Caro nixed that instantly. Thanks to the attack in the Washington alleyway, she couldn’t bring herself to leave her apartment after dark. The moment the sun started to set, the need to make sure she was inside, and safe, became overpowering. It kind of put a damper on her social life. She didn’t care about that—she didn’t actually have a social life—but she didn’t want to parade her weakness in front of Julien.
Estelle brought in some sushi for their lunch, winking at Caro as she passed over a cup of burning-hot green tea. After sorting through the Styrofoam containers for his order, Julien pushed aside his laptop and mixed wasabi into the dark brown soy sauce he poured neatly into a tiny plastic dish.
“Our new client seemed taken with you, mon ange. I’d say be careful, but everyone knows he doesn’t appreciate statics. I doubt he’d ever be with a half-blood like you, lovely though you are. Too good to associate with outsiders, I’m told, and more arrogant than the usual masquerada. That’s saying something. Did you see how he spoke to me?”
A thrill rushed through her at the idea that Eric had noticed her as anything more than the PR flack who was going to haul his ass out of trouble. Caro immediately repressed it, reminding herself that she wasn’t interested in masquerada. She ignored the barb. Julien could be a real bitch when he tried. The compliment she also carefully pretended not to hear since he had been uncomfortably observant about her appearance lately. Instead, she said, “Statics?”
“Mon dieu, I keep forgetting how ignorant you are of some of these things. Un bébé. Our new clients are masquerada, Caro.”
She resisted an eye-roll. “Yes, Julien, I know.”
“Then a static is someone who can’t change. A human. You are close enough to a static, since you don’t take on masques, or can’t.” He gave the end of his sentence a questioning lilt that she refused to react to.
“Oh. Makes sense.” She found an avocado roll with her chopsticks and popped it in her mouth. She wasn’t in the mood for fish.
“He’ll know you’re arcana, though. Everyone knows I don’t hire humans.” The last sentence was said in a tone of such smug self-congratulation that Caro had to refrain from giggling.
“Of course.” She’d been immersed in the arcane world for long enough to know the overall attitudes toward humans ranged from abhorrence to neutrality to food source. She wondered how her parents had even met, given all the prejudice to humans. She’d only been told it was at a dance. A brief and unwelcome thought occurred to her. What had Gaelle sacrificed to be with her father? She pushed this aside. This was not a side of her mother that she’d ever considered before, probably because her mother had rarely thought of anyone but herself. No doubt marrying a human had served some need of Gaelle’s own.
Julien looked at her curiously. “Have you never had an urge to explore your abilities?”
“No.” She ignored his probing gaze and hunted around for another avocado roll.
“Pourquoi pas?”
“No desire. No need. Masquerada thrive on lies and deceit.” Her ignorance of everything to do with her mother’s background was limitless and she had little interest in changing it. No man, however hot, was going to change that. Masquerada didn’t like humans? The feeling was more than mutual on her end.
“Hard on them, aren’t you?”
Caro put the chopsticks down, goaded into an answer. “How can you trust any masquerada? Could you ever know their real faces? Their real selves? It’s always what they decide to present to you.”
Julien regarded her with interest and she instantly regretted speaking her mind. The less Julien knew about her innermost thoughts the better. Time to change the topic. “I think I’ve seen Kelton before. Rich guy, philanthropist. Builds women’s shelters, right?”
Her boss picked up a piece of salmon sashimi. “Do you even know who he is?”
“Who Eric Kelton is? Yeah. We’ve been talking about him all morning. A masquerada with a problem.” She tried to push down the little part that craved talking about him and was dying to hear more about how he seemed interested in her.
“Very funny. They didn’t parade it during our meeting but he’s the top dog. King man. Chief. Le Roi. They call him the Hierarch. He rules all the masquerada in North America.”
“You’re joking.” Even as she said it, Caro knew it was true. Eric had the unmistakable assurance of a man who expected to be obeyed.
“I never joke about power.”
Caro leaned forward. “How did he become Hierarch? Is it hereditary?” She felt her curiosity perking up and welcomed it. It had been a long time since she’d felt that intense need to know more, to know everything.
“Apparently he was chosen by the masquerada High Council after the old Hierarch died, but who knows?” Julien sniffed the pale green tea and made a face. “They’re not as close-mouthed as the vampires, but it’s still difficult to know what’s going on, particularly if you’re only a fey. Masquerada think they’re better than everyone, as you no doubt saw this morning.”
He sounded bitter. At first, Caro put it down to simple resentment and hurt ego that anyone could consider themselves more important than himself. Then she realized it was more than that, deeper than that. Did Julien have a personal beef with Eric? With masquerada?
Her boss continued speaking. “The masquerada aren’t weres, you know. They can’t turn into animals, or have links to the lunar cycle.”
She nodded. Her mother hadn’t been much on sharing information, and Caro had never cared enough to ask, but that much she knew.
“Some can adjust only their features a bit. Some have only one masque, or are confined to their own gender. They have levels of ability, based on heredity, strength, and training. Only the most capable, such as the Hierarchs, have no limits.”
“What do you mean?” This was new. With a shock, Caro remembered her mother’s many masques. What level had she been? It must have been up there.
“Male, female, black, white. They can look like anyone under the sun.” He ate some edamame, then sneaked some of hers. That wasn’t the fey coming out. It was greed.
She snatched the plate away. “It’s deceit.”
“A different way of life. That’s why our clients were surprised by your idea. Either a masquerada keeps a masque for life or they’re slowly retired. They’re never suddenly killed off. It’s a cultural thing.”
That made sense. “Convergence is something that affects all of them?” Caro asked.
“Tell me, mon ange, what do you know of it?”
“What was said today,” she admitted.
“Convergence is the thing they dread most. All of them.” He paused and sniffed at a piece of ruby-red sashimi before popping it into his mouth. “I can see why.”
“The fear is that they’ll lose themselves in the other personalities, isn’t it?” A terrifying prospect.
“That’s part of it. There’s a physical aspect as well, je pense. If a masquerada converges, the personalities not only merge, but so do the physical masques.”
“You’d get the face of one and the body of another?”
“If you’re unlucky you would get the faces of both,” he said wryly. “Or so they say.”
She shuddered. Poor Eric. “How does this even happen?”
“J’sais pas,” Julien said. “I assume it’s some sort of an emotional involvement. A breaking down of the mental order needed to maintain the barriers between masques.” He shrugged. “No matter. This is speculative psychobabble and we have work to do.”
By the end of the day,