Page 9 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
"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.
