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 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