Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

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.