Page 8 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
The irony burned. He would parade my spiritual heritage like a trophy while I was barred by law from even touching it.
But there are other ways to touch sacred objects. Other ways to prove worthiness.
For three years I have prepared—studying not from dusty academic texts, but from dreams that come when I hold lesser artifacts I kept hidden before the arrest. The spirits whisper their true names, their hungers, their need for a vessel strong enough to bear them.
In the candlelit chamber beneath Saltmoor House, the mask’s power presses against me even from a distance. Something inside it stirs, ancient spirits shifting in recognition, their gaze settling on me with the weight of an unwanted claim.
Ryan Murphy was wrong about me. I haven’t forgotten the difference between preservation and possession.
I’ve transcended it.
CHAPTER 3
ALLISON
Nolan'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."
