levels, he knew, that were dependent on how many masques an individual could shift into. They were notorious for their blind worship of power. He frowned. Eric, the Hierarch, could shift into any form he pleased, and wasn’t constrained by race, gender, or age. In her life outside of Pharos, Michaela was the highest ranking member of Eric’s advisory council. Eric had made a Herculean effort to get his people to accept each other’s worth regardless of how many masques they could take on, but it was a slow process. To be on that council, Michaela needed to be strong.
Seeing her as a vampire had been a shock. While there was no treaty against it, there was an unspoken agreement that masquerada only appeared in human masques. They were already the most numerous of all the arcane groups, and their ability to take on other personas made them feared. Who could know how many infiltrators one had when they wore the faces of your friends?
Physically, she was also capable of almost ripping out a human’s arm without even blinking. That part, he had no problem with. It was kind of sexy, in a way.
Michaela’s wooden floor hummed softly beneath him and he adjusted the blankets to prevent his flesh pressing against it. What had occurred in the alley with the pigeons couldn’t happen again; he’d been weak. Cormac wouldn’t be surprised if his old enemy Rendell made a habit of spying on him in the hopes of finding something to further discredit him to the queen, as if he could drop any lower in her eyes. Finding out Cormac was a caintir would be a choice morsel for him to bring back to the queen.
The pendant, with the leaf from his tree, lay heavy on his chest, a countdown clock reminding him of his first and only real responsibility. His forest needed him and nothing would distract him from his goal. He’d taken on the Watcher role to find out who had killed the man he needed, not as Michaela’s guard or protector.
Nor could he get drawn into the easy, perfect joy of being a true caintir again. That power was what got Princess Kiana slaughtered. No. He corrected himself. The power didn’t kill her. Kiana’s ability to speak with wolves didn’t kill her. Her influence over the forests and its creatures weren’t what tortured her to death.
Tismelda and her insecurity had done all that.
To speak with the wolves again…He tucked his arms behind his head and stared at the smooth curves of a vase in the living room.
A creak came from Michaela’s room and he listened closely before dismissing it. She was still there and not climbing out a window. He adjusted his pillows and propped his head on his hands. The day had been a series of unanticipated events, especially those involving her. Michaela was aggravating beyond belief. Devious. Robotically rational. Strong-willed. Make that iron-willed. Gorgeous. A vicious vampire. A huge, rough Russian man.
Right. That he’d never seen her shift had blinded him to the point that not only could she shift, but it was the central part of her being. She was a masquerada and he could no more separate that from her than any other trait. What does it feel like for her to be Yuri, or any other masque? he wondered. He would ask one day.
Though not tomorrow, which looked like it would be more irritating hours of by-the-books investigations. His gut still said Rendell had murdered Hiro in a power play to prevent Cormac’s return to the Queendom, but another possibility had come clear the moment he’d seen the security footage of Hiro and had solidified when he saw Michaela’s security precautions. Her work neutralizing the rest of Eric Kelton’s enemies meant she was a high-profile target, and she knew it. Hiro’s death could reasonably have been the result of mistaken identity. If Michaela was the target instead of Hiro, then he would need to find a way to bow out of his Watcher role to pursue other avenues of satiating the queen.
He’d think about it tomorrow. It would give him a puzzle to ponder as he listened to toothless interrogations.
His mind drifted to how to deal with Queen Tismelda. He’d make some discreet checks about the ownership of the forest, but it could take months to settle it. It was almost laughable that he, a creature who had lived for centuries, was now desperately measuring months. Hiro’s forest was the only leverage he’d had to end his exile and it was slipping out of his grasp.
Well, it’s not like he was going to come up with a grand plan in the middle of the night lying here on Michaela’s floor. He shut his eyes, put one hand on his fading leaf pendant, and willed himself to sleep.
* * * *
Cormac woke when a door slammed into his ribs. He groaned, his dream state dropping him for one harrowing minute back into the battlefield of his youth, when he’d been woken by a spear in the side.
No, he was too warm and comfortable for the battlefield. He opened his eyes to Michaela’s triangular face poking through the small gap that led to her bedroom.
She tilted her head. “Were you lying in front of my room all night?”
He rolled slowly to his feet. “Clearly.”
She edged out. Her hair had come out of the braid she had twisted it in for the night and lay in a jetty fall around her face. He blinked. The morning sun streaming into the room lit her eyes and he saw they were a delicious chocolate brown, not the black he assumed. A small spray of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and one dark freckle lay near the cupid’s bow of her delicately etched mouth, the lips the palest pink he could imagine.
His gaze travelled down to the white silk she wore, which clung to her every curve.
Michaela cut the reverie short. “Was that necessary?”
He moved out of the way. “After our adventures last night, yes. I think it was.”
She muttered a vile insult in Chinese and stomped her way to the bathroom, hair swishing behind her as she gave her head an indignant toss.
Cormac yawned. Yesterday, Michaela had shown him a small, plain room to use as an exercise space. He folded his blankets and made his way down the hall. Bamboo palms lined the room, narrow leaves shining in the sun. Their simple energy called to him, and he yearned to hover his hand over them to connect to the dolma, but he wouldn’t. Not after last night’s incident. He couldn’t risk it.
He stretched his arms up and out, feeling the aches and stiffness disappear. After moving to the center of the room, he began the meditation exercises Kiana had taught him when he was a child. Combined with physical poses that resembled the yoga practices of the humans, the practice had saved his sanity through the endless years of his exile. During these almost sacred minutes he was able to mesh his fractured self together and believe himself back in his forest, his oak rising high above him.
Michaela entered the room and waited quietly in the corner as he released the final pose.
“There are some mats in the closet,” she said. “Straps and blocks as well.”
Cormac blew stray hair out of his face. “I hope you don’t mind me using your room.”
“Not at all.”
“You use it often?”
“For tai chi, mostly. Very good for mental clarity. Your practice was unfamiliar.” She hesitated, unusual for her. “Will you show me?”
He smiled at the peculiar delight that coursed through him. “If you’ll teach me tai chi.”
She laughed. “I’ll do my best. What’s your practice called?”
“Dolmatan. It promotes inner silence.”
“I like that.” She moved into the room, closer to him and bringing the smell of tuberose in her wake. “I often think those of us born into earlier ages had more silence, more room for thought. I don’t think I’ve managed to outgrow that.”
“Nor I. Although I remember London being loud, with the calls of the sellers and the eternal clacking of horses’ hooves.”
“Wharves were always chaotic.” Michaela’s face was lost in memory. “I was a merchant and the docks were always deafening. Combined with the smell of the fish and the garbage people threw into the water, it made me nauseous.”