Stephan jabbed his finger at the screens. “Refresh my memory. I could have sworn you created these masques to be completely different.”
Eric glared at him. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that they’re acting like goddamn clones!”
A brisk rap sounded at the door and Thomas Minor, Eric’s head of security, came in. Even here, in the safety of Eric’s main house, he remained fully armed and, as usual, scanned the room as soon as he entered.
“Tom, come over here and tell us what you see.” Stephan nodded at the screens.
Tom gave the images on the monitors a quick glance, then paused and frowned as he examined them more intently. “You should have told us, sire,” he said after a long silence. “You know what this means.” His hand rasped as he ran it over the dark stubble covering his head.
“Well, Eric?” Stephan demanded.
His lieutenant and security chief looked at him expectantly. Shit. Eric grimaced. That he resented they even suggested there was a problem was bad news. Masquerada needed to keep some emotional distance from the masques they took on—his defensiveness was a strong indicator that he had dug himself in too deep. Stephan and Tom had both warned him not to take on any more masques but he’d insisted on pushing himself to the limit, then over it.
It was time to man up and deal.
“It’s possible that I have unconsciously become more attached to these masques than is wise,” he allowed. “It is also possible I took on more than I should have.”
“And?” Stephan prodded.
“I can fix it.” Eric shrugged. “I will fix it.”
Stephan bit his lip, clearly fighting a strong urge to ask the obvious question: So why haven’t you done it yet? Instead he tossed over a little gray-and-yellow rectangle.
Eric picked it up. “What’s this?” What appeared to be high-quality paper stock was actually thin plastic. A business card.
“The man who’s going to solve your problem.”
“Julien D’Aurant. JDPR.” Eric rolled his eyes. “You want me to see a PR guy?”
“He came highly recommended. The vamps used him when they had a rogue.”
“What’s he going to do, write a press release for me?”
“They do more than PR. They’re problem solvers.” Stephan folded his huge arms across his chest and leveled an unblinking stare at Eric. The silence in the room grew heavy until Tom cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Ah, sire? I think Stephan has a point.”
“Stop calling me sire.”
“You are one of the Seven, sire,” Tom said respectfully. The Seven were the ruling Hierarchs of the masquerada nations.
Eric frowned. Sometimes respect for the position got in the way of what he needed to hear. “Not in this room. Here I need honesty and realistic assessments.”
His head of security nodded. “Okay then, Eric, I think you are royally fucking up by not dealing with the possibility of convergence seriously and immediately.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Stephan said with approval.
Tom plowed ahead. “A possible convergence is a security issue and needs to be dealt with,” he said. “You could be incapacitated at any moment.”
Eric looked at the business card that was now twisted in his fingers. His men were right, and he knew it. It rankled to have to call someone. He tossed the card onto the table. Don’t sugarcoat it. You need help.
He never asked for assistance from outsiders, but then again, he’d never faced a convergence before. He made the decision. “Call him and book a meeting. Let’s get it done with.”
“I’ve already booked it,” Stephan said.
“What?”
Stephan picked up the card and tucked it into his pocket. “I knew you’d see reason. We’re going this morning.”
Eric struggled with this, then let it go. “Fine.”
“No more changing into any of your current masques,” Stephan warned. “It’s unsafe.”
Eric waved a hand without answering. No promises. “Now that we’ve dealt with this, what’s the bad news? The real bad news.” Which must be shitty indeed, if it could rival a possible convergence.
Tom passed him a large, grainy photo. In the middle, a blurry man crossed a busy street. Eric squinted, then drew his breath in when Tom silently handed him a close-up that highlighted the man’s throat. A long, faded crescent that could have been a scar was circled in red marker. “Impossible.”
“Actually it is possible, but still unconfirmed.” Tom handed him a third photo of the man disappearing into the crowd. “There may be nothing to worry about.”
Eric laid the photos on the table. “When was this taken?”
“Yesterday,” Tom said. “Right at Yonge-Dundas Square. There was a dog costume contest on.”
Stephan looked puzzled. “You had informants covering a dog contest?”
“Mai was already there for Mrs. Fibbles and she snapped it.”
“Mrs. Fibbles?”
“Her puggle. Won third place dressed like Yoda.”
Eric made a mental note to congratulate Mai and turned back to the photo. “Franz Iverson.” It had to be him.
“He’s supposed to be in jail back in the United States,” Stephan squinted at the photos. “What’s he doing walking around downtown Toronto?”
“He’s still in jail,” Tom said. “Or someone who looks and acts like him is.”
Eric frowned. “We thought this would happen. I thought we had his people under surveillance so we’d know when he managed to get out.”
“We did, but Iverson is good. It’s possible he slipped by us and has been laying low since his escape.” Tom shook his head. “I wonder who the poor jackass who took his place in jail is.”
“You’re sure it’s him?” Stephan asked.
“We know that he never, and I mean never, lets anyone copy his scar. This one,”—Tom nodded at the photos on the table—”this one has to be the real deal.”
Both men looked at Eric. “We know why he’s here,” he said. “He wants revenge because I let him go to the human jail.”
“You know that’s not all of it.” Stephan stared pointedly at the thick golden ring Eric wore on his right hand. His symbol of office, centuries old and passed—or forcibly removed—from one Hierarch to the next.
Eric held up his hand and saw the dull, scratched gold gleam in the sun. “He wants the throne. My throne. It’s reasonable to assume he’s here to kill me.”
A thrill went through him as he spoke. Not fear, but a rising anticipation that he’d be able to have another chance at making Iverson bleed.
“Then why not send an assassin?” Tom walked over to the windows and looked out as though checking for a car of killers parked in front of the house.
“Iverson’s from the old guard and he’d want to do it himself,” Stephan said. “Too bad he didn’t learn his lesson from last time.”
Eric smiled. It had taken him over three hundred years to hone his natural power, until he had finally been skilled enough to become Hierarch. He was even stronger than Iverson, who was a thug but a forceful thug from one of the ruling lineages. Iverson hadn’t taken defeat well and Eric had been too lenient the last time Iverson crossed him. Too forgiving.
He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. No one would take the throne from him. Ever.
Tom watched him carefully, then spoke as if he could tell what Eric was thinking. “It won’t be easy to defeat him this time.”
“I can’t believe some people actually defended him after what he did in Washington,” Stephan said. “Iverson broke the Law, one of the cardinal rules. Christ, it’s the only rule all the arcane groups share. He was the one who wanted to screw with the statics. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”
Eric shrugged. “That’s not how he
It was hard work. “Iverson’s slyer than I had anticipated.” Tom scratched his chin. “He’s been actively recruiting, Eric. He’s strong.”
“How strong?” Eric stared hard at his security chief. “I’m not laying blame here, Tom, but I need to know.”
“Very strong. Plus I heard he’s looking to partner with the more vicious of the vamp clans.”
This was definitely bad news. The vampires gave fealty to their lords, who were currently devolving into a civil war to establish authority over fragmented clans. Eric recently had some heated conversations with vampire leadership, so it looked as though Iverson was working on the assumption that Eric’s enemies were his friends. Eric nodded. “We should have anticipated that. We need more intel. If he wants to fight, we’ll fight, and fight hard.” Eric stared at the photos. “That bastard will never get this throne.”
Chapter 3
Eric surveyed the rows of clothes that neatly lined his gigantic closet. He had five masques at the moment, each requiring a completely different wardrobe. Tibor, for instance, was an overweight basement dweller with unhealthy skin and greasy hair. Eric ran his hand over the stained cargo shorts. He liked being Tibor, liked the way he looked at the world when wearing this masque. As Tibor, he felt as if his reality was nothing more than a false life projected on a screen, a character in a game. It led to some interesting trains of thought. Alberta was a small and proper older woman with a soft spot for pastel twinsets and pearls, and an excellent antidote to Tibor’s laxer perspectives on intellectual property ownership, hygiene, and general courtesy. Then there was Alexander, the masque he had put the most effort into creating. An entrepreneur with movie-star good looks, Alexander was a mover and a shaker, featured in business magazines across the continent. As Alexander, he might even enjoy a visit to a PR firm.
Or maybe not.
Stephan had tried to prevent him from creating Alex, pointing out that three masques was the traditional limit for a reason. “You were pushing it with four—you know it gets too confusing for your psyche after that. You’re not even trying to do an easy one as the fifth, for God’s sake. Have you considered the logistics involved in being a Hierarch and running a business?” He’d paused and rubbed his eyes. “I mean, another business?”
Eric hadn’t listened, confident that he could keep it together and craving a challenge to combat the creeping clutches of le vide, the fatal depression that overtook many long-lived arcane beings. He ran a finger down the fine, soft cashmere of Alberta’s sweater. He’d also wanted to prove his strength to himself and his people. To take on five masques was a potent statement of dominance his people would respect. He might have won the throne but he knew he had to keep showcasing his abilities to the Council, keeping them comfortable with choosing a Hierarch who had been turned a masquerada and not blood-born. Only strength can rule strength was written on the throne itself.
He shoved Alberta’s clothing aside. The irony was that as Eric tried to lead his people into seeing each other as individuals with value, no matter what their masquing skill, he himself still needed to be viewed as unparalleled in strength and ability. Otherwise, he’d lose the support of the old lineages. Eric was stuck in the trap of having to embody the thing he found to be most damaging in masquerada society.
Now look at the mess he’d made. Convergence—the thought of it sent shivers down his spine. Contemplating the potential loss of control it caused shook him more than the prospect of death or the loss of face.
He’d seen only one masquerada converge in his long life and that was enough. Selene had been a healer, one of the wisest he’d ever known. It had happened in a cotton field near Savannah and he’d watched, shocked and helpless, as limbs and faces sprouted over her body as she’d writhed in silent agony. They had faded when she died and Selene had reverted back to her core self—an elderly, delicate black woman with white hair and finely wrinkled skin. Eric had been the one to bring the empty shell of her body back to her family in the slave quarters, fighting a deep thread of anger that Selene had been subjected to such a death, and horror at what he’d witnessed. It was there he had met Stephan for the first time. He had been the one to claim the body, his face granite-still but his hands trembling as he smoothed Selene’s hair away from her face.
Focus on the now. Eric tried to clear his mind and keep the past firmly where it belonged.
Alexander it would be, he decided, rummaging through the wardrobe of well-tailored suits. Alex was corporate enough to be a suitable visitor to a PR agency. He refused to think about why he had to be Alex and not simply himself. He was a masquerada and taking on masques was what he did—no excuses or explanations necessary. Amateur psychoanalysis was useless.
When he pulled out the dark gray pinstripe suit, he saw Lucie, his stylist, had already matched it with a crisp white shirt and navy silk tie with tiny fuchsia dots. A small note on the hanger directed him to the right shoes. Thank God for Lucie, he thought as he laid the outfit on a couch. The woman was a treasure, saving him hours in sartorial decision making and greatly increasing the believability of his masques.
He’d learned the hard way that a masque had to be perfect in every detail to work. The wrong shoes or outdated shirt could be passed off as an eccentricity, but it forced a masquerada out of character. For the weaker ones, that momentary lapse of confidence was sometimes enough for them to lose control of the masque completely, a devastating show of weakness as well as a serious breach of the Law if it occurred near humans.
After stripping down, Eric gave himself a critical look in the mirror. When he became a masquerada, he had kept his original human appearance as his core self: dark wavy hair, brown eyes, and skin that was naturally tan. Some decided on a new masque and never looked back, leaving their original physical selves for slowly disappearing memory.
He turned away from the mirror with the suit draped over his arm. The usual fission of eagerness at taking on Alexander’s masque was edged with a new sense of danger. It was stupid to shift into a possibly converging masque. He knew it. Shit, everyone knew it. If there was a masquerada Ten Commandments, that would be number one. He forced himself to shrug it off. The fear was a challenge and Eric never backed away from a challenge. It was why he was the Hierarch.
Time to take on the masque. The first step was the most crucial and he steadied himself with three deep ritual breaths. Exhaling, he concentrated on the image he wanted, a combination of Alex’s physical appearance and his presence. Eric thought of this as the who-ness of the masque, that almost indescribable sense of a person. His muscles flowed into Alexander’s taller and bulkier form like sliding through sunlight. In seconds it was complete. The next step was a thorough examination to make sure everything was as it should be. Body: two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier with thick muscles. His hair was reddish, offsetting a British pallor and piercing sapphire-blue eyes.
Stephan came in and looked at the Alex masque with narrow eyes as Eric finished knotting his tie. His lips tightened and Eric waited for the lecture about how he shouldn’t have shifted if he was close to a possible convergence. Instead, all his lieutenant said was, “Alexander leaves by the north exit.”
“Right.” Multiple masques took some serious logistics to remain undetected. After all, what were the chances that a businessman, an old woman, and a comic-book guy all lived together in the same house?
Stephan changed quickly to become Alex’s assistant, lightening his skin and eyes and turning bald with a touch of stubble. “The car’s waiting. Let’s go.”
* * * *
The phone rang as Caro finished her first round of morning emails. It was Jenna, a mermaid who, in her human form, was also one of Japan’s top models. “I’m sorry, Caro darling,” she drawled. “You know I hate bothering you.”
Caro liked Jenna, but like all merpeople, she never did anything quickly, including getting to the point. There was no rushing her either; she’d simply wait until Caro finished, then take up exactly where she had been interrupted. After talking about the weather, her latest job, and the divine seaweed udon she’d had last night, Jenna finally mentioned the problem—a photo shoot in Osaka and a possible sighting. “I couldn’t help it,” Jenna apologized. “The water there was beautiful. It had been so long since I’d had anything but bathtubs. I had to swim, Caro honey. Had to.”
Caro sighed. The mers were lovely to deal with, but they lost all self-restraint when they went near the ocean. Lakes at least didn’t seem to have the same irresistible allure.
“Not a problem,” Caro assured her. “I’ll get a team over. We’ll do the movie plan.”
“Is that the one where they pretend to be location scouts and have someone dress up like a mermaid to swim around in the water?”
“Exactly. Esther Williams style.”
“Thank you, honey. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Caro made some soothing, I-believe-you noises. This had been Jenna’s twelfth call. The last time they’d faked a manatee sighting.
It took a little while longer to get Jenna off the phone, but within twenty minutes, Caro had briefed JDPR’s Asia field team and asked Estelle to set up the equipment and flights to Osaka. They wouldn’t worry about permits, she decided. Timeliness was more important than total authenticity. That finished, she allowed herself a brief pat on the back. It might not be the world’s most meaningful job, but at least she could find pleasure in doing it well.
-->