Читать книгу Masked Possession - Alana Delacroix - Страница 9

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.

Then she remembered Julien’s emergency meeting and groaned when she caught sight of the time. It had already started. Julien hated people to be late to any meeting, but to be late for one with a client was the ultimate crime. Would it be better not to show up at all? She briefly pondered the idea before deciding it would probably send Julien into apoplexy. She slid the killer heels back on her tender feet, grabbed her notepad and pen, and headed for the boardroom.

The shoji screens that surrounded the room had been soundproofed, so the hallway was dead silent except for the clicks of her heels. As Caro was about to pull open the screen, her colleague Robert walked by, papers in hand. “Aren’t you the lucky ducky today?”

“What?”

“Love the shoes. Perfect choice.” He winked and strolled on.

Most warlocks had the sartorial sense of a horse, but Robert had exquisite taste—he was in charge of all their style accounts—so a compliment from him was high praise. It gave Caro a little extra lift to her spine as she prepared to walk into the room as confidently as she could, despite her unease. It was too bad the thought of meeting any masquerada caused her to get this stupid anxiety. You’re going to have to beat that if you want to stay working here, she admonished herself. You can’t go around running away from mommy issues your whole life. Be a professional. You don’t trust masquerada? Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to trust them. You’re not in a relationship. You’re here to do the work.

On that note, she slid open the screen.

* * * *

Eric wasn’t listening to Julien what’s-his-face blather on about his theory of risk and issue management and the value of his brand equity, whatever that meant. The man was a smug bore. He telegraphed this thought through raised eyebrows to Stephan, who simply shrugged, the boardroom lights glinting off his bald head.

“The issue at hand is more than…” The screen slid slowly open to reveal a small woman holding a notepad. Julien paused and flushed red. “That is, we need to look at a multi-faceted, multi-phasic approach. Caro, nice of you to join us. Finally.”

Eric stopped listening as his attention focused completely on the woman—Caro—who now strolled into the room, wearing shoes so sexy he nearly forgot to breathe. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back in a low bun, accentuating high cheekbones and warm brown eyes. A black skirt pulled tight against her ass when she bent to pick up a dropped pen, showing off soft curves. Eric’s mouth went dry, and his palms sweaty.

Caro. The unique name suited her. What was she? JDPR dealt solely with arcana and had only them on staff. Masquerada? Unfortunately not—he would have been able to sense her as one of his people. Not a vampire. There wasn’t a hint of fang. A succubus? She certainly had the appeal for one.

Caro glanced around the table and he could have sworn that she steeled herself before looking closely at him. Intriguing. This was new, and definitely not how people reacted to him. Eric was used to a deliberate examination, regardless of who was doing the looking. Masquerada were rabid about testing new acquaintances to establish comparative status. Even in the human world, his technology company was big enough that he had to constantly deal with people who wanted something from him—jobs, money, deals. Caro’s obvious discomfort, even distaste, was unusual.

Not to mention that he was in his Alexander masque. Women loved Alexander.

Julien rushed through the introductions and Stephan jumped on the break to deftly pull the conversation away from Julien’s jargon-speak. “This is all interesting, but I’m not sure investing in a long-term reputation management plan is for us right now,” he said. “We need something more immediate.”

“How immediate?” Julien asked.

“Within days.”

There was a brief pause but Julien was too much of a professional to let any emotion show on his face. “Then let me clarify. You are concerned about Mr. Kelton’s convergence—”

“Possibility of convergence,” Stephan corrected.

“Possibility of convergence,” Julien continued. “And you need the other masques dealt with within the week, in a way that their disappearances will not raise suspicion.”

“We want to take proactive steps,” Stephan said pleasantly. “After all, Mr. Kelton is in no real danger. But the masque he’s currently projecting, for instance, is quite well-known in his community and can’t simply disappear.”

Caro had her notebook open, a reporter’s pad, Eric noticed, with her pen ready. Her gaze focused on Julien and Eric felt a brief rush of irrational annoyance that she wasn’t looking at him.

A familiar tug in his hands caught his attention. Glancing down through the spotless smoked-glass tabletop, he saw they were now long and thin, with a perfect manicure. Alberta’s hands. Impossible. How could that be?

It wasn’t convergence. It was distraction. Yes, he was preoccupied and lost track of himself. A quick flex of his will and Eric brought his hands back to normal, breathing a sigh of relief.

When he raised his eyes, Caro looked at him with concern in her chocolate-brown gaze. “Are you feeling well, Mr. Kelton?” she asked. “Would you like some water?”

Her rich voice wrapped around him like velvet. “No water, thanks,” he said brusquely. She frowned slightly and stiffened in her chair. Nice, Kelton. Now she thinks you’re rude as well as crazy. He observed her closely but Caro acted no differently than before. Her question had been sheer politeness, not a challenge from someone who had noticed his slip.

Still, he needed to be sure. Masquerada weren’t psychic, but they could manage a sort of mental nudge to get another’s attention. She didn’t even look at him. No masquerada would let that psychic poke go unacknowledged. What was she, then?

“Let me catch Caro up,” Julien said. “Since she was late.”

He turned to Caro with a pompous expression. Eric hid his amusement when Caro sank slightly down into her seat before pasting an attentive look on her face. Although she jotted notes as Julien spoke, Eric had a sneaking suspicion that they had little to do with the words coming out of the bore’s mouth.

Julien was well-informed for an outsider, Eric noticed with surprise. Caro’s expression altered slowly from faked to real interest as Julien spoke, looking to Eric occasionally as though to check his reaction. Every time their eyes caught, Eric felt a pull right through his gut. At the end of the lecture, she nodded.

“Eric Kelton,” she said. “The name is familiar. Technology? Are you much different in your real appearance?”

“You can judge.” He took three breaths and shifted to his usual self. Her eyes widened and she gasped sharply. He wanted to be gratified by her reaction but had a feeling it was caused by seeing the transition—odd, as masquing was common enough that most arcana wouldn’t consider it shocking. She was breathing heavily and her fingers were white on her pen.

Although his male pride wanted to claim it as a response to the appearance of his real self, his intuition said it was something deeper and nothing to do with him at all. Damn.

Then she spoke, her voice steady. “The masques are converging, which means, as I understand from Julien’s comprehensive explanation, that they are beginning to meld with each other.”

“That’s right.”

“What about with you? I mean Eric, the core you. Are those masques connecting with your Eric self more than they should?”

Eric sat up straighter. Caro was perceptive. There had been no mention of that. He nodded.

“Then I’m confused,” she said, putting the pen down and raising her arms to run her fingers over her hair, smoothing it down. Eric tried not to notice how voluptuous the pose made her figure appear under her silky cream shirt. “It sounds like you need a therapist. Not us.”

Julien shot her an evil look, which she fielded with aplomb. Eric laughed out loud, feeling suddenly refreshed. “A therapist may not be a bad idea, Miss…?”

“Yeats. Ms. Yeats.”

“Ms. Yeats. But not right now.”

Stephan interjected. “As a precaution, Mr. Kelton will no longer shift into any of his current masques.”

“What happens if a convergence occurs?” she asked curiously.

“It’s no secret. The masques merge. Mr. Kelton would no longer be himself, but instead become an unpredictable mix of any number of the masques he’s taken over his lifetime.”

Caro frowned. “That sounds serious.”

“I’m glad we convinced you,” Stephan said dryly. “Of course, we are telling you this only because of JDPR’s strong reputation for keeping information absolutely confidential.”

Caro ignored that. “Yet he came here as one of his masques, not as himself. Why take the risk?”

As Hierarch, Eric generally wasn’t used to his actions being questioned. Sure, he encouraged it from Tom and Stephan but that was where it ended and even they knew where the boundaries lay. Now this woman—not even a masquerada—came along and challenged one of his decisions. Eric was momentarily floored until he caught sight of Stephan’s thunderous face. The woman must have been about half the soldier’s size but she glanced up unconcernedly and raised an eyebrow.

Stephan’s outraged expression made Eric feel lighter than he had in decades. He’d seen some of the fiercest masquerada in the realm back down after seeing Stephan look like that. Caro had nerves of steel. He looked at her with renewed interest. “Why indeed. Well, Ms. Yeats, let’s say that’s my business. Now why don’t you focus on yours and give me a recommendation.”

She didn’t even bother to look at Julien before she answered. “Well, obviously, they all need to die.”