Chapter 9 #2
We step back into the glitter of the gala, masks in place and roles played to perfection.
To the crowd we're nothing more than another elegant pair gliding through the music, but beneath the veneer every step is strategy.
I tighten the net with subtle signals, whilst Nolan takes the perimeter with silent authority.
I direct staff with a glance, intercept a server carrying a false badge, and catalogue every guest whose attention lingers too long on the display, the tension thrumming beneath the glitter.
The night unfolds like a chess match, every move a calculated risk. We watch partygoers dance and drink whilst they circle the mask, some too close, others merely passing through. We don't want to make a scene; we'll deal with smaller targets as needed. Right now we're after bigger game.
I force myself back into the rhythm of the gala, scanning doors, exits, every face that lingers too long on the display. The music plays on, but beneath it runs a taut undercurrent, as if the entire ballroom is holding its breath.
As midnight nears, the ballroom changes mood. The chatter dulls, the quartet's notes stretch too long, and nervous laughter rings thin. Overhead, the chandeliers stutter, their brilliance faltering until the glow gutters out. It isn't a gentle dimming—it's a deliberate kill of the lights.
Without warning, Saltmoor is drowned in black. Then red emergency lamps blink to life, casting the ballroom in a lurid wash that makes jewels glint like blood and masks leer like predators. A ripple of unease rolls through the crowd, silk rustling and voices rising in confused waves.
A voice breaks through my comms, not one of mine: "Tick tock, Bennett. That's a copy."
I cut through bodies to the case. Nolan at my back. My hand works the manual release, sliding glass aside. Ice floods my chest, cold and cutting. I lift the mask from its stand, its jeweled surface gleaming under the red lights.
Cold radiates from the replica like metal fresh from ice water.
A trick? Or residue of something older, clinging to the gold?
My skin remembers the prickle from the first time.
But something is wrong beyond the obvious.
The mask in my hands feels different—not just the missing flaw that marks it as a forgery, but energetically wrong.
It's cold where it should pulse with accumulated power, lifeless where it should hum with ancient voices.
"Nolan," I call, and he's beside me instantly. "This isn't just a fake. It's a decoy."
He takes the replica, his face grim. "The real mask was moved after the lights went out. This was planned."
His certainty is all tactics and logistics, but the weight in my palm lingers even after I set the replica down. The mask felt wrong—empty in a way that gnaws at me. Strategy can explain the theft. It can’t explain why my skin still crawls.
My comm crackles with reports from the perimeter teams. No breaches detected. No unauthorized exits. Whoever did this is still in the house, and they have the authentic mask.
"Underground," Nolan says suddenly. "There are passages beneath Saltmoor. Ryan showed me the old plans—smuggler tunnels from prohibition days."
We move through the panicking crowd, following service corridors toward the basement levels. The temperature drops as we descend, and I hear it again—the drumming that has haunted me since I first touched the mask's case. But now it's stronger, more urgent, coming from somewhere below us.
"Someone’s performing a ritual," Nolan breathes as we reach the lower levels. "Using the mask as a focus."
The stone corridors beneath Saltmoor feel older than the house above, carved from living rock that predates European settlement. Symbols I don't recognize are etched into the walls—not Spanish colonial decorations, but something far more ancient.
"Calusa," Nolan confirms when I point them out. "This place was sacred long before the founders of Pelican Point built here."
The drumming grows louder, accompanied now by chanting in that same unknown language I heard during my vision. But it's wrong somehow, the pronunciation harsh and guttural, as if someone is trying to speak words they don't truly understand.
We follow a narrow stairway that spirals down into the bedrock. The air grows thick with the scent of burning sage and something else—copper and salt, like old blood. At the bottom, candlelight flickers through a partially open door.
I motion for Nolan to stay back and peer through the gap.
A man I later learn is a disgraced antiquities dealer called Victor Dreschner kneels in the center of a ritual circle, the authentic Reina de Oro mask gleaming in his hands.
Around him, candles burn in precise geometric patterns, and the stone walls are covered with freshly painted symbols that hurt to look at directly.
But something has gone wrong with his ceremony. The mask pulses with its own light, brighter than it should be, and Dreschner's chanting has taken on a desperate edge. Sweat beads his forehead despite the chamber's cold, and his hands shake as they grip the golden artifact.
" Tamuk chiska miskito! " he cries, and this time other voices answer—not his own echoes, but distinct entities speaking through the gathering spiritual energy.
The mask flares brilliant white, and Dreschner screams as he lifts it toward his face. I see the moment when the spirits take notice of him, when ancient intelligences decide to accept his offered bargain.
"Now," I whisper, and we move.
When Dreschner puts on the mask, his carefully orchestrated performance triggers something unexpected.
The combination of an authentic Calusa artifact, blood ritual, and accumulated spiritual energy from hundreds of gathered people creates a genuine spiritual breach.
What he intended as theater becomes a real summoning.
The transformation begins subtly—his movements becoming more fluid, his eyes reflecting light that isn't there.
But within seconds, something fundamental shifts.
The air around him thickens like water, and the temperature drops so fast that frost spreads across the stone walls of the hidden chamber.
"Dreschner," Nolan calls.
I train my weapon trained on him. "Take off the mask. Now."
He turns toward me, and I see immediately that the man is no longer alone in his own body. Multiple voices speak when he opens his mouth, layered harmonies in a language that predated European contact with the Americas.
"The keeper comes at last. Too late, as always." The words ring with authority that makes the stone foundations of Saltmoor House vibrate.
Nolan steps beside me, his own voice steady despite the supernatural chaos. "You're not Dreschner anymore, are you?"