INVISIBLE FATE BOOK THREE: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) (23 page)

Chapter
Fifty

“You sure this is the place?” I asked Van in the early hours the next morning, dawn slowly creeping over the horizon. We, along with Sabina who I was not going to let out of my sight, were hunkered down in a freshly turned bed of dirt beneath mid-sized bushes, sculpted laurel and holly trees. At least that’s what Sabina called them. I only knew they weren’t lodge pole pines, which is what grew everywhere in southern Idaho. Where trees grew that was.

We were in one of those cul de sac streets that seemed to appear by magic in Paris.
One step, you’re in the twenty-first century, or thereabouts, turn a corner and you step backwards, several centuries.

What might have been a nice-sized estate house sat back from the cobblestone road at the end of a circular drive. A stable or carriage house was to our right while large stonewalls encircled the entire property. While it was still dark
, we crept to our present location within the walled area, our backs to the stable.

I’d cast a cloaking spell so the three of us could enter relatively undetected and added an ad hoc binding spell to alter our scents. If a Were inhaled downwind all
he would smell was a mulch-like aroma. Neither spell would help if a Were drew too close, which is why we used every tree and brush we could to creep closer to the house.

Since Van hadn’t answered my original question I jostled his arm with my elbow.

He gave me a what-now glance, which I answered with a few jerks of my head toward the house. Guess he was used to a different level of military signals from his background. Tough, I wanted some reassurances and as there were no Weres around Van could darn well tell me what I wanted to know.

“Right place? How are you sure?” I whispered, not being a total idiot.

Van waited a few heartbeats, either to try my patience or listen with his shifter hearing for any threats. I was just getting ready to slug him when he leaned closer. “Bran didn’t just cover his scent with yours he swapped scents with you.” What the—?

I found my tongue at last. “So Padraig ended up at
Dad’s, thinking I was there because Bran had my scent?”

Van nodded.

“Then what?”

“When you huffed off
Dad went after you to make sure no one followed you and I tracked Bran by your scent.”

Bran and my family had been hanging around
the convoluted Ling Mai way too much. I scratched my head, trying to figure out who smelled like whom.

Van continued
, “I lost Bran when they entered a car, but we have someone working with the Weres.”

“Willie?” I whispered, knowing of only one Were who’d do such a thing.

“Yeah, he’s helping, but there’s someone else.”

That threw me. “Who?”

“You know him as Frank.”

Of course. One of Bran’s oldest friends and a MI-6 British agent. I’d met him initially as a gay manager called Franco who made me break out in hives he was so in-your-face-high-maintenance. Last time I’d seen him he was François Dupris, a suave and debonair
Frenchman about Paris. It was hard to know who the real Frank was but what I did know is he was a Didi shifter, a rare creature who could change into more than one shape. Unfortunately, Frank’s shifter shape was any breed within the dog family. He once shifted into a killer poodle who could flaunt a rhinestone collar like he was born to it.

“You sure he’s working with Padraig?” I couldn’t see Frank rubbing shoulders with Were thugs. Not without a lifetime supply of Lysol and hand sanitizer.

“He’s been undercover for several months. Notified us yesterday where Bran was taken.”

Would wonders never cease? Not about the notifying part but about Frank being where you needed him when you needed him.

Good news? I felt much more reassured that we were in the right place. Bad news? We were at the right place with psychotic Padraig, and who knew how many Weres.

Van nudged my shoulder, his gaze
steady on mine as I turned to look at him. “What?”

“You know
, you could give Dad a little bit of a break. He’s not the bad guy here.”

“You tell me that after spending a few months in prison because
Dad allowed it to happen.”

“No, he let human justice take its course. You killed a man. You
were paying the price.”

Talk about a hard and fast strike.

“He wasn’t a man. He was a rogue Were who was trying to kill our brother.” I did the finger gesture, linking him to me as if he needed to know whose brother I was talking about. “And technically I didn’t kill him, a death demon ripped him apart.”

“A death demon you summoned.”

“Whose side are you on?” I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation right now. “Which of your siblings came looking for your sorry ass? Oh, yeah, that would be me. Who put her life on the line for you less than a week ago? Hello, me again. Who—”

And there I stopped
, because we both knew what I was going to say next. Who ended up getting shifter blood and abilities because of him?

“I didn’t mean
—” he started, but I waved him off.

The timing sucked. He didn’t know what he had been doing. Now he’d have to live with the guilt forever and I’d have to live with one more freaky ability that I had no idea how it worked.

I hadn’t even started dealing with the ramifications of the shifter blood mingling with mine. Could I change? How would it impact my ability to use magic? To be a shaman? Eventually, to have children as a side effect of any being created to change body shape wreaked havoc on a woman’s ability to incubate a child for nine months. Were women could not have children at all. A few shifter women had, but either they, or the baby, had not survived the stress of childbirth.

Too many issues to deal with now. Not with Bran’s life on the line and a demon knocking on the door. Then there was this whole trusting
Dad’s plan issue. Once screwed, twice wary. I might be foolhardy but I wasn’t stupid.

“Psst, guys, look
.” Sabina whispered on the other side of Van. Thank heavens for small witches who knew when to shift the subject.

I followed her jabbing finger to watch a fancy town car turn into the driveway. Since most French cars leaned toward the small and compact
, this one looked stretch-limo long, though it was only an average bigger American car.

“The show is beginning,” Van murmured, hunkering deeper into the dirt.

I swallowed against the fear rumbling inside of me as the car crept along the drive, tires crunching over the gravel before it slowed, then came to a halt in front of the main entrance. That’s when my dad stepped from it, tugging his shirt cuffs down as he gave a casual, assessing glance around. Knowing where the team members were secreted, ready for his part in the mission.

Damn if Van wasn’t right, like he usually was. I hadn’t given my dad much leeway, acting like the angry, frightened child Dad had to deal with at five when my mother abandoned us and taking out my pain on my remaining parent—him.

Less than a year ago I had a choice. I’d made it and thought I’d accepted the consequences. That’s the way Dad raised us. I never expected entitlement because of my father’s position, so why had I got my shorts in such a twist now?

What had I expected my dad to do differently? Abandon responsibility and commitment and the right-if-hard road to bail me out? He sat near me every day during the trial and sentencing. He never gave up on me. Never let me hide from my choices. Why had I expected him to do so then?

And what about now?

He was going in alone to face Padraig, to keep the druid occupied or deflected so we could implement the last steps of the plan. And I hadn’t told him I loved him.

Chapter Fifty-one

The Weres and the druid had taken Bran to a small home located near
Montmarte,
but tucked away, all but invisible unless you knew where to find it. It required a lot of financial clout and connections to own such a piece of property in this part of Paris, and he had no doubt the druid held both. Once they arrived, the Weres stepped back as three simin fae flanked Bran on each side, silent and deadly. All fae were known to nurse grudges for centuries, the simin fae even longer. The fact he’d humiliated them earlier by escaping meant they were being extra wary now, going as far as throwing a silver cast chain around his plastic wrist bindings. Since the silver burned as it touched his skin, Bran knew it held a binding spell. No disappearing this time.

They remained eerily silent until the leader inclined his head toward the house. “This way.”

Not a lot of options. So Bran followed where they led.

Not through the front door of the home, but around to a back door. A small peek through sculpted trees revealed the horizon had dropped away
, and only the tops of bone-white vaults showed along with the pale blue ironwork of the
Rue Caulaincour
.
La Cimetière de Montmartre
, the Montmartre Cemetery for the famous, infamous and forgotten. Alex would be intrigued.

But now wasn’t the time for history lessons, or thinking of Alex, or any thoughts not focused on his survival.

Knowing he was being brought before the Council, and the fact he might not have long to live was a very real possibility.

His silent sentinels didn’t pause until they reached a cell deep in the bowels of the building where they left him for long enough he wondered if they’d forgotten him and meant him to rot.

By the time the fae returned Bran figured it was early morning. He was tired, hungry and damn uncomfortable, not able to move his hands unless he wanted his wrists seared with the silver hex. Following behind the fae at least meant a change of scenery which was better until they entered a blood red room, livid with shades of scarlet red and black. Gothic horror run amuck.

Three of the fae veered off and disappeared through one of the far doors while a closer door, just on the other side of a long conference-style table cracked open.

That’s where the danger came from. He sensed it before any figures materialized. The pulse of old and powerful magic. Dark magic. The kind Alex feared more than she would ever admit.

So Padraig was not working alone. The menace grew.

Four individuals entered. The first ancient, with the refined skin and prominent bones betraying his age and species. He walked as one much younger, held his carriage straight, his aquiline nose tipped up as if something in the room assaulted his senses.

A vampire. N
o other being carried arrogance as a second skin so well. In some ways Bran thought of them as the Jesuits of the preternatural world. Born and reared to lead, behind the scenes of course, especially since the human population butted them to the side as myth and folklore.

Behind the vamp came a woman who looked as if she should be standing before a peat-bog fire, stirring a kettle, one filled with human blood and eye of newt. As Celtic as Bran’s own da, and ten times as dangerous, though most would only notice her fair skin, curls of red, and eyes of shamrock green. Eyes that if one looked closely screamed of evil and banked anger.

The third individual had to be a demon, though he looked like a London City toff, complete with Saville Row suit and Italian shoes. Someone should have warned him the subtle striping of his cloth did not hide the triple-jointed shifting of his limbs beneath it as he moved. A mistake. Or maybe a threat to the other preternaturals who knew what to look for.

The last person to enter from the door, closing it behind him, looked the most benign, and that alone had Bran stiffening. Hadn’t he been raised by a mother so beautiful
she’d made grown men weep, a beauty that hid a soul blacker than Hades, and twice as self-serving.

This man looked like a common dockhand, wide of shoulders, stocky of body, with fair hair and an easy smile. Now
, he reeked of magic. Old magic, the kind that made Bran’s mage forbearers seem like upstarts. Padraig, the Council’s druid representative. The one who took Philippe Cheverill’s place at the Council table.

The older man had been dead less than a week. The Council acted fast to replace him. Unless the death had been planned to create an opening. A theory that
, as long as it remained a vague guess, did no harm, but discovering that the guess was based on a very real possibility, sent an icy chill sliding down Bran’s skin.

Cheverill had truly been murdered.
What had been a wildfire rumor seemed to be more fact than fiction. Alex’s name had been bandied about as his killer because she’d been at the soiree where he’d died. Had even been at his side, holding his hand, though he was a stranger to her.

Then Bran had been targeted as spearheading the killing as an extension of dabbling in designer drugs, which is why he’d been called to the Council in the first place.

Today? It seemed unlikely he’d be brought to trial for drug dealing or murder with only four members present. So what did they want of him? To chastise him for missing his earlier arraignment? One he’d hoped could prove his innocence by producing Vaverek, the person responsible for entrapping Bran’s cousin in a plan to distribute a dangerous drug to preternaturals.

Vampire, demon, witch and druid. Were they waiting for the remaining three Council members to join them? Jeb Noziak
, as shaman, another as shifter and a fae.

But as the four who arrived moved in a silent processional, each donning livid blue-violet robes, before they sat at the far side of the table, it became clear they were acting alone. And in unison.

So the druid didn’t proceed alone, but with powerful allies. Danger increased exponentially.

Bran was directed to stand on the near side of the table. Which he did, keeping his posture rigid and unbowed.

Something the druid seemed to notice as that one cocked his head, a smile playing about his lips.

What did they really want with him? To use him to draw in Alex? Most likely. He’d always heard blood-born witches were more self-serving than self-sacrificing. Alex had proved the exception in a lot of ways. He’d done what he could to protect her. Her father and brother would have to do the rest.

“You were called before us once, but failed to appear,” the vampire intoned, his voice roiling with ennui, his gaze focused on his own folded hands. “What do you say to the charge?”

“I came but was stopped by Weres seeking to delay me.”

“Says who?” the Celtic witch asked, all sweetness and false-kindness.

Bran looked toward the long arched windows at the side of the room, their silk valances drawn back. “Since the attack occurred in Versailles, within sight of this Council’s meeting, who alone knew I was summoned, I am at a loss to identify who arranged the attack.”

Risky tactic. Call the Council to task for instigating the events that kept him from appearing while hoping for their understanding and leniency in determining his innocence. Given he doubted any of these four ever experienced either understanding or leniency, his words were not a gauntlet as much as a weak gambit. Buying time.

For what? One of the Noziaks to find him? Not likely. The elder was neither friend nor foe, the son an unknown
, and Alex? He only hoped Alex had enough sense to run far and fast. Francois was gone, even if his friend had anything to offer before these beings.

That left words as his weapon. His only weapon.

“You call us killers?” the druid said, his voice ripe with the lyricism of Ireland.

“There is a killer, or killers, somewhere. But it is not I,” Bran countered.

“You call yourself victim then?” the druid offered, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepling. This was all a game to him, one his gaze told Bran he enjoyed playing, as long as he won.

“Nay.” Bran rocked forward on the balls of his feet. If they sought to cower him they were wrong. He’d been reared between his da and mother, treated as weapon more than son, a process that honed him more than creating his international business empire. “I would say prosecuted more than victimized.”

“Why?” the demon rolled the single word.

“Wrong person in the wrong place.”

The witch smiled, an expression lethal sharp. “But you are not just a person, are you? You are a mage master, cousin to a rare Grimple who nearly betrayed all our kind.”

“Including myself
.” Bran spoke the truth, though the words cut deep.

“Tsk, tsk, warlock.” The druid shook his head. “For one who pretends his innocence, you have found yourself at the center of too many coincidences.”

“You mean my cousin?” Keep the focus away from Alex. That’s who this druid really wanted and Bran wasn’t going to let him have her. Not while he lived.

“I mean being in the same room as Philippe Cheverill the night he was killed.”

Bran held his tongue. It was not a secret, as the building had been full of preternaturals, and rumors had already linked his name with that of the dead man. They seemed very keen to find him at fault, with no proof except proximity. Why?

“Agreed,” the vampire nodded, as if something new and profound had been brought to
his attention. “His cousin’s actions. His nearness to a tragic death. His refusal to appear when called. His escaping the simin fae when they found him again. I think enough has been said.”

So they were both jury and judges. He’d always known it could come to this, but like Alex
, he was not about to go down without a fight.

The magic rose within him, an automatic response to a death threat, feeling the burn increasing along his hands. He didn’t move, except for raising his head and spearing them all with his gaze, letting it land and linger on the druid last.

“You threaten me?” The man rose to his feet, his own mystic powers sweeping around him like an aura, one tainted blood red and black.

Bran braced himself for the wave of magic thrown at him. A tsunami of darkness that hit hard and fast.

But he wasn’t without his own resources, including the ability to hold death at bay, for that’s what the druid sought. Then seemed to change his mind with a twist to his lips that leeched all the hale-and-hearty appearance from him.

The magic ebbed. Before Bran could breathe, much less counter magic against magic, another assault came. This time not from without but from within.

A sharp glance from the druid to the witch warned Bran who sought his destruction by combining their powers. One would have been formidable but together, there was only one outcome.

A crack of
thunder, all the louder for being contained within the small room, a flash of blue heated fire, the echo of a scream. His own. Not with enough time to react. Barely enough time to cast a final mind call.
Alex!

Warning her. He’d been wrong. Arrogant and wrong
, and his actions could cost them both.

Pain ripped through him with the surgical precision of a heated knife. Every nerve ending cried out and then in a blink it stopped.

He froze. Well and truly trapped in an encased shell with no form, though so formidable he couldn’t even exhale. Even the pace of his heart stopped. Solidified. Restrained but not dead, for his mind still functioned, his eyes could still see.

Dead but undead.