INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) Page 4

  Jebediah “Jeb” Noziak set his mug of thick coffee down on the porch rail of his ramshackle farm, knowing that when Philippe Cheverill called it was not to share good news. “You have learned something of my son?”

  “No, but I am still seeking information.”

  Jeb released a sigh he did not realize he’d held. No news meant no body. Yet. Van was strong, and resourceful, and Jeb’s visions had not shown his oldest son’s corpse. So Jeb would hold on to that knowledge. There was little that he could do on the physical plane, as Idaho was thousands of miles from Paris. But working with the spirits, he could and had been doing much.

  So had one of his oldest friends, Philippe, though druids did not usually go out of their way to be of service to others.

  “Is this Council business then?” Jeb asked as silence lengthened on the other end of the line.

  “Yes and no.”

  Philippe was a cautious man, not an obtuse one, so Jeb waited, leaning against the front porch post, watching the first rays of dawn kiss Antelope Butte in the distance. This had always been his favorite part of the day, early when the sun slowly revealed herself and all was fresh and new. Jeb did not think of himself as a romantic man nor a verbose one. Aideen, the woman he loved so wildly, so dangerously, had always said he never shared enough with her. Then one day it was too late.

  He had tried since then to be both mother and father to his four sons and one daughter. Tried to fill the void left by their mother’s abandonment. Tried to raise his offspring, each with their own abilities and talents, to be good people.

  And they were. Even Alex, who had killed a man and was still paying the price. Just as Van was paying the price for being the type of man who took his responsibility as a soldier, as a citizen, so seriously.

  Jeb wasn’t sure why Van had disappeared, but the minute Van did, Jeb had started searching, seeking the truth, holding the knowledge from his other children so they would not feel the empty, gaping wound that Jeb felt every waking hour. Even as he watched dawn give way to morning.

  “Jebediah, we must speak.”

  Was that not what they were doing? Or did Philippe wish to connect in the supernatural realm, though they both were aware there were listeners there, too. Dangerous ones.

  Jeb found his tongue reluctant to voice what his soul knew. Even powerful shamans could break if bent under the burden of too much knowledge, too much pain. Yet his tone held no waver as he asked, “You are worried?”

  “Oui.”

  If there was one thing Jeb had tried to instill in his children it was responsibility, whether it was accepting punishment for a childish prank or facing the consequences for choices made. Jeb could do no less. “Tell me what it is you wish from me.”

  “Come to Paris.”

  The answer felt like a body blow. Jeb walked the earth of his forefathers, gained strength from his physical connection to the high desert country of his home. He rarely traveled beyond his self-imposed boundaries, unless called by the Council of Seven.

  But Philippe was not the Council. One of its oldest members, yes, and that meant something as druids were known to be long lived, even older than many of the others on the Council. So why Paris? And why now?

  Instead of asking, though, Jeb did what he knew his friend would do for him. “I shall find the next flight available.”

  “Bon.” Jeb could hear the relief in his friend’s voice, which worried Jeb even more.

  “I will contact you once I arrive.” Jeb took a deep swallow of cooling coffee.

  “I shall open my home to you,” Philippe replied, then added. “but I ask a small request.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell no one you are coming.”

  “No others on the Council?”

  “Especially them.”

  Now Jeb knew the situation was dire. Philippe took his position as senior Council member very seriously, often acting as the lone voice of reason between the various interests and factions. Since the Council included fae, shifters, vampires, witches and demons as well as shamans and druids, reason often butted heads with warring needs and ancient feuds. These seven members spoke not only for themselves but for the peoples and the beings not represented on the board, and there were many.

  Juggling the needs of preternaturals made raising five children on his own seem smooth sailing in comparison. So why the sudden secrecy?

  “I will speak to no one,” he said, to allay his friend’s concerns. “Until I speak with you.”

  “You are a true friend, mon frère.”

  Jeb knew Philippe used his word choices intentionally and being included as a brother meant a lot to both of them.

  “I shall send Pádraig to meet you at Orly.”

  Pádraig was Philippe’s newest protégé and Jeb had heard a lot about him, though they had never met. “I look forward to meeting this young man at last,” he said. “And we shall see if he lives up to his name’s birthright.”

  Philippe gave a soft chuckle, maybe surprised that Jeb would know the meaning of the Irish name. But then Aideen had been Irish through and through, her Celtic witch roots running deep.

  Philippe’s words broke Jeb’s dark memories as the Frenchman spoke of his protégé’s name. “To be born noble you mean? I think you will be as impressed by him as he will be by you. There’s nothing greater I can give him than to share our friendship.”

  Jeb was truly touched. Yet Philippe wasn’t finished. He cleared his throat.

  “One more thing,” he murmured, his voice suddenly lowered as if someone new had entered the room. “The request I just made to you. . .”

  “To speak to no one of my coming?”

  “Oui.” A pregnant pause. “I ask that you extend that request to your own family.”

  This was asking a lot, as Jeb did not like to keep secrets from his children. Adult grown though they were, to him they were still his responsibility.

  Before Jeb could reply, or even know his answer, Philippe added, “It will not be the first time,” his voice solemn.

  Jeb straightened, knowing what Philippe spoke about though neither had mentioned that event, or its cost. So why now?

  “Before I placed the needs of the Council above my needs as a father,” Jeb said, each word striking his heart. “And I have paid the price of that decision every day since.”

  “I am aware of this my friend.”

  But was he? Was he really?

  The case the Council had reviewed was complex. The use of magic to stop a rogue Were from killing a shifter who was in the middle of his change and thus vulnerable to attack. One sibling trying to protect another. In a different situation a jury could hear all the details and the accused would have not only been hailed a hero, but allowed to go scot-free. But not in a world where humans must never learn of the presence of non-humans. And if the human jury could never learn of the extenuating circumstances then the verdict was a given before the trial ever started.

  Jeb had been told to be happy that the death sentence had not been decreed. Scant condolence when he saw his youngest child, and his only daughter, leave the courtroom for a life sentence.

  It wasn’t Philippe’s deciding vote cast that day on the Council last spring. The vote that sent Jeb’s only daughter to prison.

  It was Jeb’s.

  CHAPTER 11

  I marched up to the very modern and very imposing glass building near the Neuilly Bridge, and stopped. Shaking Mandy and Jaylene had been easier than I’d expected. A quick detour to a public toilet to change out of my dowdy disguise, leaving my cell phone so it couldn’t be tracked, and a simple cloaking spell. Yes, using the spell for personal gain was going to bite me, since all magic use came at a price. But today I was willing to pay it to get some answers and confronting Bran with my two shadow guards was not the way to pull info out of him.

  Besides, I’d already earned so many black marks today between using powerful dark magic and killing preternaturals, I figured how much worse could the back
lash get? And if my team asked me what happened to my phone I could say I’d lost it leaning over one of the many bridges crisscrossing Paris.

  So here I was, ignoring the clouds whisking across the sun, leaving me wishing I’d brought along something warmer than my black hoodie, even as I shook myself to focus on the task at hand.

  Leave it to Bran to house his Paris offices in not only the tallest building in the city, but one that, because of its alignment with the Louvre and l”Arc de Triomphe, thumbed its nose at the older, stubbier landmarks around it.

  The three wings created a whirling, spinning wheel effect, reflecting the mid-morning light in all directions. It was enough to make me dizzy.

  But if that’s where Bran was, that’s where I had to go.

  As I shouldered past dark-suited men and women who looked down their noses at my jeans and sweatshirt garb, I wondered how they survived in this cold stone and steel city. The only trees around were lined up soldier-straight along the boulevards or regimented in contained parks. You couldn’t even hear bird song over the surging traffic everywhere. The only wildlife were pigeons, and even they seemed to blend into the grays, whites and pale stone colors everywhere.

  As I swung through the revolving door into a marble and glass foyer I admitted a wobbly smile. I was mentally bitching at the city when my real target was Bran. He belonged here and I didn’t. It was as simple as that.

  Taking me away from my Mud Lake, Idaho roots was one thing. But facing a man as powerful and arrogant as Bran in a place that suited him to a T, only threw up our differences more, made my stomach knot and my hands grow clammy.

  Sure he’d said I was a stronger a witch than I believed was, but that had been at a time we were still on speaking terms. Before I’d managed to get his cousin killed. Besides, strong witches could control their abilities. My gifts were hit or miss and that wasn’t good.

  “Crap,” I mumbled under my breath, wondering how the hell I found the CEO of Bran Inc. in a place this large with only enough French phrases to order breakfast and find a bathroom. And I had trouble with that.

  Looking around I spied a half-moon desk with several young, snooty looking types behind it, acting busy and important, but at least they answed the questions of people who approached them. Either that or telling everyone to go to hell with tight smiles.

  But I’d been born a Noziak, which meant being willing to face danger head on instead of crawling away, no matter how much the latter sounded like a great idea. What could a few suits do to me?

  Using hand gestures that made me look like a windmill run amok I spoke to the first woman who was free behind the desk. “Ou is Senor …” Damn that wasn’t right. “Bran.” I made a tall height gesture with my hands. “You know? Big mucky muck. Clothes?” This time I used both hands to indicate an hourglass figure, which caught the attention and earned humma-humma smiles from the nearest males on both sides of the desk.

  Get real.

  I could feel my face heating. “Bran?” I raised my voice, feeling like every stereotype of a stupid tourist who used volume over language skills. “Monseigneur Bran. Dove?” That was the French word for where, wasn’t it?

  Behind the desk the woman’s nose pinched tighter, her smile so thin-lipped she was going to cut herself.

  Hell, if I couldn’t even find him how was I going to ream him a good one? Extra for putting me through this exercise in patience. Not my strong suit.

  Blowing out a puff of air, I glanced around before trying a different approach. “Does anyone here speak English?” I asked, throwing up my arms.

  “Of course,” came the snippy reply from the woman whose look said so much more, and none of it flattering.

  Bite me.

  I was tempted to reach across the counter and curl my hands along the woman’s precise navy-colored suit lapels and shake her a good one. Probably not the best move for American-French relations. So uncurling my fingers one at a time and pasting on a smile that said WTF loud and clear in several languages I asked, “Then how do I find him?”

  “Fiftieth floor,” came the snippy response.

  Of course. Not the penthouse but damn near. Why hadn’t I thought of that. A quick look around had me pausing again, turning back to the woman, already ignoring me like her life depended on it.

  “Excuse me?” The woman didn’t look up.

  I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Miss?”

  Nada. The guy next to her cast us both a wary glance then went back to talking to a balding woman in front of him.

  Okay, I’d tried to play nice. Now I’d play it the Noziak way. So I leaned forward and lowered my voice to a syrupy sweetness. “Hey bitch?”

  That had the French woman’s head snapping up.

  “Yes, you,” I continued, leaning even closer. “Where are the elevators?”

  The woman waved to the west.

  “Merci. And have a good day,” I chirped, feeling so much better about bearding a warlock in his den.

  CHAPTER 12

  By the time I reached the fiftieth floor my optimism was flagging. Or maybe it was the uncomfortable carnival-ride feeling my stomach got every time I rode an elevator. Mud Lake didn’t have enough buildings in it to need elevators past the third floor and most of them were so old I could run up the stairs and beat them to my destination.

  That free-floating feeling got worse as I spoke to Bran’s receptionist who looked like the twin of the woman downstairs.

  “Si non possible,” the receptionist shrugged and shook her head at the same time, which helped me get the message. Why didn’t Bran have a bilingual receptionist? But who was I to complain, my only other language was sarcasm.

  “Pourquoi?” I asked, glad of the one word I had down pat. Why?

  The woman rolled off a spat of French that sounded nice but meant nothing to me. So I used the universal shrug and raised hand response I was learning to perfect.

  “Un meeting. Very, very important.”Why hadn’t I thought about that? Of course Bran would be up to his sexy eyeballs in meetings. But it wasn’t like I could make an appointment with him either. He’d probably like that, but I wouldn’t and he’d no doubt blow me off.

  So what now?

  I glanced at the closed office door. Stay and wait like a good girl or barge in on this very important meeting?

  Flashing a quick he-won’t-blame-you-I-hope smile at the receptionist whose shoulders relaxed, I ambled over to a series of frou-frou chairs around a glass table. Trailing fingers along the magazines resting there, as if I read these all the time, not. I waited until the receptionist turned away before I marched to the door.

  I was going in!

  “Mais, mademoiselle!” the receptionist squawked. But it was too late, I was already bumping the door closed behind me on the incensed woman.

  “It’s not her fault,” I said as I stepped deeper into the room just in case the receptionist decided to ram the door. Then I stopped, looking around at the space that made my dad’s farmhouse look like a shanty in comparison. The floor to ceiling windows along one wall were enough to bling me blind even if they had that special glare-coating stuff on them. Feeling as disjointed as Kelly was after doing her disappearing act, I blinked to get oriented and then wished I hadn’t.

  I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a lot of stuffed shirts with double chins sitting around a massive table. Wrong.

  There were only two people in the room. One a stunning blond with mile-long legs lounging in a chair on my side of a massive desk, and Bran, glaring from the other side.

  I was used to Bran’s thunder frowns. He tended to use them a lot around me, but I wasn’t used to facing women who belonged on magazine covers or in the Miss Universe contest. A new dress model for Bran’s tours? Or someone else?

  Refusing to feel the quick stab of jealousy that last thought created, I notched my chin up, steeled my voice and looked only at Bran. “We need to talk.”

  Bran opened his mouth as if to say something then thought be
tter of it as he ran one hand through his devil-dark hair and shook his head. “Miss Worthington,” he said, smiling at the sexpot in the chair with a look he used to give me. “May I introduce Miss Alex Noziak.”

  “Bonjour,” the other woman purred as if I could be appeased by a come-hither French accent.

  Okay, maybe Bran’s but that was different. And in the past.

  I inclined my head toward the other woman, not trusting my voice. Not yet at least.

  “Miss Worthington and I are in a meeting,” Bran spoke between clenched teeth.

  I gave him a stink-eye look. “So I was told.”

  “And your discussion couldn’t wait?”

  “No.”

  I swore he rolled his eyes before turning back to Miss Bonjour. “Would you mind waiting for me in the other office, Miss Worthington? I’m sure this will only take a moment.”

  Think again big guy, I wanted to say, but two could play the we’re-all-civilized-people-here game even if we weren’t. He couldn’t be civilized. He was a warlock for cripe’s sake. He might wear the veneer but that was all. Scratch the surface and his warlock tendencies tended to erupt.

  I offered the sex kitten an aren’t-you-sweet smile as the other woman brushed past me in a cloud of perfume that no doubt cost a thousand dollars an ounce, and felt my ring heat up indicating the Worthington woman was non-human.

  Interesting. I wondered if Bran knew then ditched the thought. Of course he did. It was only one of the traits that pissed me off about him. I might identify Weres, warlocks and vamps pretty easily but was still getting used to all the other preternaturals roaming around. Mostly because before joining the IR Agency I didn’t have a lot of exposure to non-humans. More than my teammates, but less than Bran, far less.

  The plus side to my naiveté was that I was more wary around what I didn’t know whereas Bran assumed he was the bigger, badder threat. Most times he was, but not always. The one session with his cousin who turned out to be a nasty, and rare, Grimple, didn’t seem to have taught him otherwise.

  Arrogant or not, I still needed him, so I waited until the door clicked shut before crossing to the middle of the room and taking the vacated seat. “Your latest bimbo?” I asked Bran as I settled into the plush cushions, hoping the lingering perfume wouldn’t gag me.