Part 6 (2/2)

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 s.h.i.+fter, 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 s.h.i.+fter 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 s.h.i.+ft. 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.”

<script>