Invisible Recruit: Invisible Power Part 6

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 b.a.l.l.s 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 pa.s.senger, 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 pa.s.s 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 d.a.m.nit, 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 circ.u.mspect. 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--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 16th 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 a.s.semble 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 pa.s.s 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.

Pdraig, for that must be who the young man was, appeared to understand intrinsically, or Philippe had coached his protege, as the Irishman extended his hand for a friendly, without compet.i.tion 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 s.p.a.ce 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. "Pdraig, 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 Pdraig 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 Pdraig was on the druid hierarchy. His physical appearance indicated a younger age but the sh.e.l.l 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 circ.u.mstances."

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 st.u.r.dy 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 Pdraig 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 Pdraig 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 Pdraig 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 protege. "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.

Pdraig 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?"

Pdraig 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," Pdraig 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 d.a.m.n as they a.s.sumed 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. h.e.l.l, 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.

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."