Masked Desire Read online

  That he was a caintir, a forest talker, was a secret he could never allow out. Queen Tismelda would have him clapped in irons in the bottom of her dungeon. The caintir’s deep connection to the dolma—the world and its living things—far outstripped that of all other fey, making them both powerful and dangerous. Tismelda would have considered his mere existence a challenge to her throne. Not even Isindle knew, though he was sure his sister suspected.

  He was the last existing caintir in or out of the Queendom and had survived because he’d buried his ability so deep he often wondered if he’d lost it forever. The only other he’d known was the bitch queen’s own sister, Kiana, an extraordinary feywoman who could effortlessly impress her will on the dolma. Animals had done her bidding and trees would flower at her word. Kiana had secretly trained Cormac to do the same, all the while covering for both of them so Tismelda would never know of their existence as caintir. With a fierce sense of loss he remembered the communion he felt when he opened himself to the world, and sent his mind to fly with the birds and hunt with the wolves.

  That had ended when the bitch queen had holed Kiana up in a room devoid of any natural element and watched without mercy as Kiana’s very skin and bones had faded and turned to dust.

  Kiana had forced him to swear on his tree that he would remain hidden after her death and he had done his best to avoid the slightest lure of his power. It had been so difficult during the first years he thought it would send him mad. He stared at his hands and flexed his fingers. Only fear for Isindle helped him persevere. He monitored every action to ensure he didn’t give himself away, fighting the enticement of wood whenever possible, knowing he could lose himself in a single touch. A physical ache filled him when he thought of how complete he had felt in discuss Yao.

  Correction: Michaela skirted around the issue

  those days with Kiana.

  He opened his eyes to watch Michaela weave expertly in and out of traffic. Like everything else she did, she drove well. How old was she? Younger than he was, that was certain, but there was a wariness around her eyes he’d seen in other arcane beings. She’d seen many things, and few of them had left happy memories.

  She loved that Ivy girl, though. He considered Michaela under this new light. To be able to love like that after so many years was unusual, and many arcana avoided love, especially love for a human. Experiencing the death of a loved one hurt as much the tenth time as it did the first, even after centuries. After a while, the heart couldn’t take it anymore. The scars surrounding it tightened until it was so tough nothing could penetrate it.

  Yet impassive Michaela risked her heart to a young human. Seeing Michaela’s unguarded joy as she spoke with Ivy had stirred a primal and almost foreign emotion in him, and he didn’t like it at all.

  Tenderness had no place in the fey world.

  Not only that, it was laughable. Tenderness for Michaela Chui, the most hardheaded woman he’d known outside of his own queen? She’d see it as weakness.

  But she’d laughed so freely when she was talking and her entire face had lit up like a diamond hit by the sun. Seeing her with her guard down had unleashed his instincts to keep her from harm. The fey were almost ferociously protective once they formed a connection. He could take her out of the damn car and dance her over to the big chestnut, where he would wrap her in his arms and…

  And what? His priority was getting the proof to show that Rendell had killed Hiro out of spite to prevent him from getting that forest. Seduction had no place in his plans. He tried to hide his sudden iron erection. Knowing Michaela’s hard exterior hid such a caring gentleness was extraordinarily alluring.

  This was bad. She’s a masquerada, he thought desperately. Who even knows her true face? Her true self?

  “We’re here.” Michaela pointed up to a very modern building, all shiny chrome and bluish sheet windows.

  “You live here?” He’d expected something with stained glass and old dark wood. Red and green accents. When she led him in, even the elevator was lined with gleaming black granite.

  They stepped out and he almost walked right into her when she stopped halfway down the hall. Before he could open his mouth, she held up her hand in an imperious gesture and motioned for him to stay still.

  “I should have mentioned this in the car, but I’ve done my own security,” she said, pressing a button on her keys. A series of soft trills came from the dark apartment and she listened before moving ahead. “All good. Come in.”

  The next few minutes were a lesson in paranoia. Cormac watched in increasing wonder as she stood in the foyer and methodically checked through a catalog of security measures she’d installed in every location.

  “How do you know if the door has been tampered with?”

  Michaela waved her phone. “I monitor the hall during the day. There’s also a motion sensor.”

  “This seems excessive.” Was the woman expecting an army? Multiple assassins?

  She slid off her shoes and lined them up neatly near the door, which he now saw had been sealed around the perimeter to form a barrier against any gases or powders being forced in. “It’s been a rough few months,” she said.

  Cormac followed her in. “Your civil war.”

  “It’s not a war.”

  “Excuse me. The minor disagreement that split the masquerada into warring factions and forced the Hierarch into mortal combat to keep his throne.”

  She didn’t crack a smile. “True, though dramatically phrased.”

  A blue light glinted from the balcony door. A motion sensor? “How many death threats have you received?”

  “Enough.” Michaela sat on the couch and closed her eyes.

  “Any attempts?” That someone even considered laying a hand on her was enough to start a dull red climbing up behind his eyes. At least now he was with her to add a measure of protection. Relief flowed through him but he told himself it was only because of his pride. It would be deflating if she was injured while he was Watcher.

  “Not often,” she said, eyes still closed.

  “You do get them, then.”

  Now she met his gaze. Her eyes were almost black and fringed by thick lashes that tipped very slightly downward. He wanted to trace his finger along them. “If I did, it would be neither new nor unusual.”

  “Despite that, you still think Hiro was the intended target?”

  “Since he is the one who is dead, yes.”

  She was lying.

  Michaela stood. “Tea?” She shut down the conversation and he let her go, watching her straight back as she left the room. She didn’t think Hiro was the target. Why was she pretending that he was? Michaela never did anything without a reason. Perhaps she was covering for Rendell. A feeling of discontent rolled over him that she might be in league with his enemy.

  “Sit down, Cormac.” Her voice floated out from the kitchen. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

  He did, and finally let himself take stock of her apartment. Then he blinked, a bit stunned. Michaela’s place was a collector’s wet dream. An exquisite jade melon sat in the center of a beautiful carved lacquer table. To the left was what appeared to be an entire herd of Tang dynasty ceramic horses, their distinctive glazing perfectly lit by a small light. He stood and wandered in awe, categorizing her treasures before ending up in front of an achingly lovely brush painting of a crane about to take flight. The Chinese characters on the side evoked a similar sense of movement. Kiana would have loved it. He took his time examining it, then wandered slowly through the rest of the room before returning to the painting. It had a poignancy that attracted him powerfully.

  “Here’s your tea.” Michaela gave him a handless cup of flowered tea. “Imperial jasmine.”

  He inhaled the steam. “This painting is extraordinary.”

  “Thank you.” She stood beside him and tilted her head to the side. Even here, sa
fe in her domain, she stood straight and her hair was still tied tight. “It took me some time to decide how to place the bird.”

  “You did this?”

  “Yes.” She said no more. “I’m going to bathe. It’s been a long day.”

  With that, she left him in a cloud of jasmine-scented steam. He forgot the crane and instead thought about how she would look with her skin pinked from the bath.

  Never mind.

  Chapter 7

  Michaela checked the time and rose from her bed. The evening had been quiet and the two had bid each other an early good night. Was Cormac planning something? He didn’t even try to annoy her once.

  The whole experience had been far less aggravating than she’d expected, but still uncomfortable. Having him in her space was far beyond dealing with him as a partner in an investigation. This was personal. Her home was where she could be herself, where she could lower her guard and relax.

  Still, it was preferable to risking her life at a hotel, where she could be easily tracked by one of Iverson’s followers.

  She dressed in the chilly room. Her silk pajamas slid to the ground with a whisper and she pulled on black pants and a black jacket, tucking her long braid down the back. Cormac had joked about watching out for Ivy, but he didn’t know the half of it. She’d played invisible guardian angel to Yao’s descendants for over a hundred years and would until the end of her long life.

  Of course, she thought wryly, Ivy had many times the freedom and independence of her mother and grandmother. Not that Michaela was complaining—she wanted Ivy to lead a life unfettered by expectations—but it did make being a guardian a little more difficult, especially now that she had to worry about idiots prancing around who thought killing Michaela might in some way advance their cause of domination over the humans. She could never lead her opponents to Yao’s family. Not that it would happen. She was a masquerada, after all, and confident she could fool her enemies.

  Cormac’s door was closed; he’d never even know she was gone. Michaela slid out of the apartment on light feet and ran down to her car. Sneaking by Cormac had given her a silly sense of naughtiness that she hadn’t had in years, like a kid who snuck a cookie out of the jar. You’re over five hundred years old. You should be more mature than to enjoy sneaking around at night.

  Should be, but then she hadn’t had much of a childhood. Her first marriage had been at age fourteen and the old man had kept a close eye on her. Even the beautiful garden had been off-limits. Instead she’d been dressed like a doll and forced to sit and sing endless songs to old Zhang as he coughed and wheezed.

  Never mind. That marriage, and all the others, were long past.

  It was almost one in the morning and drunk people stumbled out of the bars as she parked a few blocks away from the pub where Ivy worked. All Michaela had to do was check that Ivy caught a cab. The alley to the left was dark and Michaela slipped in. When she came back out a block down, she was in what she thought of as her invisible masque. It had taken her multiple tries to discover that no one in the city seemed to notice an older, heavyset black woman dressed in dark clothes.

  Today was as true as any other. She walked down the street and saw the eyes of the mostly young crowd skate right over her as if she didn’t exist. How different than when she took on other masques. When she was a man, most people gave her space as she walked, moving out of her way unless they wanted to make some sort of point. As a young woman, it seemed that every eye on the street was on her. She’d spent years experimenting with clothes, hair, skin, and attitude in cities around the world, gauging reactions to her various masques. The only ones she couldn’t use were the very young and very old. Her power, unlike Eric’s, wasn’t strong enough for that drastic a change.

  Ivy’s pub was across the street. Michaela bought an orange juice from a hot dog vendor—Toronto’s street food of choice was hot dogs, of all things—and sipped it slowly as she waited on a bench. Ivy usually came out at exactly fourteen minutes past one. Michaela could watch Ivy hail the cab, then get back to her own apartment by half past one. There was no remorse at leaving Cormac ignorant. This had nothing to do with the investigation, so there was no need to involve him.

  There was Ivy, right on time. Michaela stood, her body moving slowly against the twinges of age and hard work that came with taking on the masque’s persona. On the sidewalk, Ivy yawned, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, glanced at the sky, and smiled.

  She walked east.

  Michaela groaned. It was a lovely night and not surprising Ivy wanted to stroll home in the fresh air. Well, it wasn’t a long walk. She limped down the street and crossed to keep Ivy in sight. The walk was pleasant until Ivy decided to take a shortcut through an alley to the right, forcing Michaela to hurry her step. The alley appeared empty, but there could be people hidden in garage niches or in the shadows. Night was a time for arcana as well as humans. Not all of them were sweethearts.

  “Check out that one.”

  The call came from the other end of the alley as Michaela came up behind a rank, rusted dumpster. A group of young men had appeared at the end of the street. Even at this distance she could tell they would reek of alcohol.

  “Out all alone, huh?” The tall one with the ball cap moved forward with a nauseating smile. Ivy had half-turned and eyed him cautiously. A short blond in the back snorted nervously.

  “Hey, guys, she’s—” he started, but shut up when the leader elbowed him hard enough to cause a cry of pain. Michaela focused on the tall one. He had something to prove. The others would break if she took him down. Would she wait until he touched Ivy, or do it now? Ivy’s eyes were huge and Michaela could almost hear her heart thumping. She seemed too frightened to run.

  There were six of them. Michaela had seen how cruel humans could be when they hunted in packs and found a victim weaker than they were.

  Ivy stepped back and tried to scream but it came out as a whimper that acted as a signal. It took only a moment for them to surround her. The tall one licked his lips, and even in the dim light of the alley from her location behind the dumpster, Michaela could see how huge his dilated pupils were.

  “Look at you, standing with the garbage, where you belong. Should have stayed in your own country.” A high, wild giggle escaped him and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Too bad. Now it’s time to have some fun.”

  Then he reached out and grabbed Ivy’s arm.

  * * * *

  Cormac stood in the shadows, watching the young woman, Ivy, as she stood against the group of men who now circled her. Men. Humans were brutish, with the same dominance displays as animals, and some were only happiest when they were inflicting pain on others—and even better, had it witnessed by their cronies. Michaela was nearby, masqued and hiding behind the dumpster. She must be too panicked to act. Not what he expected from her, but even the strongest warriors could freeze.

  One made contact with Ivy and her strangled moan made his rage spike. On the rooftops above sat a flock of pigeons, the only animals in sight. He could bring them down, send them to Ivy’s aid. Even as the thought occurred to him, a surge of power blasted up from the ground as the intense desire to connect with the dolma overwhelmed him.

  He could bring it all under his control again—the trees, the drooping dandelion growing from a crack in the asphalt. It had been 312 years, 5 months, and 13 days since he’d had this.

  No.

  It took all his willpower but he managed to pull back, dampening his thoughts and forcing them away from the dolma. He had to. Too much would send an upwelling in the natural world that even Tismelda would sense.

  He would not break his vow to keep his caintir power hidden, and his sister and forest safe.

  However, his brief weakness had been enough to turn fifty pairs of beady eyes towards him before fluttering down. A thick, gray-brown cloud surrounded Ivy and her attackers, whose swag
ger crumpled as they tried to beat the birds off with weak slaps and shrill squeals.

  Even as the flock of pigeons descended, the figure near the dumpster abruptly grew two feet taller. Cormac gaped. The being with the cadaverous face and wicked fangs worthy of a saber-toothed tiger had to be Michaela, but masquerada only took on human forms. He didn’t even think they could take on the masques of other arcana.

  The nightmarish vampire-Michaela loped over and took hold of the leader’s hand, giving his arm a vicious twist. Cormac winced as he heard the bones crack and grind. The human’s agonized scream was enough to send the others running. Michaela hissed into Blondie’s face and Cormac saw him whimper and clutch his ruined arm to his chest. He doubled over as she gave him a vicious kick to the groin.

  “Leave this place.” The voice was every horror movie come to life. It brought shivers to Cormac’s spine and he wasn’t surprised when the damaged man desperately tried to pull himself away, the birds pecking at his face. He groaned and stopped, lying in an oily puddle.

  Ivy had already gone running, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Cormac strode over to Michaela. She made a superb vampire but, as he watched, became herself again.

  They regarded each other.

  “I didn’t know you could take on arcane masques,” he said evenly, though the vampire had been more of a human perception of a vampire than any vampire he’d come across in real life.

  “I didn’t know you could summon a bird army.”

  Detente. He glanced down at her hands, which didn’t tremble in the least. Apparently he had been wrong about her fear. “Are you injured?”

  “No. How did you call the pigeons? Why pigeons?”

  “Why don’t we discuss this later?” He nodded to the twitching human.

  Michaela ignored the human, now vomiting in pain. “Ivy. I need to check on her.”

  She dashed out and down to the street, making sure not to take the same route as Ivy. Cormac kept close as Michaela peeked around the corner. A group of people were soothing a young woman who cried as she pointed back at the alley.