Out of Sight

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilogue

S
ykes Millet had mostly enjoyed his reputation as an inscrutable man. He did not, so most said, show his feelings often.

Among the paranormal families of New Orleans, particularly those closest to the Millets, like the Fortunes and the Montrachets, Sykes was the powerful go-to talent they could rely on to keep his cool and find solutions under any pressure.

Not anymore.

Not as long as his family kept trying to run his life for him.

Underneath his calm exterior, he fumed. And he would do what he had to do to step out of his appointed role as the accepting, level one and into what he really wanted to be—what he was: a man pushed to the limit, whose anger simmered just beneath a smooth surface and was ready to erupt.

He was sick of being used.

From now on he would do what was right for him, preferably without harming anyone else, but defi
nitely without depriving himself to make others more comfortable.

For months all had been quiet in the French Quarter. Just as many people trolled the streets beneath flashing neon signs. The truly drunk jostled with the drunk-on-anticipation. The bars and clubs, the fortune tellers and sellers of mostly fake voodoo paraphernalia plied their trade just as aggressively. Barkers heckled passersby, hawking topless dancing and whatever else they thought would bring the customers in. “Topless bikini,” were words thrown out in one breath, followed by, “Lap dance.” And the hungry—for whatever—rolled in. The initiated looked to the unnamed and hidden places to satisfy their more exotic tastes.

The reason Sykes considered the Quarter quiet was because there had been no new strings of murders bearing marks of the Embran, an alien tribe of shape-shifters with an empire deep beneath the earth’s surface.

While police honchos and the city elders did their best to pretend there was no cause for panic, the Millets and their friends had repulsed two Embran attempts to take over New Orleans and enslave its inhabitants.

A sculptor, Sykes stood in the studio at his house off St. Peter Street in the Quarter and stared at the piece of green marble shot with gold he’d come home to find there—attached to a waist-high plinth—ten days earlier. He had not ordered it. He had known nothing about the thing until it appeared in the studio.

With the marble he had found a note bearing a few cryptic comments: “The stone is from the mountains of Morocco, subtle green-and-gold marble, and perfect for your task. Exquisite. I have the utmost faith in your abilities. Let your hands and inspiration guide you to find the form inside the stone. It will help in your quest. I will be in touch.”

Of course it was unsigned. Jude Millet, otherwise known as the Millets’ Mentor, Keeper of the Millet Book of the Way—or the rule book—knew Sykes would recognize the marble as coming from him. After all, Jude, gone from human presence for three hundred years, was still a Millet and shared the same erroneous belief as the rest of the clan, that Sykes could be controlled, manipulated and would always put family needs first.

“Just wait,” Sykes said, walking around the foot-and-a-half-high lump of stone. The veins of gold glittered. “All of you—all my manipulating friends are going to get a shock and you won’t like it. Finally I know what
I
want and I’m going to get it.”

Love and death had a lot in common.

Both took something away and replaced it with…something. Sometimes the alternative was a void, emptiness, sometimes peace, even euphoria, but always the feelings were intense and someone was forever changed.

Sykes knew a good deal about death. Not so much about love. He had managed to escape needing a per
manent woman in his life. As a passionate man, compatible female acquaintances had brought him pleasure but not the kind of satisfaction he had come to long for.

He wanted one woman, his woman.

But he had been branded a curse. This supposed curse threatened that a man like him could bring disaster to the Millets. This was because he was a dark-haired, blue-eyed male in a paranormal family that had an almost unbroken line of red-haired, green-eyed people.

Talk of the curse, and the fear it brought, started three hundred years earlier when Jude Millet—yes, that Jude—had lost his fiancée and on the rebound married a flamboyant woman in Belgium. Through the attention she brought in Bruges, the accusations of witchcraft, the Millets had come close to complete destruction. They had been forced to flee, first to London, then to New Orleans where they had lived relatively quietly until links were made between them and a string of unnatural deaths.

So far Sykes had seen no other proof of this curse, no documentation, and the deductions were drawn from one event, but his father was convinced that if his son ever took his place as head of the family and married, they might all be on the run again. The truth of it had never been tested—in good part because there had not been anything but red-haired descendants, until Sykes. And Sykes had started to feel rebellious.

His father’s decision to turn over control of the
family business to his brother Pascal and go in search of “a solution to the curse” didn’t help. Antoine Millet and his wife Leandra had taken off twenty years earlier leaving unwilling Pascal to assume what should have become Sykes place once his father either died or stepped down.

Sykes had endured the curse up to his ears, and his uncle Pascal felt pretty much the same way.

One fact that seemed to be ignored by Antoine was that the woman Jude had married three hundred years ago turned out to be an Embran in disguise. Not a mistake Sykes was likely to repeat. And the real curse they all faced was the result of those subterranean villains, a marauding race of shape-shifters, believing that the eventual return of the woman to her home had brought an end to their former immortality. They were slowly dying, much too slowly for Sykes and others who would celebrate the total extinction of these parasites.

Sykes didn’t spend much time considering his own strong paranormal powers, or those of the rest of the Millets, the Fortunes, the Montrachets and several other families in the city. Occasionally he did wish he wasn’t expected to follow the rules set out in a book he had seen only when it had been shown to him by an apparition of the mystical Mentor who supposedly watched over the family.

The book also hung somewhere between a real manifestation and an apparition, not that Sykes had
any aversion to such things. But, in fact, he had never seen rules written on the pages he had seen, only pictures and a few words. But he had seen the book with its heavy gold cover encrusted with gems floating before him. So had his sister Marley and her husband Gray, his sister Willow and Ben Fortune who was now Willow’s Bonded partner.

The gold keys he and Ben had found prior to the sudden and uncanny absence of the Embran in the city were absolutely real. So far there were three of them, thin, small, at first glance all the same. They bore the inscription Bella Angelus—beautiful angel. But they were not the same. Each one had a subtle difference, meaning, he thought, that they fit different keyholes.

He was certain these keys, which he now kept safe, were an important—even the most important—clue to whatever mystery dogged the Millets, and perhaps some of the other paranormal families.

Sykes assumed the state that brought him the most comfort: invisibility. He phased out and surveyed his studio, in particular the piece he was supposedly working on.

Seated on one of the long benches where his tools lay, Sykes looked down at the chisels, picks, mallets and chips of stone his human body would have concealed, had he chosen such an uncomfortable place to sit. On occasion that state diverted him to get lost in insignificant silliness.

He surveyed the piece of marble again. He had been
looking for “the form inside the stone” every day since it arrived. His hands seemed to guide his efforts yet he still had no idea what he was making.

To keep entertained, Sykes brought himself to the partial, ghostlike silhouette that was visible only to his own chosen few. He enjoyed adopting the form around his sister Marley who alternately felt honored that he rarely showed this side of himself to anyone else, or aggravated if he played games when she was otherwise occupied.

He reached to punch on some music and “Egyptian Fantasy” made him smile and sway.

Not for long. Cracking, faint but not so faint he didn’t hear it over the music, made him frown and search around. From the edge of his vision he caught a suggestion of movement and jumped to the floor, staring at the work in progress.

While he watched, a small, perfect and very female hand formed. Relaxed, most of the fingers curled into the palm, it seemed to point upward, and the material discarded fell to the floor in a scatter of fine rubble.

P
oppy Fortune edged through the crowd of partygoers in the spectacular St. Louis Street home of Louisiana senatorial hopeful Ward Bienville. She had just arrived—very late—but the only thing she knew for certain was that she wanted to escape again.

That was out of the question. She was there because she had to get out among people in the know. The hints and clues she needed would not be found by spending all her spare time alone or with her family.

Months earlier Poppy had made a foolish mistake but she had tried to put it right, and now, since the man whose forgiveness she wanted most despised her, she was determined to dig her way out of the mess by making herself invaluable. Poppy was set on finding a way to help solve the growing threat New Orleans faced—even if the citizens didn’t seem to know its magnitude. She might not be as strong a paranormal talent as her three brothers, or some of the others they knew, but she had an unusual skill that might save all of them.

Familiar faces circulated around her, people she had seen at her family’s club, Fortunes, and in photos from society events. Poppy didn’t see anyone she would call a friend. She did get distant glimpses of one or two of Ward’s close advisors among a tight group of people at the far end of the room.

What she did see, bursting from among the crowd, were more superalpha brain clusters than she had ever seen in one place. In fact, she had never seen more than one at a time and very few of those. Okay, maybe just one or two altogether. But she frequently located clusters of superior but lesser strengths than these, and she translated the motives that drove the host minds. Love, hate, avarice were all very common. There was a very uncommon degree of heightened stimulation in this room.

Slowly, swallowing hard to moisten her dry throat, she picked out first one, then another person with the telltale glowing chartreuse circle pulsing amid tight clumps of shocking violet spheres no bigger than fine dots. There were four superalphas, two men and two women and she didn’t know any of them.

Poppy gasped.

They all had the same emotional trigger.

They were desperate. They wanted revenge and power. They wanted their own way.

They were afraid of failure.

She turned aside, breaking the intensely uncomfortable contacts. Of course there were strong-minded
people present, ambitious people. After all, only those interested in shaping politics and events would come….

She was here because she and Ward Bienville had met at Fortunes, which she managed for the family, and he had behaved as if she were his personal goddess ever since. Gifts, phone calls several times a day, invitations to accompany him to faraway places and to be at his side in just about everything he did. Despite not being wildly attracted to him, Poppy was a little flattered by Ward’s attention. That could be because her life felt like one big, disappointing flop.

And it made her mad. Sure, she had done something seriously wrong and come close to hurting innocent people, but she was sorry. She would never stop being sorry, but things had turned out fine for her brother Ben and Willow Millet, his Bonded partner as the Millet family referred to making a lifetime commitment. Other people got second chances so why not her? The answer made her eyes sting. The one person she really wanted to be with was unlikely ever to forgive what she had almost caused.

Ward was fun to be with, his charisma and drive fascinated her, but she wasn’t falling in love with him. She wouldn’t allow herself to think too hard about the man she did want. But there was another reason for her hanging around with the senatorial hopeful—she was aura sensitive and not in the simple way the uninitiated thought of the gift.

Poppy could see brain patterns like the ones that had just shocked her—but usually much more ordinary patterns. They emitted heat that created a spectrum of pulsing colors, some so brilliant they hurt her eyes.

Ward Bienville had the kind of wide circle of friends and acquaintances that brought her in contact with artists, professionals, industrialists, financiers, people with the will and capability to achieve. And among these the brain patterns were the most diverse she had seen in one place. She had even seen one or two she could not type.

Paranormals were a different matter. Poppy longed to know what their brain patterns might look like but they were either absent or not apparent to her.

If paranormals showed their brain patterns to anyone, it wasn’t Poppy and she had tried hard to see them.

A brunette with a voice like Diana Krall sat at the piano wearing a skimpy silver dress. The bottom of the skirt didn’t reach the edge of the piano bench, and the bodice hung on to the tips of her breasts as if glued there. But she could sing, play and she was beautiful.

Ward was always surrounded with beautiful people, male and female, which made Poppy a little uneasy about holding her own in such company. She wasn’t a shrinking violet but neither was she vain. Her own looks were complimented often enough, and some expert opinions had assured her she had a killer figure, but since Ward could have anyone he wanted, why her?

More important than any reservations she had was the opportunity to mix with the kind of New Orleans citizens the Embran were known to prefer.

This was the first time she’d been to Ward’s home. Not that she had not been invited—frequently.

Aubusson rugs graced dark, glinting wooden floors. Gilt-framed mirrors tossed around images of New Orleans’s rich and famous, the glitterati of the city. French Empire chandeliers, their lights supported by gold swans, and a series of Baccarat crystal wall sconces brought blinding prisms searing from the women’s jewelry.

“Ms. Fortune?” A white-jacketed waiter at her elbow offered her champagne, and she took a glass from his tray. He bowed and gave her a serious, deferential look.

French doors stood open to the gallery. Poppy peered outside and found what she expected; it was empty. No guests could bear to risk missing a little of Ward’s golden attention. So far she had managed to stay out of his line of sight but she already knew he had been asking if anyone had seen her. She wouldn’t be free of his attention much longer. She had ignored three calls from him on her cell phone, and when he asked why she had not picked up, which he would, she intended to be honest and tell him she had needed some solitude.

Poppy smiled a little. Ward would only be more anxious for her approval if she thwarted him occasionally. He expected to get what he wanted in all things.

She stepped into the warm, fragrant night and closed her eyes for an instant. The gallery was dimly lit and relatively peaceful, despite the noise behind her.

When she approached the grillwork railing, cold slipped over her skin Her heart speeded up and she wrinkled her brow. Rather than finding peace in the open air, agitation exploded through her. Sweat broke out along her spine and between her breasts. Her brow was instantly damp.

Voices rose from the street below—laughter, high-pitched female yells punctuated by male bellowing. St. Louis wasn’t a main party street. People tended to wander through on their way to Bourbon Street and the center of the French Quarter. The group down there went on their way and relative quiet filled in behind them.

Suffused light showed through shutters at the windows opposite. Overhead, blood-edged inky clouds slunk across a thin white moon.

Breath caught in her throat.

She wasn’t alone.

Champagne slopped from the glass and over her trembling hand. Of course she was alone. She looked right and left, peered into every corner. Nothing on the gallery moved other than hanging flowers caught by the faint breeze.

“Hi, Poppy. You seem edgy,” a familiar deep voice said.

Poppy jumped and her knees locked.

Sykes Millet wasn’t a man she would fail to recognize, even in darkness. “What are you doing here?” she said. “You weren’t here seconds ago.”

“Of course I was,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “I saw you come out but you seemed preoccupied. I didn’t want to make you jump.”

He had done that anyway.

Very tall, his black hair slightly wavy and grown past his collar, he sauntered toward her from the left, from the farthest reaches of the gallery. He wore a tux. She saw the snowy shine of his shirt in the gloom. With his jacket pushed back and both hands in his pants pockets, he took his time reaching her, enough time to give her a chance to consider fleeing inside.

“Nice dress,” he said, arriving in front of her. His eyes passed over her body in a way that made her feel naked—or wish she were.

Poppy turned very, very hot. “Thanks.”

“Where have you been hiding yourself?”

“I’ve been around.” And she was surprised he would know or care where she was.

“You spent time in northern California with your folks.”

The glow from inside the condo illuminated his face. Every feature had its own shadow. Winging black brows, heavy lashes around his eyes, high, sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. And his mouth. The outline showed clearly, a fuller bottom lip and corners that tilted up a little even when he was quite
serious. He was serious now but she saw him suck a long breath.

Sykes Millet was something else.

“How long have you been back?” he asked, and she realized she hadn’t responded to his last remark.

“Months,” she said. “I was only away for about a week. The club needs me around.”

She was, Sykes decided, thinking about the last time they met when she had confessed to him how she had tried to break up Ben Fortune and Sykes’s sister Willow. “I think Liam and Ethan need you, too,” he said of her other brothers who were also involved in the business to much lesser degrees.

“You didn’t say why you were here,” she said, visibly relaxing enough to sip her champagne. “Are you a friend of Ward’s?”

“Nope. But I know who he is, everyone does by now. When I saw you I hoped you might be able to tell me why I would be invited. The invitation said something about my attendance being an advantage—to me.”

She gave a short laugh and tossed her long, dark hair away from her shoulders. Poppy’s skin was olive and smooth, her eyes almond-shaped and almost black. Sykes couldn’t see her without thinking she looked Mediterranean. By the time this long-legged woman turned fifteen, she had flowered into the pattern of what she would become.

“That sounds like an invitation Ward would approve of,” she said. “Confidence is his watchword.”

How well did she know him, Sykes wondered. “He must be an old friend of yours.”

“Fairly recent, actually.”

And yet she felt she knew the way he thought?

Disappearing at the sight of Poppy had not been a mature thing to do, but he had needed time to collect himself and think. And to watch her. That had been a pleasure for longer than it probably should have been.

“I gather Ward Bienville is thinking about a run for the Senate.”

Poppy swirled the champagne in her glass and looked up at him. “That’s what he says. And that’s what all this is, I’m sure.” She waved toward the crush inside the condo. “He’s starting to test the waters seriously. Finding out his chances of getting the kind of backing he’ll need if he goes forward.”

“The Bienvilles are an old Louisiana family. They’re supposed to be filthy rich in their own right. Haven’t they had statesmen before?”

She raised one bare shoulder. Her black dress was demure enough, a sheath that ended at her knees, but it was strapless and Poppy had full breasts that rose softly above the top and showed the shadow of deep cleavage.

“You could be right,” she said at last, “about the statesmen bit. But Ward hasn’t lived the high life.”

Sykes cocked a brow. “You could have fooled me.”

She smiled and pushed her hair behind her shoulders again. “I didn’t put that well. From what he’s said, his
branch of the family has been more involved with good works. His parents were missionaries and he’s lived all over the world in various trouble spots. He doesn’t like to say much but I think his work has been mostly under cover to assist with advance intelligence for aid groups.”

“Sounds impressive,” Sykes said. “He must be quite a man.”

He studied her expression closely.

“I’m sure he is,” she said, noncommittal. Sykes didn’t hear a lot of admiration in her voice.

He shouldn’t be relieved. “So I’m here as a potential donor? And you, too?”

“I guess. What are you working on these days?”

Sykes frowned. He hadn’t expected the question. “An interesting piece. We’ll see if it’s still interesting when it’s finished.” An urge to see her again didn’t surprise him. They had unfinished business. “Ben and Willow sound happy. I’m glad they decided to stay in Kauai for a while. At least they can hope for peace there.”

She had stiffened. “The Embran have been quiet here,” she said almost under her breath.

Sykes gave a single nod. “Ben talked to you about that?”

“Not a lot. But I’ve seen Marley, and we’ve discussed what’s been going on.”

Marley had not mentioned Poppy to Sykes. He might feel like asking her why if he did not figure she had sensed tension between him and Poppy.

“Marley looks wonderful pregnant, by the way,” Poppy said in a rush as if she could hear his thoughts, which he knew she could not.

Since he and Ben were young teens and Poppy a little girl she had complained that she could hear telepathic communications but not send them. And she only heard what full telepathists wanted her to hear.

At the moment she watched him too closely, he assumed because he was quiet. “She’s nervous waiting for something else to happen,” Poppy said. “Having a baby probably makes you more sensitive. It isn’t just you and the world anymore. You’re responsible for someone else.”

Sykes inclined his head. She looked away from him. This introspective Poppy was different from the woman he thought he knew.

“Have you told Ben what I did?” she asked softly.

He almost felt sorry for her. Her brother Ben had been her closest friend and she must still fear he would turn away from her if he found out the truth. “He doesn’t know a thing unless you’ve told him. Look at me, Poppy.”