“You’ll be hearing from my chiropractor,” Kenyon complained after a few minutes of relentless bouncing.
Lark flashed him a grin in the rearview mirror. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Horseman?”
They were almost across the strip of meadow, the shadowy passage between the mountains dead ahead. The land had dipped, but now it was rising again. Lark stepped on the gas to make it up to the crest. The tires chewed the earth, fumbling for traction, but when she changed the angle of the wheel they finally grabbed. The Rover raced up the hill, gathering speed—and then the land dropped away over a narrow but very deep fissure in the earth. Lark gasped but gunned the motor, launching the vehicle into the air. Her stomach plummeted to the soles of her feet.
Jack cursed, knuckles white on the door handle.
The Rover landed with an unholy thump and bounce that was sure to leave seat belt bruises. The motor made a bizarre cough, almost as though it was clearing dust out of its throat, and then the tires caught and they shot forward again.
Reflex alone kept Lark steering. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
Jack made an inarticulate noise of disgust. “It’s just as well I don’t have blood pressure.” But his expression was fierce, his eyes dark with the joy of the chase.
They had made up time, and on cue the Suburban looped back into view—its back end a tempting target directly in front of them. If the drivers ahead wondered where the Rover had come from, they gave no sign.
“How do you want to play this?” Lark asked.
“Carefully.” Jack’s Walther was in his hand. “If the prince and princess are in the vehicle, we have to stop it, not crash it into the mountainside.”
A sharp corner loomed, and Lark had to slow to take it cleanly. The loss of speed chafed, and she muttered under her breath. They needed to make up only a few minutes and they’d be on the Suburban’s bumper. The vehicle had tinted windows, but she could almost make out figures in the back.
“Chopper!” Kenyon stuck his head out the side window for a better look, twisting to see upward past the walls of rock hemming them in. “It’s ours. Sam made good time.”
The sudden breeze from the open window whipped Lark’s hair, tickling the back of her neck. She risked a quick glance up and to her left. Sure enough, one of the Company’s black helicopters was pacing them above. They were supposed to have met at the rendezvous point in another fifteen minutes, but Sam Ralston must have spotted them on the road and moved in as air support. That hadn’t been part of Jack’s plan for a stealthy ambush. She had a sudden flash of worry for the hostages. “What do we do, Jack?”
“Slow down,” he said urgently. “Bad timing. The Suburban will have spotted the chopper, and they’ll react if they feel trapped.”
She didn’t like taking her foot off the gas, but she obeyed. She felt distance opening between them like a tearing wound, but it turned out to be the best thing. The Suburban suddenly put on the brakes. Lark reacted instantly, tires protesting, but she couldn’t brake fully before the doors of the vehicle ahead flew open and two men leaped out, assault rifles blazing.
Kenyon pulled an automatic rifle from the storage compartment behind him and slammed a magazine into place. “I’d say our cover’s blown.”
Chapter 15
Jack and Kenyon opened the Land Rover’s doors. The racket of the gunfire roared in at a painful level. The men started shooting back, using the doors as shields. Thankfully, the Rover’s armor plating held up.
A bullet struck the windshield, making Lark jump and leaving a spiderweb of cracks. Lark drew her Smith & Wesson and pushed the button that would slide open the sunroof. She needed to stay close to the wheel in case they needed a sudden retreat, but she wasn’t about to miss all the action.
Meanwhile, the chopper drew closer, dropping altitude to hover directly above. There was no room to set it down, but the pilot was blocking any chance of escape. The sound of the rotors finished off what was left of Lark’s hearing. Waves of dust and leaves kicked up, swirling through the firefight.
Then one of the shooters suddenly dropped, felled by a bullet angling from the sky. Distance, wind and motion had done nothing to spoil the shooter’s aim. Lark thumped the steering wheel in triumph. Such impossible marksmanship was the Horsemen’s trademark. A surge of hope made her eyes sting. They might pull off this rescue yet.
But then someone rolled out of the Suburban, keeping low to the ground. Jack shot at the figure, but the bullet seemed to veer off, ricocheting wildly against the rock wall. The dark-clad woman found her feet and rose from her crouch. Drusella! Lark clutched her weapon, surging up through the sunroof to take aim.
Lark fired, but it was too late. Drusella launched a ball of blue flame at the chopper’s tail. The missile pulsed, coruscating with veins of orange and white as it spun. Lark summoned her power and threw a bolt after it, but it was like a spitball chasing a nuclear warhead. Her stomach rolled, an agony of helpless fury eating its way through her. Both spheres of power seemed to travel with agonizing slowness, but maybe that was because Lark guessed what was coming next.
So did the others. Jack and Kenyon leaped back into the Rover. “Back up!” Jack roared. “Get out of the way!”
She hesitated a split second, cursing her weakness—but weapons magic simply wasn’t her strength. Bitterly she dropped back to her seat and slammed the Rover into Reverse, tears blurring her vision. With a roar, the vehicle sped out of the path of disaster.
And just in time. Lark’s ball of energy sailed uselessly onward while Drusella’s blew the back rotor to smithereens. Lark flinched at the smoking debris that dropped just feet from the front bumper. Bits of rock and metal pinged against the hood and skidded off even as Lark gunned the Rover backward and out of harm’s way.
But the show had just begun. Like a dragonfly executing a solemn ballet, the chopper began to wheel in the air, spinning in erratic circles and nearly scraping the mountainside. Lark was aware of Drusella running for the Suburban, which was already in motion. The two gunmen lay dead and abandoned on the ground, the second one felled by Jack.
The chopper’s drunken trajectory brought it closer and closer to the rock face. The air inside the Rover thickened with wordless horror.
Almost as if it tripped in midair, the helicopter tilted nose down. It was the worst possible move. Within seconds, the main rotor hit the mountain. Lark’s face went numb with shock as the blades sheered off, shooting into the air like giant matchsticks. The effect was instant. The chopper dropped like a wingless insect, crashing nose first before rolling onto its side. Her breath stopped utterly, certain this nightmare couldn’t get any worse.
But no. There was a moment of silence, as if the universe held its breath—and then in a gout of roiling black smoke, the chopper burst into flame.
* * *
Jack jumped out of the Land Rover and sped toward the wreckage. A glance told him the Dark Fey’s Suburban was disappearing in a trail of dust, but there was no chance of getting the Rover past the burning chopper. In any event, he wasn’t about to leave friends trapped inside a flaming wreck. Jack had come too close to that fate himself in the car crash that had nearly ended his existence.
He leaped over chunks of smoking debris, making for the main body of the craft. The door had blown off, leaving a hole in the side of the cockpit. Jack pulled his leather coat up over his head, tucked his hands in his sleeves and pushed through the wall of flame.
There was only one figure slumped inside the wreck. The inside of the cabin was searing hot, every surface a brand waiting for vulnerable flesh. Jack refused to let himself think or feel. He simply grabbed the body of the pilot and tried to haul him free. He was conscious that something had caught fast on the man’s clothes. Using his sleeve like a oven mitt, Jack grabbed and yanked, using his supernatural strength. Whatever it was came free with
a grind of metal and they were good to go. Another burst of strength and speed, and they were out of the wreck and safely clear of the flames.
Only when the pilot was on the ground beside the Land Rover did Jack allow himself to look at the man’s face. It was Sam Ralston, the Horseman named War, and one of his closest friends. He was also the vampire Jack’s niece, Chloe, had come to love.
Ralston’s flight jacket was still smoldering, the sheepskin collar reduced to crisps of ash. It was a mercy he was unconscious. Jack shrugged off his own coat and used it to smother the embers, the action forcing him to take stock of his friend’s condition. Part of the helicopter—perhaps a piece of the shattered door frame—was sticking out of Ralston’s chest. That was what Jack had torn out of the cockpit. Cold dismay seized him. Vampires could survive a lot, but this was pushing the limit.
Lark was suddenly there, her hand firm on Jack’s shoulder. “How bad is it?”
She sounded worried, but steady. He looked up to see her dark eyes filled with concern. All at once, he was grateful for her presence. She could pull her weight in a crisis, and he was going to need help to get Sam through this.
“He needs medical help fast,” he said. “Where’s Mark Winspear? He should have been on board.”
“Kenyon saw Winspear jump. He’s gone to search up that slope.” She pointed.
“Okay.” Jack cleared his throat, words all but deserting him. He’d thought Ralston and Winspear were safe because they’d been out of town—but once again, he’d been hideously wrong. It had just taken longer for Fate to find them.
The fear and pain rising with volcanic force inside him threatened to open the gate for the demon. A fierce prickling under his skin escalated to a harsh burn. The first spark of blue fire flickered across his skin. He sucked in breath, mentally willing his emotions down.
Lark squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’ll get some water from the Rover,” she said, and moved away with her usual silent tread.
The brisk, practical words steadied him. His skin cooled, almost as if her touch carried the spirit of the promised water. He glanced at her retreating figure, moved by the beauty of her slim form.
Under control again, he pulled out his knife and began slicing Ralston’s clothes away from his wound. He’d barely got Ralston’s jacket off when he heard a shout from the rocks above. He looked up to see Dr. Mark Winspear, also known as Plague, being helped down the slope by Kenyon. The doctor was tall and dark haired, a vampire who was equal parts assassin and healer and, though limping and dirty, he was mostly unhurt. The two of them slipped and slithered the last dozen yards down the mountainside, kicking up a wash of dust and pebbles. When they got to the bottom, the doctor hesitated before putting weight on his left foot, as if marshaling his defenses against the pain.
Kenyon offered his shoulder to Winspear as a support. “Next time try a parachute, genius.”
Lark was on her way back with several bottles of water balanced on the first-aid kit. She set down her burden and shaded her eyes. “Were you trying to fly?” she called to the doctor.
“Vampires can float,” Winspear replied. Even from a distance, Jack could see his face was pale, even for the undead.
“You were floating straight down pretty fast,” Kenyon said drily. “For a moment there, I thought we were finally rid of you.”
“Your concern touches me to the quick.” Winspear’s gaze found Jack. “Death,” he called, using Jack’s code name. “How good to see you. You might have mentioned you’d survived a flaming car wreck.”
“I would have expected a little more enthusiasm over my miraculous resurrection.”
“We’re named after the riders of the apocalypse. There’s nothing about the two of us that says muffins and bluebirds.”
Winspear had never been exactly cuddly, but Jack could hear the anger beneath the ice of his words. Just as Kenyon had said, the other Horsemen didn’t appreciate being left out of the loop. “I apologize for disappearing the way I did.”
Winspear, still limping over the stony ground, gave a curt nod. “What’s an extra funeral when you live forever?”
Jack rose to meet him. “How is your surgical mojo?” He gestured to Ralston.
Winspear froze, his expression going blank. At once, he was at Ralston’s side, examining the metal shard piercing his chest. “Damn it all, this is too close to his heart. If I pull it out without proper medical equipment, he’ll bleed out.”
Kenyon turned and walked away, running his hands through his short, fair hair as if he meant to tear it out.
Lark made a helpless gesture. “What if he fed?”
Jack flinched. “You’re the only one here he could feed on.” He sounded abrupt, but the image he had in his mind’s eye, of Ralston’s fangs in her flesh, put a spear of rage through his brain. It wasn’t logical—she was being generous—but the urge to fight Ralston for her rose like a fever. She’d been his lover, and no vampire surrendered his claim so easily.
“I know,” she replied, her tone calm and firm. “It might save his life.”
“It’s a good theory,” Winspear replied. “Fey blood is potent, but unfortunately he’d have to take too much. You’re just one donor. I need to get him back to the city...and quickly. His best chance of recovery is in an operating room.”
Jack knew he was right. There weren’t many ways to kill vampires, but extreme damage to the head or heart would do it. Delay could be just as dangerous as it would be to a human. “We’ve only got one working vehicle.”
The doctor glanced up from examining his patient, his expression all business. “And?”
“You should take it. It’s far more useful as an ambulance than as a means to chase the Blackthorns.”
“Not that I object,” Winspear replied, “but explain your reasoning.”
“It’s going to take forever to clear the road and get past what’s left of the chopper,” Jack said. “You’ll have to handle getting Ralston back to base on your own. The rest of us will keep going on foot. We’ll be relying on you to send help as soon as possible.”
“On foot?” Kenyon asked, and then shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
Jack studied the land around them, now fading to blues and purples as the sun dipped behind the peaks. “They’ve seen us, so they may go off script—or off the highway. We can track them better this way.”
The werewolf gave a slight smile. “Tracking is my specialty.”
The doctor finished stabilizing Ralston’s wound and rose, favoring his sore leg. “Then, let’s get my patient to the car.”
Jack turned to Lark and Kenyon. “Grab what supplies you can carry. We need to get moving.”
It only took a matter of minutes. Backpacks were stocked, a space cleared and a makeshift bed made for the patient. Then Ralston was lifted inside and made as comfortable as possible. In the end, Winspear did draw a few vials of Lark’s blood, but just enough to keep Ralston going until he was back in the city. As the procedure was underway, Jack forced himself to examine the glowing remains of the chopper in search of anything worthy of salvage—but all that was left was as charred and gutted as his mood.
As they prepared to part, the doctor clasped Lark’s hands. “I am delighted to see you are alive, old friend. Bree will be thrilled to see you, as well.”
Lark hugged Winspear. “We’ll catch up later,” she said. “I promise. I have so much to say to you both.”
“So do we,” said Winspear, kissing her on the cheek. “Until later.”
Then Winspear turned to Jack and Kenyon and removed a hard case from inside his jacket. “It was just good fortune that I got your call when I did. We were driving back at the right time for Sam to intercept our journey and pick me up to meet you here. But before the ladies took the car back to the city, I was able to fulfill your request.”
He opened the case. A stoppered vial sat nestled in the contoured case. “It’s Lexie’s blood.”
Winspear snapped the case shut and handed it to Jack, who slid it into a zippered pocket inside his own coat.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” the doctor said. “I remember the Dark Fey. There were a few left roaming the world when I was still human. In terms of unpleasantness, they made the Black Death look like a sniffle. Not a situation I care to see again.”
Jack nodded. “I will slam the door on them.”
“I wish I was at your side,” Winspear said. And then he clasped Jack in a rough hug. “It’s good to see you, old friend.”
Jack closed his eyes, knowing what a gift such open affection was, coming from the taciturn Winspear. “Good to see you, too. Take care of Ralston.”
With that, the Rover drove away, leaving the rest of them standing next to the smoking ruins of the chopper. The doctor would call for help and hopefully get Ralston into a medical chopper, but communications were notoriously sketchy in these mountains. His biggest advantage was that the Blackthorns wouldn’t be interested in two injured vampires alone on the road.
Jack cast a glance through the gathering night at the road where the Suburban had gone. The Dark Fey had long disappeared from sight.
The good guys had a lot of catching up to do.
Chapter 16
It was a mystery to Lark how a werewolf could separate the scent of one motor from every other motor on the road, but Kenyon claimed he could smell which way the Suburban had gone. It probably helped that traffic was limited to a car or two every hour, and less now that it was approaching midnight. Lark was footsore and cold, but at least they knew they were going in the right direction on this gray ribbon of road lit by a waxing moon.
They were walking in a line, Kenyon in the lead and Jack guarding the rear. Kenyon stopped, putting his hands on his hips and waiting as the others caught up.
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