From the ground, the flaming arch was terrifying. Orange light painted the sky a ghastly hue and turned the tree branches into twisted claws. By then, three fire hoses were dousing the gardens, the spray a shower of gold in the reflected firelight. Although it seemed to be saving the neighboring oaks, the water was doing nothing to douse the monument. Lark slowed to a halt, swearing under her breath. Slowly, she made a complete turn, looking for someone out of place.
Gawkers stood in clumps around the edges of the scene, almost eerily transfixed by the roaring flames. The villain would be with the looky-loos. Lark fell back, her senses tuned to detect the scent or even the telltale tingle she felt near Dark Fey magic. It tended to cling to the user like static electricity—if she worked her way through the crowd, hopefully she’d pick up a trace of the culprit.
The bystanders spread all the way back to the trees, faces limned by touches of firelight. She deliberately pushed through where the throng was thickest, catching the scent of aftershave and cigarettes but not magic. These folks were all human. But then just as she neared the edge of the crowd, Lark’s scalp prickled, as if a thousand ants swept over her—far more than just residue.
There wasn’t enough time to do more than flinch. An oak tree exploded a dozen yards away. It didn’t burst into flame; it fountained up in a cold blast of power that reduced the ancient wood to a hail of toothpicks. The noise was like a thunderclap, barely ending when the woman next to Lark screamed as a shard of wood buried itself in her cheek. It was too late to duck. The tiny pieces flew with such force that they burrowed right through clothing into flesh. The only reason Lark escaped injury was the number of bodies in her way.
Lark turned and suddenly she had a clear view of the path by the ornamental pond. There, barely visible in the shadows, a figure sprinted away. Immediately, Lark bolted after, using superhuman speed to close the distance between them.
Within seconds, she’d drawn close enough to see the figure. Despite the bulky coat he wore, it was plain her quarry was tall but slight, a shapeless hat pulled low over his brow. He ran across a small footbridge that arced over one of the ornamental ponds, heading toward the maze. Oh, no, you don’t, thought Lark. Chasing someone around the palace’s huge maze would be hopeless.
Lark cut to the right, intent on heading him off. As she ran, she drew her Smith & Wesson. Fey might have a thousand tricks, but a well-aimed bullet would still kill them. She leaped lightly over a bed of spring bulbs just starting to bloom and skirted a low rhododendron, startling a cat that streaked away with a yowl.
Her quarry heard the sound and glanced her way, his pale face a flash in the darkness. With a curse, he changed course. Gritting her teeth, Lark strained for more speed. Her breath was already ragged. Her burns might have healed, but a long convalescence had sapped her reserves. Her stamina wasn’t what it should be for a chase like this.
A moment later, the figure glanced back again. He wasn’t gaining ground, and the high wall of a yew hedge loomed in his path. Without warning, he stopped and spun, planting his feet as if bracing for a fight. Lark stopped a dozen feet away, the gun at her side. She sucked in air, letting it out slowly to quiet her rasping lungs. Behind them, flames still tore at the sky, fading the waxing moon to insignificance. The rushing sound of the fire drowned Lark’s thoughts for a moment before training took over and she gripped the gun with both hands.
“What do you hope to gain by this?” she demanded.
“That will become clear enough in time.” The voice surprised Lark. It was low, but it belonged to a woman. The shapeless clothes were an effective disguise.
“Who are you?” Lark demanded.
“That depends on who is asking.”
Lark jerked the gun, reminding the woman she had the advantage. “Tell me something useful unless you enjoy getting shot full of iron.”
The woman shrank back. Iron was to the fey what silver was to werewolves. Even if the wound was slight, it would poison the blood.
“Hurry up,” Lark prompted.
“That fire will burn for several more hours before it goes out on its own. No amount of water or chemicals is going to smother it.”
Okay, that was useful, but not the kind of intel Lark had in mind. “Are you working for the Dark Queen?”
“Naturally.” The voice held scorn. “And whether you like it or not, so are you. For those first few days after you healed, your flirtation with the Dark made you incredibly easy to follow.”
“What?” Lark didn’t understand that at all. “I’ve never worked for your side!”
The attack came so fast, Lark barely had time to pull the trigger. She never even felt the recoil. A pale blue fireball slammed into Lark, sending her tumbling backward. Reflex conjured a shield against the worst of the impact, but she still felt her bones rattle. She rolled to her feet, shaking her hair out of her eyes.
The woman was clutching her shoulder, so Lark’s shot had struck home. Quickly, Lark summoned a burst of power, weaving it small, precise and strong enough to punch the door off a tank. The woman batted it away as if it were a pebble. Lark gripped her gun, suddenly appalled. Who was this chick?
“Stop,” the woman said as Lark took aim again.
Lark froze as the spell swamped her. When she suddenly remembered to move—she couldn’t. For a horrifying moment, Lark remained still, gun pointed and feet spread apart like an action figure posed on a shelf. The smoke-scented breeze fanned her hair and brought tears to her eyes, but she couldn’t even blink. Her brain and her muscles weren’t connecting.
The woman took a step forward, then another. Her features were still obscured by shadow, but Lark could make out the sneer of her mouth.
“I should drop you where you stand,” the woman said softly. “What business does the Light Court have working with the bloodsuckers?”
Horrified, trapped, Lark barely heard her. She’d never encountered any creature with this much power before, and the woman was drawing closer and closer. Lark’s limbs began to tremble, agonized by the strain of trying to move. Her chest, barely able to breathe, was pulling in tiny, panting gasps. Gradually, the world was starting to swirl as Lark starved for oxygen.
You’ve got to focus! She’s strong, but you’re tougher. The gun was growing slippery with sweat and Lark feared dropping it from numbed fingers. She willed herself to grip it tighter even as she strained to make out her approaching tormenter’s face.
When Lark finally did, she wished she hadn’t. It was the pretty young woman she’d seen watching her in the hall, but she looked different now. Her hair was pulled severely back, showing features freshly scrubbed of makeup—and now Lark knew her from surveillance photos. Drusella Blackthorn.
No wonder Lark was no match for her. She was a Dark Fey sorcerer of immense power.
Drusella gave a humorless chuckle. “I could send your dead body as a message to the Company to stay out of this, but I think we’ve got that one covered. They’re nothing but a hole in the ground now.”
In the depths of her panicking mind, Lark murmured an invocation to the Light, and tried with all her will to squeeze the trigger.
Her finger wouldn’t move.
Drusella grinned.
Chapter 9
Jack had barely finished his conversation with the king when the blast hit. One moment they were organizing the next steps to respond to the attack on the Company. The next, he saw Lark bolting across the lawn right toward the conflagration, long mahogany hair flying like a banner behind her. Fear struck him like an electric charge. She was either doing her best to prevent disaster, or she had created it. With Lark, you never knew.
He didn’t stop to ponder why she wasn’t still locked up. That would come later. Without another word of explanation to his monarch, Jack charged from the room.
He didn’t bother with the palace steps, but lea
ped from the porch to the ground, landing in a feline crouch. Springing up, he sprinted toward the burning arch. The magic of the flames rasped against his nerves, telling him that it came from the Dark Fey. No wonder Lark was on the move.
He reached the edge of the crowd and stopped, searching every face. Worry tore at him. This was magic on a scale he hadn’t seen in centuries. He pushed through the mass of people, opening all his senses in hopes of catching some sign of Lark. She would have zeroed in on the source of the Dark Fey power more efficiently than he ever could—if he found her, he found whoever was behind the blaze.
His concentration shattered when something thumped into his knees. His temper flared, but then he looked down to see a boy of about five, red faced with tears and clearly frightened. The child was trying to worm past him, obviously preparing to hurtle onward. Jack went to one knee, catching the child before he could get away. “Where is your mother?” he asked gently.
The boy sucked in a jagged breath, readying a fresh batch of tears, when he looked squarely into Jack’s face. His brown eyes flew wide, and a knot hardened in Jack’s gut. Sometimes children and animals could see his true nature—darker than even a vampire’s should be. He braced for a bout of hysterical screams, but instead the boy chewed his lip quizzically, as if he couldn’t figure Jack out.
“Pierre!” A young woman burst from the crowd and snatched the boy’s hand. Her expression wavered between panic and exasperation. “I told you to stay with me!”
Jack rose. “He’s not hurt, but he’s frightened. He needs to go home.”
The woman opened her mouth, about to speak—maybe to tell him to mind his own business—but then an oak tree shattered into a rain of splintering wood. Immediately, Jack grabbed Pierre and his mother, sheltering them from the rain of spear-like shards. It was undoubtedly a dumb move for a vampire, but women and children came first.
He got lucky, but many didn’t. Cries of pain ripped from the throng and Jack smelled the warm richness of blood. Hunger leaped to his throat like a viper, as his fangs descended.
“Go!” he ordered, giving his charges a shove in the direction of the palace, and then turned away before they saw his face.
Pierre’s mother didn’t hesitate, but grabbed her son and ran, joining a mass of fleeing humans. With a sense of relief, Jack risked a glance back just as Pierre looked over his shoulder. The look on the boy’s face was filled with radiant awe, as if he’d seen an angel instead of a demon. Disconcerted, Jack plunged back into the fray.
At the edge of the crowd, he finally picked up Lark’s scent. It drew him like a beacon, unmistakably hers. Possessive hunger flared. He could feel her like a bright pulse somewhere beyond the throng of humans. He traced the scent away from the milling humanity, from the roar of the flames and engines, and found himself among the trees.
The relative quiet eased his nerves. Even so, she was still blocked from his sight. A wave of impatience surged through him, begging him to rip out every oak and ash in his way.
“Lark?” he called, straining to hear an answer.
No sound came back to him. He plunged forward into the trees, the familiar, peaceful garden transformed by the grotesque light of the fire. Danger hung in the air, almost a scent of its own among the smoke and blood and trampled earth. He scanned the scene, alert to the slightest motion, but nothing was there. What if she found the source of the magic and it went horribly wrong?
Eventually, unwillingly, he began to hunt among the low bushes for her fallen form. Success came just when Jack was fending off despair. No shadows could hide the familiar curve of Lark’s body as it lay on the ground.
He froze, checking the area. He could smell blood, but heard nothing that said enemies were close—and that was all the discipline he could muster. He dashed forward, falling to his knees so fast that he skidded on the lawn. Panic lurched in his gut. She was curled on her side, long hair strewn against the grass. Instantly, he put a hand to her pulse and felt the knot in his chest ease. The beat was strong despite a wound to her scalp that said she’d been hit from behind. That, more than anything else, surprised him. No one got the drop on Lark. Instinctively, he looked around one more time, but still nothing stirred.
Of course, scalp wounds bled, and the luxurious aroma of fey blood nearly made him light-headed. He forced the goading hunger away and forced his attention elsewhere. A Smith & Wesson lay a few inches from her hand and Jack took it, emptying the ammunition before sliding the weapon into his own belt. By the scent, it had been recently fired. Where had she gotten another gun? And did that mean there had been more than one opponent—one she’d shot at, and one who had crept up from behind? Who dared to threaten her?
With that thought, his fangs descended fully. Lark had been surrounded, and he hadn’t been there to protect her. A growl ripped from deep in his chest, and he felt the demon stir. It understood protecting what belonged to Jack. It wanted to crush the enemy, too.
“Lark,” he said softly, pushing the soft mass of her hair from her face. All the anger and suspicion he’d felt earlier that night collapsed beneath a surge of alarm. “Jessica. Wake up.”
When she didn’t stir, Jack ran his hands over her limbs, checking for other injuries, but there were none. Her warmth, her softness, and the silk of her skin conspired to wreck his concentration for the next millennium. He bent until his lips brushed her ear. The perfume of female fey filled him like an intoxicant. “Lark?”
Then she moaned slightly, flicking him away as she might a persistent fly. Jack sat back on his heels as she opened her eyes. Her unfocused look reminded him of the many times they’d awakened together. Memories of warmth and laughter—even a sense of peace—flickered like an antique film, out of place and unreal in the smoke-filled darkness.
“Ow!” Lark explored the cut on her head and winced. Her voice was hoarse with pain.
“What happened?” He caught her hand and held it. The way she was poking at her wound was making him twitch. His free hand found her cheek, cupping it gently to hold her still.
Lark cursed softly in her own tongue as she struggled to sit up. Jack helped her, sliding an arm around her shoulders. Her heat mesmerized him, giving rise to an overwhelming urge to carry her away to safety and soft pillows. However, sitting up was as far as Lark could go right then. She leaned against him, blinking to clear her head. One more time, the scent of her blood nearly pulled him under.
“Never mind me. What’s happening now?” Lark asked.
“The fire is still burning. Most of the onlookers have cleared out. I’m sure the palace is already spinning a cover story. The more important question is how to stop the fire.”
“She said the fire will go out on its own. This is for show.” Lark was struggling to stand. Jack supported her, taking most of her weight until she regained her balance. Lark winced and cursed again.
“Who said that?” Jack asked.
“I shot her but it didn’t even slow her down. She must have walked away.” Lark rubbed her cheek, leaving a smear of dirt. “After that tree blew up, no one would even notice one more injured person leaving this scene.”
Jack wondered about the tree. He wondered about the whole incident—but getting Lark to safety was his first priority.
“Who were you chasing?” Jack asked, doing his best to be patient.
Lark hesitated, as if reluctant to say the name. “Drusella Blackthorn.”
Jack sucked in his breath. Originally, there were five Dark Fey nobles who’d escaped the confinement spell a thousand years ago. Two still survived: Drusella and Egon Blackthorn, cousins to the Dark Queen.
“According to reports, Drusella always works with her brother,” Lark said. “No doubt it was Egon who hit me from behind.”
The Blackthorns. They’d been involved in the attempt to steal the wedding ring, and now they were back. Jack was about to
ask more, but Lark had pressed her palms against her eyes.
“How badly does your head hurt?” he asked, concern banishing everything but her.
“My pride hurts worse,” she confessed. “I was jumped like a rookie.”
“Egon’s a Dark Fey sorcerer. Give yourself a break.”
“This has not been a good night.”
She was entirely right, yet in that moment Jack found a shred of pleasure in the fact Lark was in his arms again and for once they were in harmony. She sighed, dropping her fine, slender hands from her face. They appeared so delicate, although she could pack a fearsome wallop when her temper was up. Lark was like a pearl-handled pistol, no less lethal for all her prettiness. Jack had never expected less of her than the other Company agents, and she’d never disappointed.
If Lark had been ambushed, it was only because she’d been up against villains with a thousand years of magical expertise. The thought of her alone with the Blackthorns turned his cold, dead heart to ice.
“We’ll get them,” he said, his voice dark with menace. “But right now, let’s get you inside and then figure out why the Dark Fey set the arch on fire.”
“Drusella said the fire will go out. It’s not about destruction—this is just a sideshow. The real question is what the main event is going to be.”
Despite her matter-of-fact tone, his chest tightened as she turned to him, her eyes dark and huge in her pale face. She was in pain, and every piece of him demanded she be safe and sheltered in his care. No one else touches you but me.
Chapter 10
Without warning, Jack slid his arms beneath Lark and lifted her. Sure, he was a vampire, but his casual strength still startled her. She might as well have been a kitten, for all the effort it took to pick her off the ground.
The sudden motion as he straightened made her pounding head reel. She curled into him, her cheek cradled against the soft leather of his jacket. Beneath the garment, the solid muscles of his chest moved like living iron. Iron had always been a fey’s weak spot, and she wasn’t in a mood to resist.
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