Page 21 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
Saltmoor House feels different once the gallery empties. Allison stays close, her boots striking the marble as she sweeps the room with me, both of us unwilling to give the silence free rein. The walls seem to breathe, the weight of history pressing close.
I walk the perimeter, forcing my thoughts into order whilst she checks locks and angles. The mask's legend, the staged blood, the split replica—none of it is random. Someone is weaving folklore and fear into their strategy. While guests sip champagne in glittering halls, another game is unfolding beneath their noses.
"Patterns only show up when you step back," I tell her. "And tonight the thread pulls toward a name I didn't want to see."
She studies me closely. "Whose name?"
"Ryan Murphy's." The words taste bitter, and I lift a hand before she can cut in. "But he isn't the enemy. He's the target being used by whoever is staging this."
Her eyes narrow. "You're sure?"
"As sure as I can be. I've known Ryan too long, trusted him when all he had was grit and ambition. Money didn't change him, but it changed the way people circle him. Enemies got bolder. Allies more dangerous. Opportunists hungrier. He still loves collecting beautiful, cursed things, but that doesn't make him complicit. If someone is pulling strings under his roof, he's the mark, not the mastermind."
Allison folds her arms, voice low but firm. "Then we don't waste time chasing the wrong lead. We protect him whilst we hunt whoever's circling. Agreed?"
I meet her gaze. "Agreed."
The room feels wrong in a way I can't quantify through any security manual. Not just the evidence of intrusion, but something deeper—as if the air itself remembers violence. I've felt similar sensations in places where terrible things happened, but never this strongly.
"Temperature's dropped again," I observe, my breath suddenly visible.
She checks the thermostat readings on her phone. Normal. But my skin tells a different story, and when I pull out my phone, the screen flickers with static that has nothing to do with signal strength.
She narrows her eyes. "You're avoiding the obvious."
"Careful, Bennett," I murmur. "Some truths you don't want to hear."
"Try me."
The distance I tried to build collapses under the force of her stare. I know then I won't be able to protect her by pushing her away. She's already in too deep. And so am I.
When Allison finds me burning sage in my room at two in the morning, I know my carefully maintained cover is finished.
"What the hell are you doing?" She stands in the doorway, weapon drawn but lowered, staring at the salt circle I've drawn around my bed and the smoldering bundle of herbs in my hand.
"Protecting us," I say simply, not bothering to lie anymore. The truth is coming whether I want it or not.
She steps into the room, closing the door behind her. "From what? And don't tell me you're just an anxious academic with eccentric hobbies."
I extinguish the sage and face her. "My grandmother was Seminole. Part of the Otter Clan that claimed descent from the Calusa who escaped Spanish slavery. Tonight feels different, though. The spiritual atmosphere is unstable, agitated. Someone's been interfering with forces they don't understand."
I gesture to the ritual circle. "She taught me this when I was twelve, after I started having dreams about warriors made of water and bone."
"Dreams."
"Visions, if you prefer clinical terminology. The point is, I've been lying to you about why I'm here."
Allison holsters her weapon but remains alert. "Explain."
"I've been tracking the Reina de Oro mask for five years. Not for academic research—for containment. My grandmother told me stories about 'hungry spirits' bound in sacred objects, warriors too proud to cross over who fed on the living." I pull out my phone, showing her photos from the archives. "Every time this mask appears publicly, people die."
She studies the images—newspaper clippings, police reports, death certificates spanning more than a century. "Coincidence. People who collect dangerous artifacts live dangerous lives."
"Joshua Crowe was a fisherman who found it in his nets. Silas Cord was a businessman who bought it at auction. Harrison Webb ran an art gallery." I move closer, my voice urgent. "What dangerous lives? They were ordinary people who happened to possess something extraordinary."
"And you think it's what—cursed?"
"I think it's a prison. The Calusa had ways of binding spirits who refused to pass on, warriors who died in battle and couldn't accept defeat. They forged spiritual containers to hold them, gave them purpose guarding sacred sites or tribal treasures."
