watching as Stephan turned them on. Each broadcast a familiar face—all were Eric’s current masques. On the screens, the images Stephan had captured showed them wearing identical smiles, or making matching gestures.
Dangerous similarities that meant something was very wrong.
“You know,” Eric said finally.
“I know now. You should have told me.”
“I’ve got it covered.”
Stephan banged the desk with the palm of his hand hard enough to make the monitors jump. “Dammit, Eric, you’re converging!”
“The hell I am.” The denial came too quickly and too harshly. In response, Stephan pointed at the monitors. He didn’t have to say a word. The proof was there.
Convergence. Every masquerada’s nightmare. Eric ran his hand through his tangled hair. He thought he’d hidden it, but clearly he’d done a piss-poor job. Then he swallowed hard at the thought of convergence. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.
Stephan glared at him with barely concealed fury. “You have no right to put yourself in such danger,” he rumbled. “When were you going to tell me? When you were curled up on the floor with four heads? I told you five masques were too many at one time, even for you.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Eric deliberately kept his eyes away from the monitors. “I’m nowhere near a convergence. I can handle it.”
He could, too. He was four hundred years old, for God’s sake, and he’d created more masques than he could remember. Those hundreds of masques provided enough practice to keep any masquerada in check. The ones Stephan had pulled up on the screen were simply his latest creations.
He was still in control. In complete and total control.
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