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Book: INVISIBLE POWER BOOK TWO: ALEX NOZIAK (INVISIBLE RECRUITS) by Mary Buckham
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Authors: Mary Buckham
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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 damn as they assumed 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. Hell, 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
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. Hell, 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
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