Читать книгу Masked Possession - Alana Delacroix - Страница 15

Chapter 9

Back at the office, Caro called Julien, who celebrated her success by audibly retching before muttering an excuse and tossing the phone onto a table, where the clatter of its fall was mixed with the sound of his vomiting. She made a face, hung up, and spent the rest of the day in a chaotic flurry, connecting with the field teams, figuring logistics, and doing a vast amount of troubleshooting. Stephan and Tom arrived in the afternoon with the items she’d requested, and they walked through the plan several more times, testing it for weakness and filling in the gaps.

Standing to grab herself a coffee, Caro looked down at Stephan’s notes and was astonished to see his words flowing across the page in a gorgeous copperplate script. “That’s your usual writing?”

Stephan nodded and held up a pen that she saw had an old-fashioned nib. “I type when I need to,” he said. “I enjoy writing by hand.”

“When did you learn? That looks like something I’d see in a museum.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a comment on my advanced age?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m joking, Ms. Yeats. I was a slave in the south and when I escaped, I got myself a tutor. This was her hand.” He squinted at the pen. “She’s long dead, but I kept the style of writing to remind me of her.”

“I’m sorry.” The two words seemed inadequate. Caro remembered the many figures she’d seen in Eric’s mind. Like Stephan, Eric must have experienced tragedies without count.

Stephan shrugged. “Longevity has its ups and downs. Now. What about the second mer team?”

Caro knew a dismissal when she heard it and came back to the table. They worked for another hour. Then Caro glanced up after sending a flurry of emails. Tom stared at her with an unreadable expression.

“Is there a problem?” she asked. The security chief had been watching her closely for most of the day and it was getting on her nerves.

“No, ma’am.” Tom’s voice was tight.

Who said ma’am these days? It made her feel like an old lady. Maybe it was a deliberate attempt to throw her off. “Are we missing something in the plan?”

“If you add in that spotter near the docks, I think it’s all covered.”

He examined her with steely eyes. Ah. Suddenly Caro understood. He was trained to protect Eric and here she was, blithely planning the deaths of his boss’s masques. It must be hard. In the interest of effective collaboration, she’d try to be more understanding.

“It’s covered.” She smiled reassuringly. “It’ll work.”

No answer except for that same icy stare. Asshole. Her commitment to being sympathetic went out the window. The phone rang and broke some of the tension: Julien, now well enough to add a few more tasks to Caro’s lengthy to-do list.

The day was intense, hectic and, Caro admitted as she sipped from her cold cup of coffee after Stephan and Asshat Tom left, one of the best she’d had in a while. Her sneakers lay abandoned under her desk and she leaned back in her chair with her feet propped up. The busy and challenging hours had flown past, and she hadn’t felt this pleasantly drained since she’d left the Post.

The work also distracted her from thinking about the craziness that had been her morning at Eric’s house. She deliberately blanked out the sheer weirdness of being in someone’s mind. The arcane world was strange and odd things happened.

Being with Eric, though. Not any masquerada, but the Hierarch. Go big or go home, Caro. Okay, they hadn’t had sex. Maybe they had. Did it count as sex? Her entire body lit up at the memory of his touch so it sure felt like something, even though it happened in someone else’s mind. She sighed. That must be a new definition of mindfuck.

It had felt—right. More than right. She made a face and drank the rest of the coffee. She had to get a grip before she tricked herself into thinking that it meant something. After all, Eric Kelton was a lot of things. Arcana. Immortal, or close enough to it. A big-name masquerada. Scratch that—a masquerada king. A client. A man so far out of her league that he might as well be living on a different planet. She should treat this as one of those lovely random fantasies that occasionally sweeten the day and be vigilant about keeping it in not-actually-going-to-happen land, where it belonged. Nevertheless, her face burned as she lingered on the memory. Was he thinking about it as she was? He’d kissed her hand. What did it mean?

“It means nothing. It was nothing,” she whispered. Stop acting like a teenager obsessing over your crush’s every word.

“What’s nothing?” Estelle asked. The vampire stood at the door of Caro’s office, her pale skin set off by the dark red lipstick covering her bee-stung lips. Sleek black hair curled forward onto her cheeks.

Caro forced herself to smile. “A problem I was figuring out. Turned out I was worrying for no reason.”

“Oh. Do you want to come out for a drink? We can go to that little place around the corner. You look like you need a break.”

It sounded good but night was coming. There was no way that she could risk it. “Can I get a rain check? I need to finish a few things.”

Estelle shrugged. “Sure. For that Stephan guy? God, he was hot.”

“Stephan?” Caro tried to remember him in detail. He was tall and muscular and she guessed he was good-looking. She hadn’t noticed.

“Are you joking? Dude was like a male model. I didn’t know men like that actually existed in real life.”

“I guess he’s attractive,” Caro said doubtfully. Maybe he was, but she hadn’t felt anything beyond appreciating that he was smart and didn’t treat her like she was a criminal. Compared to Eric’s bone-deep sexiness she’d only registered Stephan as a guy.

Estelle rolled her eyes. “I seriously do not believe you. Well, tell me if you don’t want him.”

“Stephan’s all yours, but he’s a masquerada. You don’t even know that’s what he looks like in real life. He also seems dedicated to his job.” Caro stretched and felt her vertebrae pop alarmingly.

“Doesn’t matter what he looks like in real life, as long as he can look like that some of the time. It’s fun dating masquerada. You never get bored, you know? Always something new to try. That is, if they’re able to get over themselves. They can be snooty bastards.” Estelle pulled out a jeweled compact and pouted into the mirror. “I love this red.”

“You’re like a parody of a vampire.”

“I know.” Estelle looked delighted. “Hiding in plain sight. Who do you think started the goth trend anyway?”

“No way.”

“Zombie walks? Halloween? All arcana, girl.” The vampire winked, then pulled on her gigantic Prada sunglasses. “Anyway, don’t stay too late and set the alarm when you go. You’re the last one.”

Caro waved goodbye and turned to her computer. Two more things to tie up and she was done for the day. As she began typing, the phone rang. She answered it without checking the caller ID.

“Caro speaking.”

“Caro, it’s Eric. Eric Kelton.”

Her heart thumped hard, and she couldn’t speak.

“This is Caro Yeats?”

Pull it together. He’ll think you’re a nut. “Yes, sorry, you surprised me.”

“Of course. I wanted to check in with you. To make sure everything was in place.” Eric’s voice was deep and rich and Caro realized her eyes were shut. In a moment, she was back in that dark room, stretched out with him, skin on skin. No, Caro, come on!

“I’m finalizing some confirmations and we’re set,” she managed. “Stephan has all the details.”

“I spoke with him. The work you’ve done is impressive. Julien is lucky to have you.”

She tried to laugh naturally and was morbidly aware she probably sounded like a twit. “I’ll pass that on to him.”

“I’ll do that myself.” There was a long pause. “There was something else I wanted to discuss, about this morning. What happened.”

Caro picked up a pen and twirled it around her fingers. When she was a journalist, she had forced herself to develop an easy comfort with silence. People hated silence, and often would rush in to fill in the gap. She had gotten some of her best quotes that way. Now, the pause continued so long she wondered if he was still there, but decided to wait him out. Her mind’s eye pictured him the way she’d seen him as she left—shirtless, his smooth hard chest rippling with toned muscle and the blanket draped over his shoulders, begging to be pulled off. She felt the heat rise off her skin when she remembered how that body felt pressed against her, and in her.

Finally he spoke. “The convergence. When you appeared in my mind.”

She still didn’t speak.

“Dammit, Caro, are you even there? This is hard enough.” He sounded both frustrated and amused.

Caro gave in. “I’m listening.”

“I’d like it to stay between us,” he said. “I should have mentioned it before you left. Not the actual convergence, although it’s important that stay confidential. I refer to the more, ah, private experience.”

She bristled. “I didn’t broadcast it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It was an unfortunate occurrence,” Eric said easily. “I apologize and assure you it won’t happen again.”

There. She knew it had meant nothing. Caro was torn between hurt resentment and cynical amusement at his assurance that there would be no future interludes in a mystical cavern located in his mind. Finally she settled on a neutral answer: “Okay.”

“Okay.” He sounded relieved. “Good.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “What happened—that’s never happened to me before.”

Now she was intrigued. “That’s the first time you experienced a convergence?”

He laughed wryly. “You usually don’t survive long enough to have it happen twice.”

Caro remembered how he had collapsed. “Can this happen to any masquerada?”

There was a pause. “You don’t seem to know much about us, for someone who works with arcana. And must be arcana herself, to work at JDPR.”

She went immediately on the defensive. “Masquerada aren’t the only group I work with.” She wouldn’t respond to the implicit question about her heritage and knew enough that he wouldn’t ask outright—it would cross arcana etiquette.

He laughed. “No, but we do think we’re the most important.” There was a small note of self-deprecation in his voice.

He was right, now that she thought about it. She remembered the many little digs she’d heard about masquerada from other arcana. She’d never bothered to probe too deeply into the reasons behind it, happy to have her own biases confirmed. In fact, it was strange how little she knew about the arcane world at all, despite both working in it and being a half-blood. It could be denial, or it could be a nasty indication of how much she had changed from her former self, when she was Lynn Butler, ace reporter. Julien had hinted that she shouldn’t ask too many questions about the inner lives of the clients. Her real value, he’d indicated, was her human-world perspective. Lynn would have taken the hint as a challenge and learned everything she could about vampires, weres, masquerada, mers and the rest.

Look at you now, a little voice mocked. Working in an impossible world that most people don’t even know exists and taking it for granted.

A little spark rose in her. The hell with that. Fuck Julien and his hints. She wasn’t going to stay as that half-dead, incurious woman. That was over.

She’d corner Estelle later to learn about the bloodsuckers. Today, she was going to learn about masquerada.

“Why is that?”

“Why are we self-centred as hell?”

“I wouldn’t have phrased it like that. But yes.” Being on the phone gave her a sense of intimacy. It was the two of them, focused on each other’s voices and words. No distractions.

“It’s a good question.” A long pause. “If you ask some of us, it’s because we have a natural superiority to the other arcana. The weres are barely one step up from animals, mers are flighty, and the fey can’t be trusted. Vamps feed on blood, which is disgusting. I could continue.”

She drummed her fingers on the table. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“No, but unfortunately many of my people do. I think it’s because of the nature of our culture. Masquerada spend a large amount of time seriously assessing their place and status, and your status is directly related to your masquing ability. The stronger the better.”

“Why?”

He laughed. “You tell me. Every arcane group has its own way of determining status. For us it’s masquing. For the weres it’s physical strength, although many of my people could match a were in a fight. You can’t deny it happens with humans.”

“No, but…” she paused. There was no but. Eric was right. Power and strength drove humans as well as masquerada. “You’re right.”

“Naturally.”

They both laughed. There was more to learn, though. On to the next question.

* * * *

By the time Eric hung up, he felt as though he’d been put through a wringer. Three minutes through the conversation, it was as though Caro had flicked a switch. Even her voice had changed. She’d turned from an extremely competent, utterly desirable woman to an incredibly sharp, wonderfully inquisitive, and extraordinarily desirable woman in about twelve seconds.

She’d wanted to talk about being a masquerada and the questions she’d asked demonstrated astonishing insight. Before he even knew what he was doing, he’d explained the horror convergence held.

“It’s about the loss of control, then.” She’d sounded thoughtful. “Of course. A race that needs to maintain that at all times would grieve the loss especially. It’s a valued trait.”

“More than anything, I’d say. We learn it young—control and power are intertwined. To lose control threatens your ability to maintain your masque as well as being dishonorable.”

She’d absorbed that quietly, then had asked, “Do you ever feel as though you’re losing your real self, or even wonder if that self exists or is merely another masque?”

He’d almost dropped the phone when she’d said that. In a sentence, she’d laid open his deepest terror. He’d managed to answer casually, something along the lines of being trained to keep hold of the core self, but he’d been shaking.

The call had accomplished his primary purpose, which was to apologize for what had happened. As incredible as the experience had been for him, he wasn’t quite arrogant enough to think that she automatically felt the same way. From her response to his apology, it was clear she didn’t. Their conversation also had an unintended consequence that he couldn’t bring himself to regret—an increase in his already strong attraction to her. He walked over to the windows and looked out at the pools of light left by the street lamps and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. He had to tell himself that it was a good thing that nothing would ever happen with her again. Again? It hadn’t even happened at all, not in real life.

Damn.

* * * *

Caro finished her two tasks, humming. She was happy, a feeling so unusual she experienced momentary confusion trying to identify it. In a small way, she was taking her life back. Screw you, Franz Iverson. I’ve let you hijack too much of my life. You didn’t kill my body that night, but I let you kill my soul. That’s over. I’m taking it back. I’m taking it all back.

Thanks to Eric. During their conversation she’d been her old self again, researching a subject. She’d forgotten how much she loved talking to people about what was unfamiliar in the world. It was like a puzzle, putting the pieces together to make a complete picture in her mind.

Then there was listening to his voice. She licked her lips. During their conversation, she’d closed her eyes to let his words flow around her.

Not for long, though, because she’d been enthralled by what he’d told her. Guilt fisted her heart. She could have had this type of conversation with her mother. How much of her anger had been typical teenage resentment? If her mother had lived, would they have been friends? Had her mother needed to cope with the same deep fears as other masquerada, but with no one to speak with? A memory intruded: her father seeing her mother come out in a new masque and turning away with a shudder. She stared at her monitor, which flickered over to the JDPR screensaver. Her mother had killed herself. How much of that was because of her solitude?

Caro dropped her eyes. This introspective thread was new and extremely unwelcome. She pushed it away.

Saving the final file, she shut down the computer and grabbed her purse. It wasn’t until the alarm was set and she was in the main lobby that she realized how late it was.

Night. Darkness.

A wave of panic overtook her. This intense fear of the night hadn’t left since her attack, no matter what she tried. Feet frozen to the marble floor of the lobby, she gazed out into the dark. JDPR was located on a side street, off King Street West. Only a block away, hipsters were drinking fifteen-dollar cocktails made from lovingly crafted artisanal liqueurs and taking pictures of their food. Look, there are streetlights. Cars. People walking around. Nothing can hurt you. The bad men? They’re still in Washington. They can’t get you here.

The pep talk didn’t work. Her rational brain was useless against the warnings shrieking out from her nervous system. Out there in the dark were killers, cruel men with bright knives and cold eyes, waiting for her to walk out.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

No, she would try. Caro tried to bring back that feeling of triumph, of composure she had felt after the call with Eric. I can do it. One step. Take one step.

She forced her foot forward and the second it hit the floor, she began to pant, dark spots rising up to obscure her vision. I’m dying. I can’t breathe. I’m having a heart attack.

Caro scrambled back into the safety of her office. She couldn’t. If she went one more foot toward the inky blackness that lay beyond the lobby windows, she would die. She knew it. Once she was back inside, away from the terrors of the night, she sank to her knees and sobbed, her fingers tracing the raised scars that lined her stomach. Maybe Iverson had won, after all.

Dashing her tears away, she curled on the floor, put her jacket over top of her, and waited for sleep.