Iverson’s violent kick got Eric squarely in the jaw. A mutter rose from the stands as Eric wavered and lost his grip. Spitting the blood out on the mat, he shook the stars from his eyes even as Iverson finally reached the swords.
* * * *
This was not how the fight was supposed to go, thought Caro frantically. It was clear from the moment they started to dance that there was something wrong with Eric’s leg and she had tried her best to avoid it.
Then the masque’s traits started to influence her—not only her body, but her mind. In the same way that taking on Maria’s masque had caused her to crave a smoke, the giant’s masque made her want to fight. More than that, she had to fight, and fight well. Better than she even thought possible. The body was a killing machine, designed to inflict maximum damage and she was horrified to find herself overwhelmed by an intense desire to use it for its intended purpose.
Even as she tried to pull back the tremendous strength that lay in the giant’s huge frame, it was clear it was going to be a struggle. The strike she tried to aim at Eric’s good side was diverted to his injury with extreme force. The slight shake she used to try to dislodge Eric turned into a lethal kick.
She was fighting a battle on two fronts, and a win on either side meant dreadful loss on the other.
As she clawed her way to the swords, Eric’s fingers dug into her calf, fiercely ripping into muscle and tendon to try to lame her. The masque forced her to react instantly, reaching back and pulling Eric up by the arm even as her legs reared up to throw him over the top of her head.
The wooden boards under the mat shook at the impact of his fall and Caro cried out in fear. Had she killed him? Struggling to her knees, she saw Eric’s prone body lying beside the edge of the mat. He was still, with blood streaming out of his nose to stain the ivory mat below and one arm unnaturally crooked.
A roar came from the crowd at the sight of the fallen Hierarch. Caro lumbered to her feet and headed toward the swords that lay to Eric’s left. Her body had a single desire—to kill. Her mind, though, was locked in a battle with the masque. It was almost as though she could watch the masque’s actions even as she struggled to master it. But it was strong, so strong. Iverson must have known what was going to happen to Caro, still new to shifting, when she had taken on this masque. How it must have enhanced his sick pleasure to know that her hardest fight would be against her own body.
She hated him.
Eric’s eyes blinked open as Caro reached the swords. Even as her fingers brushed the blade, he swung out with a kick that caused her feet to fly out from under her. In an instant, he straddled her, his left arm dangling at his side as his right fist pummeled her mercilessly.
“This is for Caro,” she heard him say.
She felt the masque’s mouth open in a shout and her body bucked Eric off. They rolled in different directions and lurched to their feet at the same time.
The swords lay between them.
Time stopped.
Blood dripped to the mat as they stared at each other.
Then Caro felt herself lunge for the swords. Her masque was fast but despite his dragging leg, Eric made it there first. Ducking down to grasp the sword on the run, he pivoted to come up behind her and send her smashing to the mat with a vicious kick behind her knees.
She came down by the second sword and her arm immediately whipped out, the fingers scrabbling madly for the hilt as Caro attempted to slow it. Then she saw a shadow and instinctively twisted out of the way of Eric’s plunging blade, which lodged into the floor where her head had been.
This was it. On her feet now, Caro held the sword low and steady, ready to strike as Eric yanked at his trapped weapon.
No. No. She struggled against the movement in horror but the masque easily ignored her efforts for dominance.
Stop. Caro screamed in her own head, feeling like a passenger in her own disobedient body. She had to try harder. Much harder.
It was useless. The masque was too strong for her. She resisted but the sword came down inexorably.
Was she going to lose herself? Would the masque overpower her?
No. She was Caro. She wasn’t this masque. She was more than it, tougher than it. Eric’s words suddenly appeared in her mind. A masquerada is never the masque. That’s what you’re having trouble understanding. Your essential self, your core, never changes.
Her core was not a murderous warrior giant. That was not her essential self. It was only Iverson’s final attempt to ruin her life.
It wasn’t going to happen.
With a scream of rage, she wrenched the masque back under her command and forced it to her will. As it submitted, she felt the full pain from her wounds rush into her consciousness, the intensity almost crippling her.
Dazed, she dropped the sword and began to fall forward.
* * * *
Eric dislodged the sword from the boards as the giant let his own weapon go and instead launched himself toward him. An easy sidestep caused Iverson to miss him by inches; momentum and a quick swipe of Eric’s foot took the giant to the ground. He didn’t know what was happening with Iverson, but he wasn’t going to lose this opportunity.
It was time. He’d already decided where the killing stroke would be—right on the left of Iverson’s throat, on the old crescent scar he’d given him years ago.
Iverson struggled to his knees, shaking his head as though trying to clear his thoughts. Eric stared at the man’s unprotected neck, readying the blade to slice smoothly through to the bone.
Except the scar wasn’t there.
Eric’s blood ran cold. That initial clumsiness. The lack of skill. The scar that wasn’t there. It was always there.
Instantly, he knew. It wasn’t Iverson he was facing.
Who had Iverson forced to take his position?
His mind flew through options. There wasn’t much time to decide. The giant stumbled, his arms flailing. Eric was on him on a second, dodging around the man’s massive bulk and giving him a shove that forced him to the ground. Eric leaped on his back and grabbed his hair, lifting the massive head up from the mat.
“Who are you?” he murmured without moving his lips. “Where’s Iverson?”
The low rumble that came to his ears was soft. “For you,” came the incongruous words. “Couldn’t let him hurt you.”
Caro? Eric’s head spun. Caro was dead. She definitely wasn’t a giant. He needed more time, so he bellowed out, “Do you yield?” Sick horror filled him at the sight of the bleeding wounds. There were many, all caused by his own hand. Jesus, what had he done to her?
The Councilor’s voice cut through. “There is no yield, Hierarch America.”
Eric ignored her, his attention on the hulking mass below him. “Caro?”
The voice was faint. “Yes. Made a deal but he wants to hurt you. Kill me fast. Can’t let him know. Don’t let it hurt any more. Please. Love you. I love you.”
“Stay still. No matter what happens, stay still.” Caro or Iverson? Either way, he needed to make sure that his enemy wouldn’t escape.
Logically, it made no sense that Caro was there—in fact, it was much more plausible that Iverson, or whoever the pawn was who now lay on the mat, was trying to trick him into showing a mercy that would not be returned. Frieda had said Caro was dead. Even if she wasn’t, it was impossible that Caro would have been able to take on and use such a powerful masque. A masquerada would need decades of practice to rule the inherent impulses the masque would carry with it.
There was no time to puzzle through what had happened. It couldn’t be Caro—could it? It was more likely that this was magical thinking: his intense desire to believe Caro to be alive was clouding his judgment.
His mind warred with his heart. Then, the decision was made. With a lightning move, Eric raised the sword high, and thrust it down, deep into the giant’s back.
Chapter 38
Screams of bloodlust filled the room. Eric climbed off and stood a few feet distant, balancing on his unsteady leg and looking away from the prone figure lying on the floor.
He prayed no one would notice that the sword was actually wedged between the giant’s arm and his—her—body.
“I claim victory,” he declared to the galleries. “The challenger is dead.”
Councilor Michaela walked with a stately gait over to the ring, where she stepped over the salt. Eric approached her. “It’s a hoax,” he murmured quickly under a bowed head, so no spectator could read his lips. “That’s not Iverson, but I need you to pretend it is and that he is dead.”
She looked at him, startled and with narrowed eyes.
“Listen to me, Michaela. There’s no scar on his neck. It’s not Iverson. Trust me.”
Michaela nodded once and bent down over the still body, her hands moving the huge head to the side to check his neck as though she was feeling for a pulse. After a moment, she rose, her face resolute.
“Eric, Hierarch North America. I declare you victor. Let your hand strike through the name of Franz Iverson in the book.”
Cheers and shouts of allegiance broke out from the galleries, and Eric stepped forward, his arms in the air. Where was that goddamn SOB? Eric knew Iverson wouldn’t be able to resist his big dramatic moment and he couldn’t risk the man escaping. A churning fear for Caro ratcheted his tension even higher when he saw a line of blood creep its way across the floor from under her body. He was going to have to give Iverson a nudge.
He regarded the crowd. “Let this be said here and now that Iverson was a weakling, a traitor, and a criminal, unworthy of even issuing this challenge. His body will be burned and his ashes scattered. There will be no place of rest for his shade. Those who showed him support will learn the consequences.”
A robed figure stepped forward.
* * * *
Caro knew she was hurt, and badly. It was hard to hold on. Eric had told her to be still. That wasn’t a problem; she wasn’t sure if she could move anyway. A sharp edge pressed into the back of her arm but it was a minor inconvenience compared to the agony that flowed in waves from every other part of her body.
He had recognized her, and understood that Iverson was coming for him. She smiled inwardly, pleased at this small victory. She was going to die, but she’d managed to tell Eric how she felt before leaving him forever. Giving enough warning so he could kill Iverson for her was an additional bonus.
One regret off the list. Well, she’d given Julien’s nuts a good go, so make that two checkmarks.
A wave of sleepiness rolled over her. It was nice to lie here on the ground, the mat rough against her cheek. Maybe she would let herself rest for a bit. A few minutes.
As she was drifting off, cries of astonishment came from the crowd of gawkers that had lined the walls, waiting for blood. Above her, Eric growled and the woman, the Councilor, muttered under her breath. It didn’t sound complimentary. Then Michaela’s voice rose. “Franz Iverson. What have you done?”
That evil chuckle rolled across the room, chilling Caro. What was Iverson doing? She’d kept up her part of the bargain. Bitter knowledge flooded her. God, how gullible—of course he’d lied. He’d never meant to give Eric any more time. This whole thing was a sick plan to make them both suffer. Instead of saving Eric, she’d killed both of them. Brilliant.
“Michaela, spare me your speeches about how the defie is forfeit,” Iverson said. “I never planned for it to matter.”
“Explain yourself,” Eric commanded.
“What explanation is needed? You’re a pitiful Hierarch, making poor choices that will weaken the nation, but what do I care about that? Nothing. People are fools for following you and I make my own path.”
“Which led you to a static jail cell,” Eric said coldly.
“You didn’t lift a finger to help me. Imprisoned by those animals.”
“You brought it on yourself.”
Iverson laughed again. “The same way you brought this on yourself. You didn’t recognize your little plaything?”
“What?” Caro heard the rage in his voice. He was a good actor.
“Your little Caro. Or Lynn. I told her that I’d repay her. Convenient. She put up a good fight, didn’t she? Couldn’t you even tell when you fucked her that it was Frieda and not your little half-blood you were with yesterday?”
Well, they were going to have a talk about that. Caro fought the numbness traveling through her body as she desperately tried to stay awake for a few minutes longer. A thud and a grunt came from her left and she tensed, but was too tired and battered to move. Cracking her eyes open a tiny slit, she saw the two men wrestling violently on the floor, only feet away. The galleries erupted with screams. If that wasn’t enough, gunfire sounded from the back of the room, adding to the chaos.
Eric and Iverson pounded each other on the floor, each grappling for supremacy. With no time to recover from the fight with Caro, Eric was at a disadvantage. Caro managed to twist her head to see what was happening. Iverson flickered in and out, switching masques to keep Eric off balance. Eric’s left arm was still disabled and his leg dragging. Why wasn’t Eric masquing? Caro thought desperately. Why wasn’t he…? Then she remembered. He couldn’t. The damage the convergence had on his psyche had been complete.
Shift, she begged him silently. Do it now. You need to shift. A hulking mass of a man, Iverson was now pounding at Eric with insulting ease. Another wave of cold washed over her and she realized she could no longer feel her feet and hands. It’s over, she thought, a single tear rolling down her face. It…
* * * *
It was almost done now. Eric knew he couldn’t take much more of the punishment Iverson was giving out. If he’d been in top shape, maybe. His arm was healing rapidly but not fast enough that he could use it. The leg was still numb but at least took his weight. Those physical limitations were bad enough but his enemy also shifted every few seconds, going from a huge mountain to a thin and wiry sprite, fast and supple. Each masque provided different strengths and abilities.
To win, Eric needed to shift but he couldn’t. Not even with everything he loved at stake. He’d tried the first time Iverson had come at him with a new masque, and the fear had shuttered him.
So this is how is ends, he thought bitterly. Torturing the woman I love, then getting pounded to a pulp in front of her as she dies. Not the grand finale I would have chosen.
Iverson shifted again and got Eric in a choking headlock. As his breath ran out, Eric stared at Caro, willing her to open her eyes.
As if she heard him, she did. Her pale lips moved, slowly.
I believe in you.
Then her lids fluttered and closed.
“Caro.” Eric tried to call her name, hoping against hope that she was alive. There was so much blood under her. Too much blood.
I believe in you.
I believe.
Time slowed as Iverson’s grip on his throat tightened. There was a thunderous roar in his ears as the huge arm gave a mighty twist. Something cracked with an accompanying tortuous blaze, then Eric’s vision wavered and went black.
Suddenly, he could breathe freely again. There was no pain. His leg and arm moved freely. No Iverson, or Caro or the defie ring of salt. He was alone and facing the cavern that contained his masques. Panic came, washed in on a brutal flood of desolation.
Then, a figure dressed in white appeared in the cavern entrance. It was Caro, and she held out her hands in welcome.
“Caro?” he whispered.
“Come, Eric. Stop holding yourself back.” She took a step backward, then another, her body fading as she moved. Trembling, he reached out to her. She retreated into the cavern and he managed to take a step after her, fighting the dread that cemented him to the floor. Caro was leaving him.
To reach her, he would have to get through that fucking wall.
The fear of convergence, of masquing, was nothing compared to the fear of losing Caro again. He sprang forward, calling her name as she moved into the shadows. A sensation of lightness filled him and he shattered through the wall of dread that had been holding him back.
He blazed his way into the cavern, even as Caro disappeared into the distance. His masques, the hundreds he had inhabited over the centuries, turned to him with mindless eyes and he felt a click as he connected with them. There was no more despair as he chose his masque, a tank of a man with a neck like a bull.
Then the cavern shimmered and Eric was back in the ring, Iverson’s arms still around his neck. With a roar, Eric shifted into the colossal masque, exulting in his reclaimed power. Wrenching himself free of Iverson, Eric stood back and assessed his strength. The bones made tiny popping noises as they knit themselves back together.
He was back to himself.
Iverson stared at him with hate-filled eyes, teeth bared, beyond words and taunts. Eric read the desire to kill there and smiled.
He knew his own face mirrored the same primal expression.
The fight raged, each man racing through masques. Eric slowly began to get the upper hand, finally grabbing Iverson in a hold that he knew would render him unconscious if he could hold it for long enough. Five more seconds.
A piercing pain in his hip broke his grip. Iverson held a dagger he’d had hidden. Eric stepped back, his eyes on the blade with its bright blade glinting in the light.
The scratched E caught his eye. Frieda must have returned his knife to Iverson.
Then his enemy raised it high, ready for a kill.
* * * *
It was too hard to fight the cold. Caro tried but it pulled at her like a riptide. When she opened her eyes, there was nothing but a welter of moving images that constantly changed.
One last go. She forced them open, trying to see. She didn’t recognize the men, but she knew the clothing. Eric was on the defensive.
Masked Possession Page 29