older than the room they stood in, waited at the head of the table, his smile shark-sharp. Beside him aligned the witches and demons. Talk about an unholy triumvirate. That left Wei Pei isolated against the far wall, his eyes nervous, his fingers tap dancing along the cloak he’d already donned. Tintilla, the fae representative had not yet appeared, which was normal. She loved to stage a dramatic entrance. He wondered where she would stand in the divisions already shaping the Council. Philippe would have been dismayed. His funeral not even over and the alliances he’d carefully crafted over the years torn asunder.
It wasn’t looking good for the shifters.
Pádraig cleared his throat, which reminded Jeb of the young man’s presence. He was the only one not of the presiding group.
Before Jeb could assimilate the meaning of that Cristobal waved one hand toward two empty seats. “Pádraig, if you will stand here.” He pointed to his right. “And Jebediah, you opposite if you would be so kind. Next to Wei Pei.”
So that was where the old one saw Jeb. Not on
the winning side. Not verbally aligned otherwise, but of no import or consequence.
Pádraig stood behind one of the chairs, his smile looking strained, but still in place. So how did the young man fit into the machinations already in play?
Cristobal called them to order, even without Tintilla’s presence. “If you will all don your cloaks.”
Jeb felt like Alex when she used to play dress up, but said nothing, betrayed nothing. Now was not the time.
“Ah, Tintilla, my precious. It is good of you to join us.” Cristobal’s words said one thing, his tone another, but then the man had learned statecraft sparring with Henry the Eighth of England. Or was it the Seventh?
Tintilla sauntered in as was her wont, casting Jeb a quick glance that spoke volumes. The fae queen did not like surprises and this appeared to have disturbed her sense of equilibrium.
“Are we to have a theatrical event?” she asked in her high, clear voice as she swept the cloak off her chair, one to the right of Cristobal. “If I’d known I’d have brought my own costume. One of silk.”
The vampire ignored her question as he glanced away and stated to all, “We’ve waited long enough for you Tintilla, now act your age and don the cloak.”
Even Pádraig heard the undertones beneath the order as well as catching the tightening of Tintilla’s patrician features. No one knew her age exactly but if they’d promoted the senior member of the Council by age alone she would now be standing in Cristobal’s place.
Which raised the question: Why was the vampire being so presumptuous?
As if Jeb had asked the question aloud Cristobal waved one elegant hand. “I know I am not our dearly lost brother, Philippe, but I’m sure he, as well as all of you know of the need for a smooth and quick transition. We do not wish the Council to be perceived as weak or indecisive in this time of change.”
“And that time would be what?” Wei Pei piped up. Jeb was glad the shifter had asked the question but wished he’d been able to do so with less shakiness to his voice.
“All in good time my dear, Wei Pei. First things first. Pádraig, if you would be so kind as to stand beside me here.”
Pádraig raised his chin and moved next to the vampire, close enough that Cristobal was able to drape one skinny arm across the young man’s shoulders.
So that was the way of things? Jeb kept his gaze somewhere between the two of them, kicking himself for not seeing the handwriting sooner.
“I’m sure we have all known of Pádraig’s devotion to not only his mentor Philippe but to the Council’s business, especially in this past year.”
While Jeb buried his head in the sand and grieved the loss of Alex and his failure as a father.
“I find no need to extol his virtues to those of us who take an active part in our Council duties.”
A sharp and not-so-subtle jab at Jeb and probably Wei Pei and Tintilla as well. Jeb heard Wei Pei’s quick intake of air and Tintilla’s face was looking sharper and sharper by the moment.
“I hereby recommend Pádraig Byrne to assume the seat recently vacated by Philippe Cheverill.”
Cristobal made it sound as if Philippe had stepped outside as opposed to having been murdered and Jeb found the tightness in his jaw increasing. Fortunately the clapping of the Zinzin, the Kuoura Demon and Breena McShay, the Celtic witch kept the attention on everyone front and center.
“And the vote?” Jeb hadn’t realized he’d spoken the question aloud. He looked at Pádraig’s raised brow expression as he titled his head and added, “It’s tradition.” A quick glance at Cristobal who was not pleased. “You do not wish any rumors of improper procedures being raised at a later date. That could put Pádraig’s position in jeopardy.” And yours too, remained unstated.
Maybe he should not have raised the issue. But the last thing Philippe would have wanted was whatever turmoil gripped the Council to spill over to the larger world of preternaturals. Their existence was challenging enough.
And Philippe believed in his protégé, even if Jeb still harbored some doubts. Especially now, at the rapidity of the druid stepping into a position of power with less vetting than one hired a clerk at a convenience store.
“Our shaman member does have a valid point,” Tintilla conceded, fluttering one hand though she was not usually given to such gestures. “Propriety matters in such times.”
By throwing the vampire’s words back at him the fae deepened the rift between her kind and the nightwalker’s kind, not that there was any chance they’d see eye-to-eye.
“So shall it be.” Cristobal’s words sounded like chewed glass. “Pádraig, if you will leave us for a moment.” He did not wait for the druid to leave before he added, “And you too Jebediah.”
All gazes snapped to Jeb who focused on the vampire. Even Pádraig hesitated at the door leading to the other room.
Jeb asked, “Because?”
The smile wreathing Cristobal’s face was obscene in its smugness. “Why, I would have thought that was obvious, Jebediah.” He spread his palms to include the rest of the table. “Since your daughter is accused of involvement in Philippe’s murder it would not be right for you to have any say in Council business.”
How neatly Jeb had been maneuvered and hog-tied. He’d never seen it coming.
He rose without a word. No protesting Alex’s innocence. No justification. And no need to tell Cristobal he would rue the day he uttered those words.
Following Pádraig’s path Jeb joined the young man but Cristobal wasn’t finished yet.
“Oh, Jebediah,” He said. Jeb did not turn around but did pause. “You really must do something about those spawn of yours before they cost you your position on the Council.”
He did not reply but closed the door softly behind him. The vampire had overstretched himself and Jeb would be pleased to make sure he paid for his smugness.
CHAPTER 61
Bran drove the luxury car through the outskirts of Paris, navigating the morning traffic with the ease and competence with which he did everything. In the silence of the car I wanted to scream. Couldn’t he at least act like a fallible human at times?
Willie had been talking nonstop, an obvious nervous habit and a vast contrast to my own silence. I hadn’t slept a wink last night, or what had been left of the early morning and now, being trapped in a vehicle with a loquacious Were, a quiet didi-shifter and a tense warlock wasn’t doing anything for my nerves.
François had said the trip should take less than an hour, depending on commuter traffic, that we should be there soon but with each kilometer the strain was increasing. And here I thought it’d started at an impossible level. Silly me.
Willie had just launched into a description of the architecture and historical trivia behind the building of Versailles when François spoke at last. “Willie!”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
I actually felt sorry for the Were. At least he was trying. I was looking for something to ease François’s bitch slap when Bran’s phone rang.
He answered with a curt, “Bran. Yes. Yes. I’ll be there.” Then he hung up.
My stomach tumbled and I was glad I hadn’t had anything more than a small cup of coffee for breakfast. Right now even that seemed iffy.
Bran, being Bran and a close-mouthed bastard right then, said nothing more.
I flexed my hands against my jeans. “Well?”
He glanced my way. “It’s all set.”
Since I was not going to grovel for information I bit my tongue and waited until he navigated the car into a parking area that looked like stadium parking with a tournament in progress. As I stepped out of the car into a wash of early morning air holding a bite I suddenly realized what we were up against. “There are so many cars.”
And buses, tour buses and school-type buses and enough cars to knock the breath from me. By the Great Spirits how could there be so many people at Versailles? How were we going to find Van and stop him with these crowds? “Isn’t there anything else to
do in France except visit here?” I asked, stunned by the enormity of the task.
Bran gave me a suck-it-up look. Leave it to a warlock to be all warm and fuzzy while I was falling apart.
François stepped in to snap me back to reality. “Bran, exactly where is the meeting set?”
“Le Petit Trianonat,” came the short reply, like a name meant anything.
François again came to my rescue, snagging my arm and tugging me along. “Not to worry. We’re still in low season which means Le Petit Trianonat will not open to the crowds until noon.”
“And Le Petit Trianonat is what exactly?”
“The chateau built for Marie Antoinette. As an escape.”
That last part sounded perfect about then, but Noziaks were not lightweights. I gave François a wobbly smile and double-timed it to keep up with Bran’s long-legged stride until he stopped in the lee of a three-story building.
“Is that it?” I whispered though there was no need to. It was as if I didn’t want to disturb the old spirits that floated through the area. Mandy as a Spirit Walker would be driven crazy here, so many unhappy ghosts wandering I’m surprised there was any room for humans.
But there they were, walking around with cameras, paper guide books and attached earphones leading them from garden spot to garden spot.
“I’ll head in, a little early, ” Bran said as if to himself.
“Probably better than late with those guys,” Willie said, then threw me a quick glance. “Sorry, Alex. Not your father of course.”
Of course.
I didn’t bother with a response as King Bran was busy dictating. “Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do and where they’re supposed to be?” François and Willie nodded. When I didn’t fall into line he added, “Alex?”
“I know what you want me to do.” There, it was as close as I could come to not outright telling him where he could take his plan and stuff it.
According to the Almighty Warlock I was to go with Willie; as a recovering Were he’d be staying far away from any fighting but he could handle babysitting. Me being the one who needed caretaking. François was going to shift into one of his dog personas and literally sniff around for Van. When he found my brother he’d alert Bran. Not me, because I would be too busy twiddling my thumbs waiting until I was given the all-clear signal.
INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) Page 24
