Chapter 3
ALLISON
N olan's hand twitches toward a weapon that isn't there.
I know he feels it too—the tension that snaps tight across Saltmoor House.
He catches my gaze, dark eyes steady, and for a second it feels as though the house itself holds its breath.
Then a door bangs open at the far end of the corridor, followed by staff voices raised in alarm.
One of the caterers has dropped a tray, glass shattering across the marble, and the noise ripples outward.
Shouts scatter through the hall, and the fragile silence shatters. We both exhale in relief.
The estate transforms from fortress to stage.
Lanterns glow along the palm-lined drive.
Salt hangs in the air, bright and clean, drifting through the open doors with every sea breeze.
A string quartet warms up in the gallery whilst a jazz trio does sound checks on the terrace, their melodies braiding together over the low rush of the surf.
The chandeliers throw coin-bright light across marble floors polished to mirrors, so every mask and hemline seems doubled beneath the feet that cross them.
Guests sweep through the grand entrance in silks and tuxedos, faces hidden behind satin half-masks, lacquered Venetian creations, filigree in gold and onyx, and delicate shells rimmed in mother-of-pearl.
Feathers stir with each turn of a head. Sea-glass beads catch the light and scatter it in green sparks.
Perfume trails mingle with the scent of beeswax and citrus from the cut arrangements.
The Murphys' masquerade weekend has begun. From my post near the doors, I watch them arrive: billionaires, politicians, art collectors, and their carefully curated entourages. Each one catalogued. Each one a potential threat to the mask.
Cerberus hasn't assigned me to play hostess, but Fitz drilled manners into me with the same severity as firearms training.
I nod, smile, and catalogue faces whilst Ryan and Candace greet their guests with charm.
Nolan lingers close enough to annoy me, close enough that his voice carries whenever he decides to be clever.
A senator's wife flutters a coral-pink fan that hides more than her painted smile. A tech founder prowls in a shark-tooth mask that gleams under the chandeliers. A masked dancer in sea-blue feathers slips a folded note beneath a silver tray when she thinks no one's looking.
"You're glaring again," Nolan murmurs as a couple strides past in matching velvet. "If looks could kill, half the guest list would already be in the morgue."
"Stay in your lane, Porter." My reply is clipped, but he only grins.
"I'd rather share yours."
I resist the urge to elbow him in the face. "You couldn't keep up."
He leans in, breath warm against my ear. "Try me."
My spine stiffens. I keep my focus on the guests, though my pulse is no longer steady. He knows exactly what he's doing, and worse, he knows I know it.
"Spot the senator's wife?" he murmurs again. "That fan's hiding more than nerves."
I snort. "She's hiding an unflattering facelift. Stay focused."
"And the tech founder?" He tips his chin toward the shark-tooth mask. "Predators mark themselves."
"Funny. I thought you'd recognize a mirror when you saw one."
His laugh is low, rich, and maddening. "Careful, Bennett. I might start thinking you like me."
The ballroom pulses with music and laughter. The masquerade is an hour old when the first guest collapses.
Senator Morrison's wife has been admiring the mask display when she suddenly clutches the case, her champagne flute shattering on the marble floor. Her eyes roll back, showing only white, and she begins speaking in a language none of the surrounding guests recognize.
" Cahochee miskito. Tamuk chiska. " The words pour from her lips in a voice not her own, deeper, rougher, as if filtered through centuries of salt water.
I push through the crowd as the woman's husband tries to steady her. "Give her space. Someone call medical."
But before the paramedics can arrive, Senator Morrison's wife blinks and returns to normal, looking around in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't know what... I felt dizzy for a moment."
"What did she say?" Ryan Murphy appears at my shoulder, his host's smile not quite hiding his concern.
"Probably nothing," I reply, but I catch Nolan's eye across the room. His expression is grim.
Twenty minutes later, it happens again. A tech executive examining the replica masks begins moving in a rhythmic pattern. Other guests stop to watch, mesmerized, as he performs what looks like a war dance, his movements becoming more aggressive with each repetition.
" Iskochi tamuk. Chiska miskito. " The same phrase, or similar, from multiple throats. A hedge fund manager, a diplomat's wife, a museum curator—all beginning to chant in unison whilst their eyes remain fixed on the central display.
The temperature in the ballroom drops ten degrees in as many seconds. Ice begins forming on the champagne glasses, and several guests notice their breath misting as they speak. The string quartet falters, their instruments going out of tune simultaneously.
Nolan materializes beside me. "It's accelerating. The mask is drawing power from the gathering."
"Drawing power how?"
"Emotional energy, life force, whatever you want to call it. Large groups of people in heightened states—celebration, fear, excitement—they're like spiritual batteries."
A woman screams. Near the terrace doors, a guest in an elaborate feathered mask is clawing at her face, trying to remove what appears to be a simple party favor. But the mask won't come off, and where her fingers touch it, the feathers are turning to what looks like real bone and gold.
"The replicas," Nolan breathes. "They're becoming conductors."
Security moves to help the woman, but she lashes out with inhuman strength, sending a two-hundred-pound guard flying into a marble pillar. Her movements are fluid, wrong, as if she's forgotten how human joints work.
" Tamuk chiska miskito! " The chant spreads through the crowd now, dozens of voices taking up the rhythm—their sensitivity heightened by the spiritual disruption someone has been causing throughout the evening with amateur ritual attempts.
Even guests who aren't speaking the words begin swaying to an unheard drumbeat, their eyes vacant, pupils dilated.
The lights flicker and dim. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing the ballroom in hellish red that makes the jeweled masks look like they're bleeding. And through it all, the temperature continues to drop.
"We need to evacuate," I say, reaching for my radio.
"No." Nolan catches my wrist. "Moving them now, in this state, could trigger complete spiritual possession. We need to break the connection first."
"How?"
"Disrupt the energy flow. The mask is the focal point—everything else is just amplification."
I look toward the central display where the authentic Reina de Oro mask gleams in its case. Even from across the room, I can see it's different now—brighter, as if lit from within, and the jeweled eyes seem to track movement in the crowd.
"You want me to smash the case?"
"Not smash. Remove the mask from the spiritual circuit. But Allison..." His grip tightens. "The moment you touch that case, you become part of the network. The spirits will know you're there."
Another scream echoes through the ballroom. A guest in a shark-tooth mask speaks in tongues whilst his wife tries desperately to pull him toward the exit. His words aren't Spanish or Calusa—they sound older, darker, like something that learnt human speech without understanding human meaning.
"Do it," I say. "I'll handle whatever comes next."
I move through the possessed crowd, noting how they part for me without seeming to see me. Their chanting grows louder as I approach the display, but the words are changing, becoming more urgent, more desperate.
When I reach the case, the mask's gaze locks onto mine. This close, I can see it isn't reflecting the emergency lighting—it's generating its own glow, pulsing like a heartbeat. The temperature around the display is so cold my breath creates ice crystals that fall like snow.
I place my palm on the case release.
The connection hits me like electrical current, and suddenly I'm everywhere at once—seeing through the eyes of every possessed guest, feeling their terror as foreign spirits ride their bodies, experiencing the hunger of warriors who've been denied rest for centuries.
And underneath it all, a voice that might be my own: " Keeper. Choose. Guard or abandon. Protect or destroy. "
The case opens with a hiss of equalizing pressure, and the mask's glow flares bright enough to cast shadows across the entire ballroom.
The chanting stops.
Every possessed guest collapses simultaneously, their borrowed words dying on their lips as the spiritual circuit shatters. The temperature begins to rise, the ice melting from champagne glasses, the emergency lights giving way to normal illumination.
But the mask itself pulses brighter, and I realize with growing horror that breaking the connection hasn't dispersed the accumulated energy—it's concentrated it.
All of it is now focused on me.
I feel the ancient presence pressing against my mind, testing my defenses, weighing my worth. The voice comes again, clearer now: " Blood remembers. Will you stand guard? "
My hands shake as I close the case, but I force my voice steady. "Yes."
The mask's glow fades to normal, and the ballroom returns to its previous state. Guests look around in confusion, paramedics rush to help those who collapsed, and Ryan's voice rises above the chaos, reassuring everyone that all is well.
But I know it isn't well. Something fundamental has changed.
The mask has chosen me, and I've accepted a responsibility I don't fully understand.
But something feels wrong about the spiritual atmosphere tonight—manufactured rather than organic, as if someone is trying to force connections that should develop naturally.
Nolan appears at my side, his face pale. "What did you see?"
"Warriors. Water. Death." I meet his eyes. "And you, somehow. You were there too."
His expression darkens. "We need to talk. Privately."
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of damage control. Guests are reassured, statements are taken, and explanations are crafted that have nothing to do with supernatural possession. By the time the last visitor departs or retires to their rooms, I'm exhausted.
But the night isn't finished with us yet.