Page 47 of The Mask Falling

As he said it, I felt the strain in his aura. I had the distinct impression that what I was feeling—the swallowing vastness of existence—still paled in comparison to what I would have felt if his aura had worked the way it once had, before the Rephaim had needed to feed on clairvoyants. Where mine linked me smoothly to the æther, something hindered his.

“It’s like hunger,” I said. “In your aura.”

A mercy for you. If my aura was at its full strength, I imagine this experience would have shattered your sanity by now.

I didn’t doubt him. Humans were not supposed to comprehend immortality.

My body stood nearby, surrounded by scarlet radiance. He had taught me how to keep it breathing even while I possessed someone else, but it took concentration. On the mission, at least, I would have a ventilator, allowing me to leave altogether and focus on Frère.

“I’ve always thought of it as feeding when you use clairvoyant auras. Like you’re parasites. But that’s not quite right,” I said, thinking aloud. “You’re not consuming anything, are you?”

Go on.

“Our auras are like solder. They seal the rift between yours and the æther. You’re not feeding. You’re . . . bridging.”

It exhausts the clairvoyant if they try to fight it. In that sense, we do drain you.I looked down at his scar-riven hands.Walk to the mirror.

Easier said than done. He was so much larger than me, his limbs so much longer. I moved like an automaton. Even without trying, I knew how easy it would be to break anything I touched—his body coursed with tremendous strength. I almost envied him, moving through the world with bones too solid to be broken and a frame too robust to be thrown to the ground.

I almost envied him. Not quite. Though Rephaim were intrinsically strong, a single red flower could strip their might away. Then there was the pain in his back. It gnawed at him, deep and constant, as if someone had beaten him with a mace.

You feel them.

Jaxon was responsible. It was his betrayal of the Ranthen that had led to this punishment.

Do not pity me,little dreamer, Arcturus said.I have lived with those scars for twenty years.

“I don’t pity you, but I am sorry.”

Your sympathy is noted.

I finally reached the mirror. Just comfortable enough to be fascinated, I leaned close to see how my presence affected his face. All that gave me away was the stillness of his eyes. Usually they were living flames—their light would brighten and flicker and dim in ways I could occasionally interpret. Now that light was flat.

“I’m tempted to indulge in some real vulgarity, just so I can hear you swear,” I mused.

I trust that you are above such low humor.

“You think too much of me.”

Never. For your first task, Arcturus said,raise my hand. And try not to make it look as if a string is pulling it.

7

Rootless

For the last few days of the month, he taught me how to move him as I moved myself. Possessing him was always a challenge—it was hard to keep my foothold in his dreamscape—but I kept at it. If I could do this, Frère would be easier to grasp.

While I controlled her, she would effectively be unconscious. I needed a cover story to explain her memory loss, and I found it when I went through her medical history again. Frère had low blood pressure, which had caused fainting spells during two of her pregnancies. If I was careful, she would think she had blacked out for the time I possessed her.

This would only work once—twice, perhaps, at most. After that, she would know something was amiss.

Once I was confident that I could handle the jump into Frère, I gave us both a break from my possessions. Rephaim usually only needed rest once every four days, or thereabouts. Since I had started using Arcturus as my host, he took to his bed almost as often as I did. Sometimes I joined him. One night, when I woke disoriented yet again, I found his door ajar, and him asleep on one side of the bed, leaving room for me on the other.

By day, I turned my attention to other tasks. I studied a floor map of the Hôtel Garuche. I watched endless recordings, rehearsed speaking and acting like Frère. And I absorbed everything I could find on the Scionet about my target.

Georges Benoît Ménard. Born in the burning summer of 2019, he had spent his childhood in Strasbourg, a port city on the Rhine. In a rare personal interview, Ménard recalled seeing free-world children beyond the electric fence that separated it from Germany.

There was a French-speaking Swiss family who lived on the other side. They had several children, and every few days, those children grew bored and strayed to the border to mock us as we walked along the riverside path on our way home from school. Sometimes they would bring unnatural paraphernalia and throw it over the fence.

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