Of course, that was assuming the demon was sticking to this time zone. For all I knew, it might be operating on Tokyo time. But I didn’t think so. Horne had made his bargain in the cursed city. Celeste had found me here. Every sign pointed to this being the locus of whatever bad shit was about to go down.
Desmond’s Horne’s mansion was still about a quarter of a mile away, but I couldn’t drive closer to the property without the risk being spotted by the security team. A stranger wearing an increasingly rumpled trench coat doesn’t quite blend in with the woods, but I had a plan. Architectural Digest recently ran a piece on the estate, and I’d gleaned some helpful information from the article. What amounted to a small army patrolled the mansion and surrounding wild park around the clock. Odds were good that I might run into one of Horne’s armed men before I even got close to the wrought iron gate.
In fact, I was counting on it.
I popped open the Equus’ Bass’ trunk and opened the titanium case stashed in the back. A white mask sculpted to look like a horned monster stared back at me. It was made in the style of traditional Noh theater masks, and according to Skulick it had belonged to a fourteenth century Japanese mage. If you’re asking yourself why I was about to don an ancient Japanese mask while trudging through the forest, I can assure you I had a perfectly logical explanation for my odd behavior.
Noh masks were carved from cypress wood and had to be light since performances often lasted for hours. The mask did make my skin itch and limited my peripheral vision somewhat, but if my plan worked, it would all be worth it.
As I moved through the dense underbrush, I kept thinking of my last visit to the countryside. Staring at the bare trees ahead, my mind cycled back to the poor campers who’d succumbed to the Blackmore Witch’s horrific magic. Was Celeste destined to end up like the witch in the woods, nothing more than a twisted, evil creature corrupted by magic? I doubted she’d spare me on our next encounter. For the upcoming round, I wouldn’t allow misplaced sentiment to hold me back.
After about a half an hour, I sensed movement nearby and grew still. The crackle of a walkie-talkie told me a guard was zeroing in on my position. The foliage parted, and a man sporting a gun emerged from the bushes. Black fatigues encased his muscular physique, and pair of cunning eyes surveyed the area from a meaty, florid face.
I looked at the man through the magical Noh mask, really took in the details of his roughly chiseled visage, before I stepped up to him. The man pivoted, and his weapon found me. There was a moment of surprise that gave way to shock and a trace of horror. Running into your doppelganger could have that effect on the most hardened individual.
The mask’s magic had allowed me to copy the guard’s appearance. To the outside world, I would be: Bob Cohen, 29, former Special Operator turned gun for hire, currently employed by Desmond Horne.
Before the real Bob Cohen could gun me down, the palm of my hand snapped out and karate chopped his throat. His eyes rolled up as the oxygen supply to his brain was cut off, and he dropped to the ground face first.
The history of my magical Noh mask had been lost to time. Some legends claimed some mad thespian had turned to magic in the hopes of achieving the ultimate performance. I’d acquired the item while hunting a group of vampire ninjas under the control of the undead samurai Makaze, and I hadn’t exactly taken the time to find an owner’s manual for the artifact. What I did know was this: far more than a mere magical disguise, the wearer of the mask could access the vital information of the person they were impersonating. Don’t ask me how it works; there’s a reason they call it magic. I now knew everything Bob Cohen did about the estate, from the entire layout of the Horne property to the various security routines and names of the other guards. Pretending to be someone else could get you only so far. Knowing your enemy’s secrets—now that was true power and the key to a successful infiltration.
I scooped up the downed man’s walkie-talkie and gun and continued toward the house. Ten minutes later, I arrived at the grim, imposing Horne mansion. The sprawling home was constructed in the Gothic style with solid, polished columns and resplendent well-crafted moldings. The majestic facade exuded a malignant, sinister quality. It felt like it belonged to a different time and place.
I pressed through the gate and exchanged a few quick words with the other guards I came across. The mask modulated my voice, making me sound like the man I was impersonating. Even the all-seeing eyes of an electronic surveillance system would be fooled by the mask’s magic. To the world I was Bob Cohen, member of the Horne security team.
A collection of luxury cars that looked like a car thief’s wet dream were parked in the cobblestone driveway. I passed a few other armed guards, and they waved at me, seemingly pleased to see good ol’ Bob. Despite the intimidating appearance of the man whose identity I’d momentarily borrowed, he appeared to be popular among his co-workers.