Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ