INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) (6 page)

He thrust the handset toward me as if daring me to ignore it, and him.

But who would call me here? No one knew where I was.

I swallowed, a nervous betrayal of emotions and something I hoped he couldn’t see.

Walking back to take that phone from him was as hard as facing down a raging rogue Were who was trying to kill my brother.

And look where that had got me—a life sentence in prison.

“Hello?” I had to speak over the fist-sized lump in my throat. “Alex Noziak here. Who’s this?”

“Ling Mai.”

CHAPTER 13

Bran jammed his hands in his pants pockets to keep from reaching for Alex. He had no idea who the hell was on the other end of the phone. He knew it was a woman but he didn’t know who or why they’d tracked Alex down here.

All he knew was her skin had paled and the fiery emotions behind her eyes winked out and he wanted to grab her, pull her close, and protect her from whoever was on the other end of that line.

No doubt he’d get his head bitten off for the gesture.

Alex was the prickliest, most infuriating, most pig-headed woman he’d ever met and she continued to have him tied into knots even as he debated whether eliminating her might be the best approach to protecting her and everyone around her.

Did she have any idea what she’d done this morning? Fairytales and ancient manuscripts spoke of the ability to steal and amplify others’ abilities, but he’d thought it was the stuff of legends.

Now he knew better. He knew and feared. For her and because of her.

Sacre bleu
, the woman was going to be the death of him. But that’s not what had him awakening in the middle of the night in cold sweats, nor what was driving him to shout at her like a fishmonger’s wife. He feared she would be the death of herself. And that would be a loss he’d never recover from.

“No.”

“But I–“

“If you’ll let me explain.”

Each of her chopped words sounded softer and less acerbic and he doubted it was because he was in the room. From her body language he might have been another chair, an inanimate object that could be ignored. Witches could be like that—use you and then discard you. He knew that going into a relationship with her and yet it still blindsided him when she had manipulated him to get what she needed. Her and her team. The ‘greater’ good.

He caught his hands curling and released them, out of sight of her. Not that she would notice. Alex Noziak was the most focused person he’d ever met, outside of himself. He had been a fool to get involved with her once. He was a bigger fool to still care now.

“Yes, I’ll be there.” She spoke the words with the somber cadence of death bells ringing and replaced the phone in its cradle without looking at him.

“Who was it?” he demanded, aware how close he was to losing his control.

“Doesn’t matter.”

This wasn’t the spitfire, in-his-face Alex of a moment ago. The one who crashed his meeting like a heat-seeking missile and latched on to Guinevere Worthington as the target. An action that gave him the most hope in weeks that he wasn’t the only one hurting since their breakup.

No, this Alex was pulled in, which wasn’t her way at all. Hurt or preparing herself for battle? Knowing Alex, it was probably the latter.

As she reached for the closed door he stepped toward her. “Then tell me what they wanted? What they said.”

She glanced at him then, the light behind her eyes only a pale flicker. “Not your business.” Her voice so low he rocked forward on the balls of his shoes to hear her.

“Your brother?”

It had to be. He knew that gutted feeling too well, with his cousin Dominique’s death still raw within him, even understanding at last that so much of their relationship was built on lies and manipulations.

But Alex only shook her head.

“Then what?” At this point he didn’t care if she heard his concern. She was shredding him.

She continued to open the door as if he’d said nothing, pausing only long enough to glance over her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. My problem, not yours. I’ll be out of your hair from now on.”

What did she mean by that?

He couldn’t ask, though, as she closed the door behind her. Not a slam, but a near-silent click.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. And as usual, Alex was at the heart of it.

CHAPTER 14

Wedging himself through the disgruntled and vocal crowds packing Orly Ouest arrival terminal was only one of the reasons Jeb Noziak detested flying
. As an arriving passenger, and one with platinum status based on his connections with the Council of Seven, he’d not had to stagnate in the long lines waiting to pass security or to move almost anywhere within the terminal. A square-shouldered older male shifter had met him upon disembarking, grabbing Jeb’s carry-on luggage and acting as a battering ram, which helped Jeb move through the terminal as fast as possible to the town car waiting outside. Yet Jeb still felt the need to shower, and they hadn’t even braved the morning Paris traffic.

The roar of arriving and departing jets, Frenchmen who had a love of leaning on their car horns, and the jerk of the motorway traffic had him leaning against the seatback cushion and closing his eyes, travel fatigue but mostly concern draining his energy.

Astral traveling on the spirit plane took a lot less wear on his body and usually sufficed when communicating with Philippe. So what was different this time? And why had his friend sounded so worried over the phone?

Though maybe Jeb was reading his own concerns and fears into Philippe’s voice. Somewhere beyond the tinted vehicle windows Van was being held hostage in this city. That was the last information Jeb had received, two, or was it three days ago now
? With that realization Jeb jerked forward, his earlier exhaustion giving way to anger, an anger that had no release.

Van had known what he was getting into working with the hush-hush NATO organization on behalf of an equally hush-hush US agency. His son was smart, resourceful, and strong. But damnit, that didn’t mean that Jeb still didn’t worry. Worry and feel next to useless. While he was here he would find the time to nose around, use the resources given him as a shaman to ferret out some news. Any news had to be better than this useless waiting.

Now he must be circumspect. But once his son was found. . . after that . . . those who did this to Van would pay.

As the town car glided up to Philippe’s
pied-à-terre
,  located in an old stone building close to the
Trocadero
and with a bird’s eye view of the Eiffel Tower, Jeb wondered, not for the first time, why Philippe didn’t resign his position on the Council and retire to his much larger, and much older estate in Provence.

Jeb loved the 16
th
century country chateau, not for its age or elegance, but for the fact it was surrounded by land, something he valued over a pretentious address. The private but tiny garden located in the town apartment was the difference between having a cat box and having sixty acres.

He sighed as he exited the car, stretching his legs in the process. He, more than most, understood that once a Council member always a Council member, unless sidelined by serious health issues. Since all the members possessed preternatural abilities, including longevity and superb health, the last member who’d voluntarily resigned had been sometime in the 1500’s and then the reason was madness, a side effect of age in some vampires and druids.

But Philippe was still in the prime of his life, being a little less than three hundred years old.

No, Jeb’s friend would never give up his seat on the Council, no matter how much bickering and infighting he had to referee.

A butler who looked part fae with perhaps an element of selkie, opened the main door and waved Jeb and his shifter driver now valet inside to the hushed foyer. Not large but filled with exquisite antique furniture several generations older than the eighteenth century building.

“Would
Monsieur
wish to freshen up in his room before meeting with the Master?”

The man’s accent sounded middle eastern, which surprised Jeb as Philippe was a Francophile through and through.

“Where is your Master? Is he on the premises?” he asked, aware the shifter waited in the doorway leading to the single guest bedroom. Philippe valued his privacy as much as he valued his antiques. It was only in the last year or two that he had allowed one of the side rooms to be converted into a room for the butler. Otherwise the smallness of the apartment gave Philippe the excuse he often needed to not host more-out-of-town Council guests or casual dinner meetings. The fact Jeb was always welcome had actually been a sore point with some of the other Council members who felt slighted. Their problem, and Philippe’s, not Jeb’s.

   The butler nodded toward the living room and the French doors open beyond it. “
Monsieur
waits for you in the garden.”

His friend must truly be distressed to be at his home during the day instead of the suite of rooms used by the Council as their primary offices. Their main headquarters were a best-kept secret in the foothills of Rockport, Missouri, but most major cities held at least one place to assemble in case the group, or even members of the group, needed to gather. A minimum of three Council members were required to be present to handle small issues, so if the issue was regional, the member who lived on the continent where the transgression occurred would host any other two members available to sit in on the session
. All seven needed to be in attendance on issues that impacted preternaturals worldwide, and for the yearly summit which was held in Rockport.

Jeb nodded at the shifter. “Drop off my bag in my room.” He thought he saw something pass across the man’s expression but it could have been a trick of the light. Turning to the butler he added, “I’ll be joining
Monsieur
Philippe outside.”

The butler nodded and moved forward to show Jeb the way, though he could have found his own way, the garden being one of the few places in Paris he enjoyed. He could have even predicted the linden tree Philippe would have been standing under, but not that the Frenchmen would be with another, and with a pose of tension and discord marring his patrician features.

It was the other, a younger male, who arrested Jeb’s attention. The man could not have looked more different than Philippe, with an open expression, laugh lines bracketing his eyes, a smile resting lightly on his face, and a build that was shorter and stockier than the Frenchman’s. An athlete’s stockiness, with wide shoulders and muscles that looked as if he used them. A Gene Kelly build versus a Fred Astaire look.

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.”