Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ