Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 sees it and we know that’s not how some of the older lineages see it.” The older, and to many, more prestigious family lineages were known for two things. The first was an overweening self-regard that came from being the top of the pyramid in a culture that revered status and hierarchy to an unhealthy degree. The second was a total lack of empathy for humans. Though not viewed as property or mistreated, there was a definite sense that humans were at the swampy bottom of a strict order. Masquerada sentiment about other arcana was only slightly warmer, and the disdain was mutual. Eric couldn’t blame them, and he was doing his damnedest to bury his people’s outdated attitudes.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ