“Can we ever stop being agents?” Jack asked suddenly. “Truly?”

Lark froze, her lips millimeters from his. “Why not?”

“I never know what’s real with you.”

Slowly, Lark tipped her chin to see his face. Jack’s expression—or what she could see of it—was thoughtful. The shades had to go. Sliding upward, she pulled off his sunglasses and kissed him.

The effect was instant. His fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her close. Lark’s pulse began to pound, a giddy pleasure tingling through her body. The warm electricity coursing in her veins found a home low in her belly at the same time his fingers slid beneath her shirt, seeking out the lacy edges of her bra. Her fingers curled in the soft cotton of his sweater, gathering bunches of the fabric as she leaned in, savoring his flavor.

“Does it feel like I’m seducing you for nefarious reasons?” Jack asked.

“You’ve done it before.”

SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk. Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA® Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.

Possessed by the Fallen

Sharon Ashwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is for those readers who have followed the Horsemen along with me.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride as much as I have!

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Extract

Copyright

Alone we can do so little.

Together we can do so much.

—Helen Keller

Prologue

Fairy tales often begin with humans making foolish choices, and this is no exception.

Long ago, three princes lived in a kingdom on the north shore of the Mediterranean Sea: Vidon, Marcari and their youngest brother, known as Silverhand. The best of the three, Silverhand became a knight and went to the Holy Land during the first war of the Crusades.

In time, he returned with a fortune in gems, planning to share it with his brothers. Unexpectedly—or perhaps not—Silverhand was murdered as he slept and the treasure was stolen. Vidon and Marcari quickly accused one another of the crime and so began a war between brothers that split the country in two.

It was not just a war of humans—the brothers dragged the Night World into their affairs. The Dark Fey fought for Vidon, the Light Fey for Marcari. Vampires and werewolves also did battle for one side or the other, and the slaughter was epic.

Vidon blamed the carnage on the supernatural creatures, even though he had himself enlisted their aid. He demanded his knights swear vengeance upon them, and so Vidon’s realm became a nation of slayers.

However, Marcari took responsibility for his all-too-human greed. Recognizing his sense of honor, the vampires pledged him their service. They became La Compagnie des Morts, or the Company of the Dead. So it was that the Kingdom of Marcari became a refuge for the supernatural, who were forever hunted by their enemies, the Knights of Vidon.

But the one thing everyone could agree on was that the Dark Fey had to go. Under the leadership of their queen, they had committed crimes of war that sickened even the werewolves. A spell was cast to lock the Dark Queen and her people behind magical gates, and they were banished from the mortal realms forevermore.

Or not. You never know with fairies.

Fast forward to the present day when Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon proposed marriage to Princess Amelie, the only child of the reigning king of Marcari. Here, nine centuries and many, many generations later, was a chance for peace between the two nations.

Needless to say, the Dark Queen and her exiled clan were not invited to the wedding. In fact, most had forgotten she still lived.

That was not wise.

Chapter 1

Manhattan Early May

“Enemy agents are coming to kill you,” Jack Anderson said, sarcasm leaking into his tone. “Do you think you might want some help with that?”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Jessica Lark sat behind her desk. At the moment she was glad to have the heavy piece of furniture between her and Jack. If she touched him or smelled the clean, spicy scent of his skin, she would surely lose her nerve. Whether as a lover or as an operative, Jack was a formidable presence.

He was darkly handsome in a way that made women stop and turn, the blue of his eyes like an arctic sky, pure and wild. With wings and a flaming sword, he might have been the archangel Michael—but Jack would have mocked the comparison. He was a vampire of the Company of the Dead, a covert agent and pure sin between the sheets.

And Lark was about to betray him. She was afraid, but beneath the trepidation a hot ball of grief hovered in her chest. She missed Jack already. She’d made the basic mistake of falling in love with her mark.

Her expression must have betrayed her nerves. Jack leaned forward, his hands on the desk. Those eyes of his, so icy cool with everyone else, were warm with concern. “Are you sure you don’t want my help? You’re the lead on this. It’s your call, but if you think they’re coming here tonight, you need backup.”

“This is only a burglary, so no big deal. I have an alarm system,” she said lightly.

“Alarms don’t help if you’re here alone and the thieves have weapons. I know you’re tough, but you’re only one agent.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know if my information is good. You’re worrying over something that probably won’t happen.”

His grimace said she was an idiot, and he was right. She was absolutely certain she was about to get a visit from the bad guys, but bringing them down single-handedly would be a redemption of sorts. An apology for what she was about to do, and maybe proof that Lark of the Light Fey wasn’t altogether a traitor.

She pushed back from her desk, crossing to an armoire against the wall. Her Manhattan design atelier was huge—wood floors, cutting tables and bare brick walls with high arched windows to let in the light. Now those windows looked out on the glamour of the New York nightscape that sparkled like a fantasy through the darkness. This was Lark’s kingdom, and she was its queen of fashion and beauty. Any one of her clothing designs fetched a ransom. Starlets and royalty came knocking at her door.

And so did creatures from the Night World. Jack was by far the most civilized among them, but there were others. She’d warded her private office so that no one could see or hear anything extraordinary, not even her assistant right outside the door. Lark was well prepared for sudden upsets.

“Lark, listen.” Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. He was wearing a gray flannel suit, the artful cut of his jacket hiding his many weapons. “Let me stay tonight.”

“You’ll spook them if they come, and waste your time if they don’t.”

“I’ll do surveillance from a safe distance. If nothing happens, we’ll go for a drink and call it a night.”

Lark paused, tempted. She fingered the handle of the armoire, wishing she could change her mind. It would be so easy to agree and let everything stay the same. She’d be safe, Jack would remain her lover and she’d keep this glamorous life a little longer. Her masters in the Light Court, the ones who’d sent her to spy on Jack, would be none the wiser. Sometimes orders could be dodged, at least for a while.

But she was a double agent. Behind the masks of fashion queen and playboy, she and Jack worked for the Company. And behind that mask, she worked for her own people. She was weaving a very tangled web—but then she was a fey. Tangled webs were their favorite thing.

She opened the armoire door, sticking to her plan. If she failed now, she condemned her entire race. What was a single love affair weighed against that? Selfishness. Weakness. Cowardice. Lark swallowed down burning regret.

“I’ll be fine. I have something I need you to do.” She pulled a dress box from the armoire and walked it over to her desk.

“What’s this?” Jack asked.

Lark lifted the lid. Inside was a nest of blue tissue paper, and beneath it a glittering confection of white satin and lace. It was the masterpiece of the collection she’d been commissioned to create for the royal wedding, and as a designer it was her personal best. She touched the garment lightly, feeling a surge of pride. “It’s Princess Amelie’s wedding dress, sewn with the Marcari diamonds. This is what the enemy agents are after. Between the gems and the dress itself, it’s worth a fortune.”

A fortune the enemy would use for much worse crimes than theft. Every diamond would fund countless deaths. Lark put a hand on Jack’s sleeve. “I need you to get it away from here. Make sure Amelie wears it on her wedding day.”

Jack gave her an incredulous look. “So you want me to save the dress and leave you here to face the thieves?”

Lark slipped the lid back on the box, feeling a flush of dismay creeping up her cheeks. It would be so much easier if he didn’t care. “Yes. You save the dress. They can’t steal what’s not here.”

Jack slipped an arm around her waist. “Forget the gown. Amelie has a palace full of dresses. I’ve got only you.”

She turned, bracing her palms against his chest, putting a few inches between them. “I’m not covered with a significant portion of the crown jewels.”

Undeterred, he bent forward, his lips brushing her cheek. “I’d like to see that,” he said, voice intimate and teasing. “Just the diamonds. Nothing else but skin.”

“Promise me you’ll take the dress. Give me your word.” Don’t kiss me. I can’t bear it if you kiss me.

His brows furrowed. “I’ll take it, if it’s that important to you.”

“It is. It’s Princess Amelie’s wedding. Whatever else happens, she deserves a perfect dress for it.”

That was absolutely true, as was the fact someone would try to steal the gown and its jewels tonight. Preventing the theft—and the crimes that would flow from the stolen fortune—was her last act as a Company agent, and one she had to complete. Hopefully it would salve the guilt to come.

“I give you my word,” Jack said, obviously confused.

“Good.” If he gave his word, he would do it, regardless of whatever horrible thing she did next. There was something to be said for the old, proud vampires and their sense of honor.

Jack took her arms, turning her to face him. “You’re shivering. What’s gotten into you?”

She froze, her head bowed, not able to answer right away. She was desperately trying to keep her mission front and center in her mind. Her people were weak, at a time when their darkest enemy threatened to return. The Light Fey needed a weapon—and Jack was the most powerful vampire walking the earth. Lark’s mission was to find and harness that source of strength.

But whatever made Jack unique was a secret he guarded closely. Two years in his bed had given her only the smallest of clues, and she’d run out of time and options.

He was looking at her as if she was the most precious creature on the planet.

“You’re different from anyone I’ve ever known,” she finally said. “You’re different from other vampires.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said quickly. But it was true.

Lark looked up into his face. His brows were drawn together. Tension was creeping into his expression—an awareness something was seriously wrong. Regret plunged through her, stiletto sharp. Beneath Jack’s power and courage, beneath the physical beauty and astonishing strength, was the kindest heart she knew. I love you, but my people are dying. Our children don’t live to see their first name day, and I was the one chosen to help. Forgive me for this.

She slid the spelled dagger from her sleeve, and with a quick, upward thrust she drove it into his abdomen. She was strong, but it took all her force to pierce the hard wall of his abdomen. Their cries mingled for a horrible moment—his filled with surprise, hers with grief.

It wasn’t a fatal blow—not to a vampire—but the magic in the blade would rip away every secret he possessed. Lark looked into his eyes, and knew her mistake with mounting dread.

Secrets, once revealed, can’t be unlearned.

Kingdom of Marcari

February, nine months later

“It’s time you came in, Jack.”

Jack Anderson gripped the cell phone, but he didn’t respond to the gritty voice telling him to give up almost a year of surveillance work. He’d wait a beat before disobeying orders, even if he’d already made up his mind. Somehow, it seemed more polite.

Silence only made the narrow backstreet that much lonelier despite the quitting-time rush on the neighboring roads. Sunset had flamed out, and now the February dusk seeped into the stone and wrought iron of Marcari’s ancient capital. Jack welcomed the growing darkness, his vampire’s mind sharpening as the night breezes rose. “I’m close to figuring out exactly what the Dark Fey are plotting. Crashing the royal wedding is just their opening number.”

“Maybe,” said the commander of La Compagnie des Morts, “but I need you here. Now. Tonight. We’ve got intelligence you’re going to want to look at.”

Jack grunted. “Is there a connection to my investigation?”

“What else? I don’t call in undercover agents just to spoil their fun.”

Jack leaned against the wall, a shadow melting into shadows. The moment he set foot into Headquarters’ compound, everyone would know he was still walking the earth. “There’s a difference between having a look and coming in off a case. I’ve spent too long on this. Besides, everyone believes I’m dead.”

“So? They’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“I’m tired of surprises.”

Last spring had been bad for Jack. First his lover had stabbed him, and a week later he’d nearly burned to death in a fiery car crash arranged by extremely determined assassins. He’d used the opportunity—and some skills he liked to keep to himself—to drop off the grid and start hunting the hunters. But that had meant cutting himself off from anyone who mattered, and there was no way he was letting that sacrifice swirl down the drain.

The commander seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m not asking this lightly. This is about the Company.”

Jack wanted details. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

“Yes, come straight to my office. My counterparts in administration have called a general meeting and everyone else will be in the auditorium talking policy. That will give you and me a chance to meet undisturbed and undetected. You’ll be gone before anyone knows you’re here.”

“And?” Jack prodded.

The commander’s voice dropped low. “There’s a threat close to home and it needs your expertise. Fast and silent. Even you’ll agree that what I’ve got trumps your mission.”

“There are other qualified agents. Get Sam Ralston on it.”

“Stop arguing and get your undead arse in here tonight. You’re pushing your luck with me.” The line went dead.

A blinding flash of anger surged through Jack. He swore, stuffing the phone into his pocket and struggling for calm. A fit of temper might as well have been a spark among gunpowder. Strong emotion made Jack’s self-control falter.

Without warning, his body burned with tingling waves of raw power. It climbed as his mood darkened, seeming to feed off wounded pride and rage. Jack sucked in a breath of cold air and leaned his head against the bricks, reasserting mastery. In the deepening shadows, he could see arcs of blue static crawling over the bare skin of his palms. It was the mark of the curse that bound him to demonkind. He curled his fingers, hiding the web of light. Hiding the evidence of what he really was—and the destructive power that implied.

Jack’s head pounded as he reeled the power back into his core. It felt like dragging barbed wire through his flesh. The raw force of his abilities was as brutal as a keg of explosives—and about as useless, unless he intended mass destruction. But that’s why they call it a curse, and not a bonus gift from the superpower catalog.

The blue fire finally winked out, and Jack slumped against the bricks, his muscles rubbery as they unclenched. The pain receded slowly, leaving a faint nausea in its wake. He’d won. His control was still stronger. A flicker of pride stirred, soon drowned in plain old relief. His secret was safe for another night.

After nine centuries, he wondered if the iron control he relied on was all that remained of his humanity. When that went, the taint of the Fallen would take him over—an unthinkable end. Demons made the worst vampires look as cuddly as shar-pei puppies.

Jack’s symptoms were getting worse.

With that happy thought, Jack started walking, his footfalls silent. The winding road between the buildings was typical of Marcari’s old quarter, hardly wide enough for two cars to pass without locking side mirrors. Light spilled from a café ahead, and he instinctively moved out of the glow. After spending so long as a spy, invisibility had become a habit. And yet, he felt the telltale tug on his consciousness that said someone had seen him and was interested.

Jack slowed. There was no sound or scent, nor did a casual glance reveal movement in the darkness. That meant his shadow belonged to the fey. Only they could touch another’s mind with such delicacy.

Tired of being stalked, he stopped and spun on his heel. The psychic touch withdrew as suddenly as a hand snatched away. “What do you want?” he snapped.

His words hung in the darkness. Dusk had deepened to night, and a faint drizzle made the cobbled street glisten. The pungent smoke of French cigarettes wafted from the crowd at the café door, along with bursts of jazz from the sound system. For a long moment, Jack waited for a reply.

And then a piece of the shadows seemed to grow more solid, separating itself into a denser blackness. It wasn’t exactly movement, but was enough to catch Jack’s eye. His tail was using a glamour, one of the fey spells that tricked the senses. Such magic could make a person look, sound or smell like someone else or disappear altogether. “And people wonder why I don’t trust your kind,” he growled.

The darkness shifted until he saw a slender figure on the opposite side of the narrow road. Even without the benefit of detail, there was no doubt it was female. The curves were just right by Jack’s standard, full despite her lithe frame. Memory tugged, aching to color in features the shadows erased—but the person he wanted to see was lost to him forever.

“Trust is a slippery creature,” the woman’s voice said. There was something achingly familiar in that silvery, feminine softness—like a dream that lingered on waking.

The voice came again. “Will your friends trust you when they find out you’re still alive, Jack?”

It can’t be her. But vampire hearing didn’t lie, and ghosts didn’t haunt the undead.

Chapter 2

Jack’s first reaction was shock, a sheer incredulity that Jessica Lark was alive. He staggered forward a step as if jerked on a leash. He wasn’t a creature given to emotion, but his heart ached as if it had suffered a terrible blow. And then a second reaction slammed home—anger. “You tried to kill me.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re a vampire. A knife to the gut would never kill you.” She stirred, the darkness still washing out detail, but Jack could see enough now to be sure it was Lark. “But everyone believes you died when you wrecked your Porsche. Or rather, when a gunman helped you wreck it.” She added the last bit more softly, as if she actually cared.

“I survived.” His words came automatically, almost devoid of feeling. Seeing Lark, hearing her, was too much. Every possible emotion was making a log jam in his gut. As if he was going to overload, Jack’s fingers began to shake. “I survived, but not all the shooters did. The body they found was one of theirs.”

“And no one noticed they had the wrong vampire?”

“My servant identified the remains and immediately went into witness protection. I owe him a big favor.”

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whispered curse. The scent of her fear found Jack, giving him a twinge of satisfaction. She’d seen his demon side, and she knew she’d crossed him. She had every reason to tremble.

But vengeance wasn’t all he hungered for. What he felt was infinitely more complex, and simple revenge wasn’t going to satisfy him. He took two more steps, shock robbing his movements of grace.

“Jack?” she said cautiously, pulling her trench coat closer.

He raised his arms, his first instinct to touch her. She swayed forward, but the moment dissolved once her gaze flickered across his face. Whatever she saw there stopped her cold.

Jack let his arms fall. “How do I know it’s really you?”

Her full lips twitched. “Do you think I’m a warty goblin out to trick you into kissing me?”

“Your design studio burned the night you stabbed me,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I thought you died.”

She moved a step deeper into the shadows, keeping distance between them. “I almost did. It’s taken me until now to recover. Whoever tried to kill you got to me first. There was more than a simple robbery that night.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to doubt her. “Go ahead and say it. I should have let you stay.”

“Instead of sticking a knife in me?” This time, he let his anger show. “Don’t bother asking forgiveness for that one.”

Her head bowed, as graceful as a flower. “I won’t.”

“Good. It’ll save us both time.”

Silence fell. Jack could hear his own breathing, harsh with emotion, but Lark remained immobile as a mouse beneath a hawk’s shadow. After a long time, Jack found composure enough to go on. “But you survived.”

“I like to defy expectations,” she said, lifting her gaze. Her eyes held a trace of rebellion. It was a look he knew too well.

“Why didn’t I know you were still alive?” he demanded softly.

They were within a few paces of each other now. He could see the mass of her hair falling past her shoulders. Old memories prompted him to touch it, to feel the soft mahogany waves spring beneath his fingers. His hand reached out to her almost of its own accord.

She held up a hand, palm out. “Stop, Jack. Stop where you are.”

“Why?” He reluctantly obeyed, his fingers closing on nothing. He could smell her anxiety, sharp and tantalizing, but he could also sense her desire. Her clash of emotions resonated through him, at once delicious and heartbreaking.

“You know why.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Because you’re afraid of me. Because you know I don’t trust you. He clenched his jaw, rejecting everything but the urge to touch her. He’d loved her, loathed her, thought her dead, and now she was inches away. Faster than thought, his hand cupped her cheek. It was like silk, cool from the night air, but beneath that perfect surface, life beat hot and red.

He felt her flinch, but pretended he hadn’t. Right then, denying logic or even a decent sense of self-preservation, he needed her the way mortals needed breath. “Just this once, tell me the truth.”

But he didn’t give her a chance to speak. For a delirious instant, desire trumped his wrath. His free hand closed on her shoulder, pinning her against the rough stone of the wall. Although she was strong enough, he moved too quickly for her to struggle. Her sigh came out in a warm rush, fanning his face. She was so alive.

Almost against his will, his mouth closed over hers. Now that he had her in his hands, Jack knew beyond a doubt she was Lark and no fey trick upon his senses. His body knew her—the exotic scent, the rhythm of her breath, the feel of her skin under his. No glamour was that precise. Jack remembered every intoxicating detail, even if he’d tried to scour her out of his soul. “I mourned for you.”

“And I for you.”

But her voice cracked on the words. He could feel her pulse, speeding with the rush of her panic. She’d seen the demon in him, and it terrified her. The sensation of it went straight to his sex, making him press closer. She struggled a moment, but it was barely for the span of one racing heartbeat. And then she surrendered—or stood her ground—fitting herself to him as if they’d never been apart. Her kiss told him everything he longed for.

As a human, Jack had thirsted in the desert, and she was sweeter than the taste of life-giving water. But poetry wasn’t uppermost in his thoughts. Lust and hunger uncoiled inside him, bringing out his fangs. He braced his arms on either side of her, his fingers digging into the wall. Stone and mortar crumbled in a shower of dust.

Her body arched under his, the movement showing her smooth, white throat. His tongue found the spot where her skin was warm and fragrant, tasting the beat of her heart through the thinnest veil of flesh. He pressed his mouth there, teasing with the points of his teeth. Her skin held the tang of fear, though still she refused to show it completely.

At the sharp intake of her breath, he broke away. His head was starting to spin with the need for blood, and he didn’t trust his self-control. There was too much anger in him to be completely safe.

Slowly, Lark’s eyes met his, the low light turning their rich brown color to black. Her voice was hoarse with lust and regret. “I disappeared after the fire because I was hiding from the men who tried to kill me. And you were dead, or so I thought. Fiery deaths were trending last season, in case you don’t remember.”

Jack drew back with a noise of disgust, sanity crawling back like a whipped dog. “It was nice of you to grieve, after the knife and all. Although you obviously knew I was walking the earth, or you wouldn’t be following me.”

The sudden widening of her eyes said he’d caught her out. “There were rumors in the Light Court that you were in Marcari, but I didn’t let my heart believe it until I saw you on the street a few days ago. I don’t know what to think about you anymore, Jack. Not after our last conversation.”

“Conversation,” he mocked. “That’s a polite description for stabbing your lover.”

She was shivering, but he knew better than to think it was just the cold. Our last conversation. The magic in the knife had ripped away his self-control, and Jack had let his demon side show. It was the only slip he’d ever made in his long life, but she’d learned his secret that night.

That discovery had been her mission, the game between them, and she’d won. He’d loved Lark as he’d never loved anyone in all his long centuries, but she had been nothing more than a spy in his bed.

What she’d learned was a danger to him. In purely practical terms, her death that same night had solved his problem, even as it left a world of unresolved pain. Now he had to decide what to do about her sudden resurrection.

He cupped her face again—none too gently—his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Who did you tell about me?” he asked.

“No one.” She pulled away.

“I find that hard to believe. You don’t go to such lengths and not follow through.”

“I was hospitalized. I couldn’t talk, just think. I decided I wouldn’t tell unless...”

“Unless?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Unless I needed to.”

That meant she had leverage over him. Anger sparked, and his fingers curled into a fist. “That covers a lot of circumstances and a lot of convenient excuses.”

She shot him a sour look. “Believe what you like.”

“What about your orders from the Light Court?” A single spark of blue energy snaked across his hand.

“They were too busy healing my burns to ask questions.”

“So you stabbed me for no reason.”

“It’s not that simple, Jack. They were curious about the source of your strength and whether it was something they could replicate. Now I know it isn’t. I can afford to say nothing.”

Jack didn’t answer, but closed his hand over the spark. If she was telling the truth, she was picking and choosing the bits that suited her.

She slowly shook her head. “You’re changing.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

She put up both hands. Her back was against the wall, a whisper of space between them, but her expression wasn’t giving an inch. “You don’t see it, but there’s something going on with you. I overheard your conversation with the commander.”

Jack didn’t doubt she had. Fey ears were almost as good as a vampire’s. “So?”

“You’ve always been the perfect soldier, and right now you’re sailing close to the edge of subordination. Plus, you’re sparking like a faulty coffeemaker. You’re losing ground to what’s inside you.”

He walked away a few steps. She was right, but putting distance between them was easier than framing a reply—especially when he had no good answers.

“How can I help you, Jack?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft with concern.

“You can’t,” he said, barely giving it a thought. Even if he wanted her help, a fey didn’t stand a chance against a demon. “No one can.”

“So I can’t help you and you can’t forgive me.”

“That’s about the size of it.” He kept moving, his eyes fixed on the glow from the café window. The gabble of music and voices seemed unnaturally loud in the darkness.

A long silence followed before Lark spoke again. “That doesn’t leave us anywhere to go.”

“No.”

“Like you said—why waste our time?”

It was a goodbye. The realization hit him like an electric charge. He spun on his heel, turning toward the spot where she’d stood. There was nothing but empty wall and fresh gouges where he’d clawed the bricks like a feral beast.

She was gone.

The emptiness that followed hit Jack like a boot to the gut. The sound that came from Jack’s throat was a snarl of anger and need tangled together. He hadn’t found Lark just to lose her again like this.

Damn the commander’s orders. He had to look for her.

Chapter 3

“I can’t believe Jessica Lark is still alive.” Faran Kenyon’s voice crackled over the bad cell phone connection. He was a werewolf and the only one of Jack’s team aware that Jack was undercover. “But if Lark disappeared without a trace like that, are you sure she was real? She wasn’t a fey trick or hallucination meant to throw you off guard?”

Two hours had passed since Jack had seen Lark. He’d scoured the area around the café, looking for her in every nook, cranny and dive in the surrounding streets, but he was only one vampire. When reason finally began seeping through his wall of snarled emotions, he realized the Company was his best resource in terms of manpower to find her. They’d have an intense interest in what an AWOL fey agent—previously presumed dead—was doing in Marcari, a few hours’ drive from their headquarters. And since the commander wanted to chat anyway, why not ask for his help?

“She was real,” Jack said. “There was no question about that, at least.” Her touch, her smell had been achingly familiar. His body knew her flesh and blood. No spell could duplicate the way her lips moved under his. And what are you going to do about it? Kill her? Punish her? Admit that you’re insane enough to still want her more than any other woman?

The one thing he could never do was love her again. Her treachery had destroyed every chance of that.

“It’s bizarre. What are the chances of the famous designer of Amelie’s bridal dress reappearing now? I blame everything on the royal wedding,” Kenyon added. “That’s what made every magic-happy villain in all the realms start planning their own version of the bridal apocalypse.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one way of putting it.” Jack Anderson glanced at the dashboard of the Escalade, where his cell phone was set on hands-free. The display screen was bright in the darkness, showing the reception this far out in the Marcari foothills was down to one bar and bursts of static. “Anyone planning to sabotage the ceremony has less than two weeks to do it, and I’m not ruling out the Light Court. They were our allies in the past, but they’ve kept to themselves for a long time. We don’t know their priorities.”

“So what do you need?”

“Help.”

“What kind?”

“I need the Horsemen.”

Named after the riders of the Apocalypse, the team was as close-knit as the fabled Musketeers but far darker and even more deadly. Jack, code-named Death, had been their leader. Plague and War—Mark Winspear and Sam Ralston—were also vampires. Kenyon, the only werewolf, was Famine. They were the best operatives La Compagnie des Morts had, and Jack needed them at his back.

“You’ve all been working this case from the start,” Jack said. “And by case I mean ensuring the wedding goes ahead without interference from the Dark Fey. Like you said—bridal apocalypse.”

The wedding would be on Valentine’s Day and would turn Marcari’s capital city into one huge party zone. The rich, famous and royal—not to mention the international media—were arriving in droves to add to the security nightmare. And then there were the supernatural implications of the event. Weddings made powerful magic, and a joining of royal houses conjured more than most—and this marriage had the power to seal the gates to the Dark Queen’s prison forever.

“Our earlier cases are connected,” Kenyon agreed. “I mean, first we had the wedding gown disappear.”

“Lark designed the dress,” Jack pointed out, pushing away the memories of Lark back in New York, holding the diamond-encrusted gown like a sacred treasure. Jack had never married, but he’d been about to fall to one knee at the sight of it. What a fool he’d been.

“Yeah, well, it was a dress to die for,” Kenyon complained. “As in, we all nearly died in the process of getting it back, and it wasn’t even my size. And then, after months on the run, Lark’s assistant shows up with that enchanted book. We nearly lost Winspear over that one.”

Lark again, Jack thought. Her presence was like a glittering thread running through events and binding them together. And yet everything points to the Dark Fey. So why is the Light involved?

Kenyon continued, his tone growing deeper and more growly as his disgust increased, “And then the Dark Queen’s flunkies stole the wedding ring and tried to use it to open the gates to her prison.”

“If you hadn’t gotten it back, the carnage would’ve been staggering,” Jack said. “But they’ll try again. The wedding ceremony has enough magical juice to seal the gates forever. It’s now or never for them.”

“Tick-tock,” Kenyon replied. “If I were Prince Kyle, I’d be packing up my princess and skipping town for Vegas.”

“I wish.”

“Elvis chapel. European royalty. Vampires and werewolves. I dig it.”

It had been way too long since Jack had laughed, and it felt wonderful.

“I’m coming out from undercover, but only on a need-to-know basis,” Jack said as the cell signal crackled again. “Tell Ralston and Winspear. I need them on board ASAP.”

“They still think you’re dead. Deader. Whatever. They’re both out of town anyway. It’ll take some time.” Kenyon fell silent and Jack heard the rattle of dishes. By the sound of it, the werewolf was at a restaurant.

Kenyon’s next words were cool. “Don’t think they won’t kick your ass for holding out on them. I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. Friends don’t let friends think they got barbecued in a fiery car wreck when they didn’t. You should have trusted them. You barely trusted me, and that’s only because I found out you were lurking around the palace.”

Jack flinched. The werewolf was as much of a son to Jack as a vampire would ever have. Lark’s words came back to him: Will your friends trust you when they find out you’re still alive, Jack?

“It’s not about trust.”

“Are you sure? What aren’t you telling me, Jack?” Kenyon asked, all business now.

That I’m a demon. That it’s getting harder to hide. “Everything I’ve learned undercover. I haven’t been spending my time knitting. I’ll fill you all in as soon as we’re together.”

“Give me a summary I can take to the others. They deserve to know what’s coming around the corner.”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but the cell signal vanished. Odd. Reception was bad along the route, but it had never disappeared altogether before.

And yet one more bit of bad luck was par for the course tonight. Jack cursed and stepped on the gas, taking his temper out on the accelerator. The Escalade barreled up a rise.

He’d barely reached the crest when a warning ripped through him with razor claws. It was primitive instinct, straight from his lizard brain, but as clear as a siren.

Jack slammed on the brakes. The Escalade slewed on the loose gravel, sending up a spray of dust and stones. Tension corded his muscles, and he gripped the wheel hard enough to make it creak. An eternity passed before the vehicle finally stopped—although that eternity lasted but a human heartbeat.

The next moment passed in perfect stillness. Jack listened past the thrum of the motor, searching for whatever it was that had triggered his instincts. The phone was still dead. He could pick out the night sounds of the forest—an owl’s screech, the rustle of small creatures among the leaves and grass. Vampire hearing was preternaturally acute, allowing him to detect even the distant rush of the Mediterranean Sea, but there was nothing that spoke of danger. It all looked peaceful.

But if he couldn’t hear or see trouble, Jack could smell it. A choking, acid stink clung to the air. There had been a fire—and not just of trees. This was the scent of manufactured things—buildings, fuels and plastics. And ruined flesh. There was the oily scent of death on the wind.

Cautious now, Jack drove the Escalade to the side of the lane and killed the motor. He got out, hand reaching for the grip of the Walther pistol beneath his jacket. But the road to the Company’s main compound was deserted, even though the facility was just a mile up the road. He was the only living—or undead—thing in sight. Slowly his hand slipped away from the gun, fingers twitching as if they wanted to return to the familiar handgrip. Dread crept out of the darkness and into his bones.

If there was a fire, someone from the Company should be here. Cleanup crews. Vehicles. Construction. He knew the routine. He’d spent years working on those very teams. Come to think of it, he should already see the lights from the buildings bright against the inky-black sky. But no glow shone above the canopy of trees.

Jack cursed softly, refusing to follow that logic one inch further. He would approach his old home silently—and that meant on foot. With his insides slowly turning to ice, he changed his mind and drew the gun, advancing toward the Company’s main gates in perfect silence. The ashy stink grew stronger with every step, as did the gut-churning smell of charred flesh—human, vampire and other. Nausea worked its way up Jack’s throat. The path made another turn, angling down to the left where the Company’s compound nestled, almost hidden in a shallow valley.

A white piece of paper had drifted to the base of a tree, the page so bright it had to be new. Jack snatched it up. It was the printed copy of an email about a meeting that night, all agents to attend. It was from a general administrative account, just like the commander had said. Such meetings were far from unusual—the Company had its share of bureaucracy. Still, the email made Jack uneasy.

Jack rounded the final corner—and stopped. Where once-thick foliage had concealed the view, he had an unobstructed line of sight between charred and splintered trunks. Clearly there had been an explosion and then a blaze. Forgetting all caution, he abandoned the path, rushing to the lip of the valley with vampire speed. He crouched on the ash-covered loam, looking down on the devastation. At that moment, he hated his long experience with war and violence because he could read what he saw like a book.

Whatever had happened, the Company hadn’t stood a chance.

Chapter 4

The compound had been reduced to dust, as if a giant fist had smashed it. Blackened rubble sketched the outline of buildings. Where there had been gardens, nothing but scorched earth remained. Heat still rose from the devastation, telling him the damage was fresh.

Of course it was. He’d spoken to the commander just that night. Whatever had happened had struck hard and fast, burning out almost at once and leaving nothing but ash behind.

Jack closed his eyes, fighting against the reek of death that rose up like a curse. The email slipped from his fingers, fluttering down the slope and into the ash. All agents to attend. Anyone who’d survived the initial blast had been trapped in a ring of fire. None of them—his friends, his mentors, the young ones he’d nurtured like sons and daughters—could have escaped. Jack’s fists clenched as rage welled in his blood, effervescent in its intensity.

If Lark hadn’t held me up, I would have been here. So why had she picked that moment to show up? Because she’s involved up to her slender, perfect neck. Her presence boded nothing good. Had she betrayed him and the Company again?

A roar of frustration ripped from his throat. Pale blue fire crackled along his fingers, arcing and snapping like something from a Frankenstein film. The urge to destroy rose up like strong liquor in his blood, ballooning inside his skull. Delirium made him feel suddenly weightless, as if he could dissolve into a formless cloud of death and retribution. He rode the sensation, letting it numb the wild pain in his heart.

Revenge would be better than sorrow. Revenge would taste as sweet as living blood on his tongue—and be every bit as addictive. But then Jack clenched his fists, exerting iron control. Once more he dragged the searing energy back into his flesh. The demon wasn’t going to win. Not today of all days. He drew in a shaking breath, more to steady himself than because he needed air.

“What happened here?” Lark asked from behind him.

Her timing couldn’t be worse. Jack whirled, gun at the ready and demon rage fresh in his heart. His senses quested, searching out his prey.

There was no one in sight. “Where are you?”

“Will you shoot me?”

“Probably.” His lips curled back to show fangs. “But my hands around your throat would be more satisfying.”

He’d been too distracted to notice Lark’s approach, but now could sense her. How could he not? His entire being was flooded with desire and rage, and she was at the core of it all. Her presence was like a magnet, drawing him as inexorably as iron—and yet her glamour was good enough to disguise exactly where she stood.

“Put away your gun, Jack.” That soft voice had an edge now. Whatever uncertainty she’d shown in the alley was gone.

“You’re in no position to make demands.” Fresh anger rose, warring with incredulity. He lowered the gun, but didn’t holster it.

Apparently that was good enough. Lark stepped out of the dark forest without warning. Here the moonlight was bright enough to catch her features, showing more than the shadowy murk near the café. For the second time that night, Jack’s dead heart nearly stopped all over again.

“Why did you disappear like that? Where did you go?” he demanded, but the words lacked force. It was hard to growl when he’d lost his breath. And then for a blessed instant he forgot the horror where the compound had been. He forgot everything but her.

Lark was beautiful, like all the fey—tall and slender with pale skin and delicate features. But her coloring, all creamy skin and mahogany hair, radiated warmth and life. It had been that vibrancy that had attracted him, her fey light to his profound darkness.

“I meant to leave,” she said. “But I got curious about what the commander wanted with you. I couldn’t figure out what was so important.”

“And so you kept on following me?”

She didn’t answer, but scanned the devastation below. The night vision of the fey was almost as good as a vampire’s and her eyes widened, her expression mirroring his horror. She crossed to his left, keeping distance between them, and peered down at the ruin. Slowly, she sank down to a crouch, one hand gripping the thin trunk of a sapling. She looked as if she might faint.

“By Oberon,” she gasped. “It’s all gone.”

“And everyone in it. There was an email calling a general meeting tonight. It came from administration. No way to know who actually sent it.” No way to know who had lured all the agents into the trap.

She turned to look up at him, her eyes wide and bright with tears, but her lips clamped in a grim line. “Did the commander have some hint of this?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Is that why he called you?”

“He knew something was up and that it was urgent, but obviously he didn’t know enough. He asked for my help.” Jack kept his voice steady, but his heart raged at the admission. “I should have come straight here.”

“But then you’d be ash, just like them.” Tears slid from her eyes, glittering as they fell. She wiped her cheeks with her fingers. There was no fuss or drama. Lark rarely wept, but when she did it was as graceful as everything else she did. Jack wanted—needed—to hold her, but logic stopped him from dropping his guard. She’d deceived him, abandoned him and spied on him.

And yet here she was again, sharing his tragedy in a way no one else could. The look on her face was identical to the emotion slashed into his soul. At a fundamental level, beneath the deception and anger, they’d always understood one another like twin spirits.

So Jack stood there in fury, cycling through love, desire, distrust and anger one more time. He had no idea what to do with her. He had to trust his head, because his heart was spinning out of control.

“Who did this?” Lark asked.

Fey. But he needed hard evidence, or at least more information. “I don’t know. But I do know you’re a wild card standing next to a crater where my home used to be.”

Lark’s head jerked up. She looked genuinely shocked as she rose to her feet. “I didn’t have any hand in that.” She gestured toward the scene of devastation below. “I swear.”

Jack holstered the gun, if not his suspicions. “The fey lie as easily as they breathe.”

The spark died from her eyes, replaced by anger. Without a word, she took three steps to close the distance between them, her long coat swinging with her strides.

“Don’t,” he warned.

But she kept coming. One moment she was out of reach, and the next her coat was brushing his knees—and he’d let her get so dangerously close because some mad part of him wanted her there.

Her fingers curled into fists and she raised them, poised to strike. He knew from experience she was a more than capable fighter. Quick as lightning, Jack grabbed her wrists. He felt her tense, her fierce fey strength straining against his.

“Don’t what?” she growled, her voice husky with anger.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t do that to me again. Not now.” For an instant, her very nearness put him off guard. Yearning froze him where he stood and softened the iron strength of his grip.

“I didn’t do this!” She gulped a shattered sob, her anger sliding suddenly back to grief. “You have to trust me that much!”

“No, I don’t. I have no reason to.” Nevertheless, relenting, he released her wrists.

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes tightly closed. Tears stained her cheeks again. “You know me better than that.”

“No, I—”

“Remember this.” Lark slid one warm hand on either side of his face, pulling him down so that her mouth was on his. Jack took a breath to protest, but then she was stealing the air from his lungs and filling him with a painful longing that burned down to his core.

In that scene of death, she tasted like something hot and sweet and golden, and his emotions rocked with the contrast. Desire clawed through him, merciless as a tiger. It had been like this whenever they touched, as if madness could be transmitted by skin-to-skin contact. He jerked her close so roughly her feet left the ground. There was no need to hold back—the fey were almost as indestructible as the undead.

But the undead could be destroyed. They were standing next to their cold ashes. Reason slammed down like a sheet of ice, forcing Jack back to his senses. He released her almost as quickly as they had joined. His sudden move made her skitter back, panting from their kiss.

She opened her eyes, her dark gaze searching his face. Her expression was full of guilt, but there was anger sparking through her sadness, too. “What’s the matter, Jack? Didn’t you like that? You were the one pushing me against a wall just hours ago.”

Heat rose to his face, proving that once in a while vampires could blush. Of course he wanted her. The truth ached in his groin, but that wasn’t his smartest asset. “Don’t ask me to remember what we had. The ending’s not to your advantage.”

Her mouth flattened into a line.

He pushed on. “Now explain what you’re doing in Marcari. Did the Light Court send you? Why did you talk to me tonight of all nights?”

“I wanted to.” She smoothed the front of her coat, her look resentful. He saw the slight guilty tell—a downward shift of the eyes.

“I don’t have time for your games,” he snarled. “Not after that.” He jerked his head toward the ruins.

Slowly, Lark nodded. “Whoever did that needs to be caught. No question.”

“Who did it?”

She gave a slight shrug. Her lip was trembling, as if holding back another bout of tears. He prayed she didn’t start to cry, because as the first shock faded, howling grief was setting up shop in his gut and planning to stay for a good long while.

“It changes everything,” she said. “A move like this has got to be a part of something larger.”

She was right, but it wasn’t enough of an answer to satisfy Jack. Gruffly, he grabbed her by the elbow and began marching her toward the Escalade.

She tried to jerk her arm free without success. “Where are you taking me?”

“Away from this grave. It’s not safe to linger.”

“I can help you.”

“Do you really think so?” He quickened his pace, his long legs making her run. “No, sweetheart, helpful people don’t spy on me. They don’t lie and they don’t stab and they don’t disappear without a trace. How deeply are you involved in all this? Did you help burn down Headquarters, or are you one of the ones out to destroy the bride and groom?”

Lark made a furious hissing noise, much like a scalded cat. It was a fey warning that raised the hair along Jack’s neck.

“Don’t be a fool!” she spat. “Whatever else you may think, you know we have the same enemies. They did their best to kill us both, and now they’re here, killing our friends.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just forced her along the road.

Finally, she dug her heels in, forcing him to stop. “The wedding is almost here. Wake up, Jack. We have to work together.”

Work together. The notion held promise—of time in her company, of an excuse to bury their differences for days on end, of accidental intimacy. He’d been down that treacherous path before, and he’d lived the wreckage. Worst of all, he’d fallen in love with her.

But he knew better now. The past was over and done. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Lark opened her mouth, but didn’t utter a word. He could see the memory of his demon written all over her finely boned face. Terror just made her more lovely—and the fact that he noticed it sickened him. She was right. He was slipping.

Impatient, he shoved her forward. He was almost back to the car. He could see a sports coupe parked farther down the road—no doubt the vehicle she’d followed him in, complete with spells to hide the tail. More fey deceptions.

“Jack, I...”

“Save it.” There were few things that could burn a vampire, but Jessica Lark was as deadly and beautiful as the sun.

He pushed her against the Escalade, spreading her feet apart as if she were any suspect. She suddenly seemed to lose heart, and stood quietly as he frisked her for weapons, taking the Smith & Wesson under her coat and the smaller backup in her thigh holster. His mood had gone icy, and it was possibly the first time he’d touched her without pleasure foremost in his mind. Then he grabbed her wrists, hooking them together with handcuffs that seemed huge around her slender bones.

It was the click of steel that finally got a reaction from her. She struggled free of his grip and wheeled around, her eyes wide with panic. In a painful throb, he realized that despite an instinctive fear of his demon side, she hadn’t predicted that he’d take her prisoner. She’d trusted him more than he’d trusted her.

“Jack, you have to listen to me!” she cried.

There were a lot of things he could have said, but it was better not to give the fey words they could turn against you.

So he kept it to one. “No.”

Chapter 5

Jack got Lark into the car and got the car back on the road. He was not going to let the woman he’d loved and lost in a thousand different ways make him crazy.

No, no, hell no. Denial ran like a chant inside his head as he drove the Escalade back toward the capital city, bumping over back roads to stay out of sight. But try as he might, Lark was irrefutably there, growing increasingly angry with every passing minute. He could tell by the set of her lips.

Jack mentally drew the blinds. He watched for headlights instead, but they were alone on the path that snaked down from the forested hills toward the resorts and beaches at the edge of town. Above the esplanade, he could see the gleaming domes and spires of the palace. His goal was to get to a safe distance from the blast just in case the attackers were picking off survivors, but there was an almost preternatural quiet.

“Jack,” Lark began for the third time, venturing into the chill silence that was all but frosting up the windshield.

“Don’t speak.” He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

But of course she didn’t listen. That wasn’t Lark’s way. “I know what the Company means to you. It’s more your home than any of those fancy houses you own.”

“Stop there.” He put steel into the words. “Don’t talk about my feelings. I’m not even human.”

“Jack.” His name was barely a whisper. “That doesn’t matter.”

Her words slid under his guard, wrenching raw places he hadn’t even acknowledged yet. He’d just lost friends whom he’d known for centuries, and after so many years it got harder and harder to share any part of one’s soul. True friends became rare and precious things.

“Jack?”

He didn’t answer. His brain was roiling, too much crashing through it. Destruction. Demons. Loss. But Lark’s presence cut through it all like a bolt of sorrow.

I loved you.

It had been the first green, fresh thing he’d felt for so long. Before she’d come along, he was sure he’d turned to stone—but Lark had taught him how his heart could still rejoice. And bleed.

“What do you want, Jack?” She sounded impatient now.

Jack gripped the steering wheel, glaring at the narrow strip of road. “I want revenge. I want whoever destroyed my...home.”

Lark turned away, speaking to the window of the Escalade. When her voice reached his ears, it was strained. “Then, you should listen to what I have to say. I can help. Whatever else you think, you know I’m as good an agent as any member of your team.”

He almost laughed. “There’s a lot I could say to that. You still count yourself a member of the Company? Then, how about this—good agents don’t go AWOL.”

“I was caught in the fire when my atelier burned down,” she said. “It was bad. Fey heal well, but it takes time. We’re not like vampires or shifters.”

“You could have sent word to the Company that you were still alive.”

He finally looked at her, and she narrowed her eyes. For all its focus, the look was almost sleepy, reminding him of too many bedroom scenes for comfort. Especially with the handcuffs. “I had my reasons. You can believe that or not.”

“Duty doesn’t care about excuses.”

“You’re a fortunate man if you can believe in absolutes.”

He couldn’t read her tone well enough to guess if it was sincere or mocking. He decided to play it straight. “I would have liked to know you were alive.”

“So you could silence me?” She was looking out the window, avoiding his gaze. “Besides, I thought you were dead, remember?”

He pulled the Escalade off the road and killed the engine, but it was a long moment before he could force himself to look at her. They were a few miles from the palace gates, still in the country, and it was dark. For a long moment Lark remained still, the lush fall of her hair a wave of shadow in the surrounding darkness. She looked as she always had in his mind’s eye: lovely and serene. He wanted to stay like that, with only the wind rustling outside the car. But then she turned, moving slowly as if facing him was painful. Moonlight traced the edge of her cheek, turning that thin strip of blood-warmed skin to silver.

“The hospital called my family to come get me from New York,” she said. “I thought you were dead and I didn’t know who’d compromised my cover. The attack was real, Jack, and it was brutal. I just wanted to go home and heal.”

He said nothing, hating the thought of her hurt and alone. And then hating the fact it bothered him so much.

“I missed you, Jack. That was the worst, but there were other things. I missed our friends. The life we had. It was hard, you know, losing the fashion-design business,” she said, her voice oddly brittle. “It was supposed to be just a cover but I liked it. I had a knack.”

Jack sat back, his leather jacket rustling in the silence. “People pay fortunes for a Jessica Lark original, especially now that you’re dead.”

She gave a stifled, bitter laugh. Her features remained in darkness, as if he was gazing at the ghost of his memories. Lark in her jeans and bare feet, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her studio; Lark walking into a room and turning every male head; Lark lying in his arms. In every image, she was bursting with life. He was—not. He was the hollow grave. A vampire, and worse. He swallowed hard, suddenly ravenous.

She saw the look. He caught the surge of adrenaline wafting from her skin. Jack jerked his head away, reining himself in.

“Listen. Very few things can destroy a site that quickly. With any normal blast, there would still be fire and smoke for hours. That’s not what we’ve got here. By all indications, a spell blew up HQ, and it left a stink,” Lark said suddenly, pulling them back to safer ground.

The abrupt change of subject caught him off guard. “A stink?”

“On the magical plane. Whoever wove that spell was Dark Fey.”

Dead leaves swirled across the road. The tick-tick of the cooling motor sounded like an old-fashioned time bomb. “Explain.”

Her voice was brisk, every inch the agent now. “An explosion that big would have rocked the city, and it would’ve been loud and bright. It wasn’t, so it was magic.”

“And the magical, uh, smell?”

“Fresh. Barely hours old.”

“That fits,” Jack agreed. “It’s been long enough for the attackers to get away, but not so long that the shutdown has been detected. Otherwise someone would have noticed HQ was offline. That still doesn’t explain why you think it’s a Dark Fey spell. They’re not the only magic users around.”

She angled her chin away, her expression stubborn. “I know the reek of the Dark.”

“How? The gates to their kingdom have been locked for nine hundred years,” Jack said, his voice gruff with dread she was right. “I was there when the gates were closed, but you weren’t even born.”

“Believe what you like, Jack.” Her voice grew sharp. “The Light Court elders kept artifacts of the Dark spells. An entire library. They made us learn the signs of their magic, and one of those signs is stink. And this is worse than anything I’ve ever encountered.”

With that, she got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. For an astonished second, Jack watched her stalk away. She was rubbing one wrist while the other was still circled by the dangling bracelets. Of course, any agent worth their salt knew how to get out of cuffs. Whatever else had happened to her, Lark hadn’t lost her touch with a well-concealed lock pick.

“By the devil.” Jack scrambled out of the car. He caught up to her in three strides, catching her arm. “What else do you know?”

The force of his grip made her slender body collide with his. She shot him a look, temper mixed with wariness. “I thought you didn’t believe me.”

Jack hesitated, measuring out how much he should say. “Dark Fey operatives made an attempt to open the gates less than a month ago, so I buy that they’re active. We barely stopped the ritual, and only because they couldn’t get all the ingredients to the spell.”

Lark’s mouth turned down. “I know. Word has it you dropped off the grid a year ago to find out who is working on behalf of the Dark Queen.”

“How do you know that?”

“The Light Court has its sources. They sent me to find you because they want to know what you’ve found out. Who is helping her?”

Jack was barely listening. Their argument had stirred his hunger—but then Lark aroused him like no one else he’d ever met in his long existence. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her flesh seeping through her coat. Saliva filled his mouth, reminding him it had been a long time since he’d fed. Vampires his age didn’t need a constant flow of blood, but the desire to drink never entirely faded—and fey were a particularly delicious vintage.

This wasn’t good—especially when the disaster he’d just seen had stirred his most primitive survival instincts. Summoning the last dregs of his will, he forced his fingers to uncurl from her arm.

“The Light have stood on the sidelines until now. Why get involved?” His voice had gone rough with more than one kind of hunger.

Lark studied his face, no doubt seeing the flare of appetite in his eyes. She backed out of his reach. “We’re on the same side. The Dark Queen has always been our enemy. You’ll need us now that the Company is...is in trouble.”

“The Company is not defeated. Not as long as I’m still standing.” Jack looked down the sloping road toward the city. The palace stood on the hill at the center of town, the huge gates outlined in shimmering lights. It was a vision from a child’s picture book, made of fireflies and dreams, and it was the Company’s mission to keep it safe.

And that mission came first. Not every agent could have been in the building, and those who were left had work to do. Jack would find those survivors—his friends—but as much as he wanted to start making calls, there was a protocol to follow. The first order of business was to maintain silence until he reported what had happened to the king of Marcari, the ultimate ruler of the Company and all its agents. King Renault had to be the first to know what had happened here.

“You’re coming with me to speak to the king,” he said evenly.

“Am I?” Lark asked with a hint of defiance. “Thank you for informing me.”

Without even looking her way, Jack gripped her arm again. There was no way he was letting her out of his sight. “We need to warn him. You need to explain why you’re in town.”

Lark squirmed in his grasp. “Aren’t you undercover? If there are spies in the palace, there’s no point in letting the enemy know you’re around.”

“King Renault knows I’m here. I get around without anyone else seeing my face.”

And there was his next problem. He knew plenty of secret passages in and around the palace, but he didn’t want to reveal them to Lark. If she was going with him, he needed another way in.

Jack licked dry lips, hating his next words. “If we leave the car here, we can walk in under a cloak of invisibility.”

A beat of silence followed. Then she gave a short, sharp laugh. “You, inveterate hater of fey magic, need me to cast a glamour for you?”

He clenched his teeth. “I’ll like your magic better if it’s working for my side.”

* * *

Lark dropped her chin to her chest, feeling the sting of his words. “I’m on your side.”

“I doubt that,” Jack said, pain and anger radiating from him like heat.

Lark tried to ignore the jab, but her vision blurred with tears. She was devoted to her people, but she’d also worked with the Company. The agents were her friends, and someone had struck deep at their heart. The image of the blast site burned like a coal of fury in her chest, fueling the hot prickling behind her eyes. If she wavered for one instant, let that grief inside her unfold, she would start howling like a banshee.

“I want revenge as much as you do,” she said. “If getting into the palace will help you, I’ll do it. But first, I need something from you.”

His mouth twitched with some unspoken protest, but his voice was even. “What?”

Lark sighed, regretting her words before she spoke them. “Kiss me.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t we done that already?”

“I know it’s not the time... It’s all wrong, but if I’m going to share magic...” She trailed off awkwardly, then cleared her throat.

She realized she was looking at Jack’s feet like some awkward teenager, and slowly dragged her gaze upward to look at him squarely. It was a fascinating visual journey. He stood tall and hard with muscle, forged at a time when men fought with broadsword and ax. Once she’d claimed every inch of that flesh. She knew for a fact that his skin was only slightly cool to the touch, and it would warm with encouragement. The truth was, Jack had conquered her the night they’d met. She hadn’t stood a chance. Talk about going for the bad boys.

Except now his pale blue eyes, haunted and a little terrifying, froze her where she stood. She tried an apologetic smile. “I need to feel your energy. This is the fastest way.”

She could see him resisting the idea, but there was nothing else she could do. They had kissed earlier, but that had been more a battle than a sharing. For the glamour to work, she had to merge their energies, and it had been too long since she’d let herself sink into the essence of him. That lapse could cost them, for even the subtlest error could cause the glamour to fail. “I know you’re angry with me, but I have to kiss you for your own good.”

A corner of his mouth twitched—a hint of humor. “Men have wept for less.”

Lark drew closer, resting her fingertips on his chest. Despite the low light, she could see the lines of tension in his face—no surprise given the devastation they’d just seen. Like so many of the warriors she knew, he let such things in a bit at a time, measuring it out so that he could keep on fighting. Such self-control demanded a price. She knew that Jack had nightmares—and a vampire’s night terrors must be terrors indeed.

She ran her hand up the swell of his chest, her thumb brushing the collar of his jacket. He swayed slightly under her touch, but it was she who stretched up to take his mouth. His mouth was hard on hers—stiff for a moment but then greedy with a hunger that made her reel. Lark gasped, her senses overwhelmed as Jack’s strong arms pulled her close once more, her feet barely skimming the ground.

It would have been so good to bury her face in his shoulder and weep for everything—for them, for the Company, for all the friends she’d lost and the secrets she kept. But he wasn’t there to give her comfort, even though his mouth was on hers again, brushing over her eyes, her brow, her lips and throat as his hands studied her form as carefully as if he meant to sculpt it. Desire rushed through her, and with it vivid remembrance of the times they’d shared. He was angry and despised her and was—let’s face it—at least partially a demon, but she also knew the beauty of his heart.

Ironically, he had been the one who made her believe in her work as an agent. He was the one who had argued that a fey could be trusted in the field. That was the Jack she would always believe in. Tears leaked beneath her lids. There was so much regret between them.

She reached out with her sixth sense, searching for the pattern of Jack’s essence. It wasn’t easy to find, muddled with her own yearning and the raging hunger of the vampire. But he was there, that unique core of power that each being possessed.

Blood pounded in Lark’s ears. After so long apart they were close, too close. She could feel the brush of his extended fangs against her skin, tantalizing with the promise of erotic pain. A shudder took Lark, her skin suddenly too sensitive as Jack’s lips trailed beneath the arch of her jaw.

And as part of her surrendered to him, he yielded up the pattern of his essence to her. Gently, so gently, Lark pulled away, wishing they were lovers again. But that wasn’t the bargain they’d made.

Lark would help Jack find the vile creatures who had attacked the Company because that was the right thing to do. But explanations were another matter. Secrets were how the fey did business, and Lark’s business was her own.

She kissed him again, just because she could, and just because she might never get the chance again. A heady rush made her head swim as her spell took them both. In a blink, they disappeared from sight.

Chapter 6

“Don’t let go,” Lark whispered in Jack’s ear, although there was no one there to see them. Their kiss had left her in an intimate mood she couldn’t bear to break.

“Why not?” Jack’s fingers traveled lightly down her arms, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

It was oddly erotic, to be touched by invisible hands, to experience a man only by his voice and the heat of his flesh. Lark leaned into him, spinning out the moment a little longer. “The glamour will break if we are not skin to skin. It does not need to be much. Holding hands will do.”

By way of reply, Jack gripped the handcuff that still dangled from her wrist. She heard a metallic snick. He’d chained his wrist to hers.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded, tugging on the cuff because the primal part of her demanded she struggle.

“Now we’re bound together,” he said with more than a tinge of sarcasm. “Just so we don’t lose one another.”

Invisible or not, she had a good enough sense of where he was to deliver a sharp kick to his shin. He grunted, but it didn’t satisfy her as much as it should have.

“If you trust me so little, why am I helping you?” she said in a low, angry voice.

“I wish I knew.” His fingers laced firmly through hers. “But given our history, I don’t know what’s real between us and what’s just business.”

There was nothing Lark could say to that. She wished it wasn’t true.

Cursing silently, she followed him toward the distant palace. Visiting the king hadn’t been in her plans, although they were heading in the right general direction for her next appointment. She would slip Jack’s leash when the time came to finish tonight’s mission. After all, she’d already proved she could get out of the cuffs.

The walk to the gates was a good half hour. It had been years since Lark had held a glamour on more than just herself for that long. By the time they approached the palace, she was starting to get a headache.

A silver limousine pulled up the moment before they arrived, and when the huge, wrought iron gates swung open, Lark and Jack followed the vehicle through. There were no wards in place against the supernatural, so Lark’s magic tripped no alarms. That might have seemed a ridiculous gap in security, but the Night World was a secret known only to the royals and their trusted circle. Most humans had no idea magic was real, and the vampires and werewolves who guarded the king weren’t about to install a security system against themselves.

Of course, getting past the gate was only the beginning. They had to make it across the grounds, where the overflow of wedding guests wandered the flower gardens and fountain plazas in search of a little fresh air. Dodging people who couldn’t see her wasn’t as simple as it sounded—not when she had to be utterly silent. Not with Jack’s fingers wrapped around hers as if he’d never let her go.

As good at sneaking around as he was, Jack wasn’t used to being invisible. He had an alpha male’s way of owning the sidewalk, and she was forced to hip-check him off the path just as an elegantly dressed couple appeared from behind a hedge.

“Sorry,” Jack whispered in her ear, sounding more annoyed than thankful.

“Pay attention,” she muttered and then froze as one of the passersby turned around, looking curiously in their direction. Lark’s heart beat double time—she recognized him as the son of the Italian ambassador. He was a bright young man, and the type to be suspicious. The moment passed, and the man turned around and walked away, his pretty companion leaning on his arm in a way that said their night was far from over.

They made it inside the palace doors without more trouble. “The king’s suite is to the left,” Jack said in a low voice, his lips close enough to tickle her ear.

“All right,” she whispered back.

Anyone else’s footsteps would have rung out loudly beneath the high, gilt ceilings and vast sweeping staircases, but they trod quietly as shadows, Jack’s cool hand still enfolding hers. Lark’s mouth ran dry, her blood tingling with memories of what those fingers could do against naked skin. The image of Jack, rumpled and naked, slid through her mind with the warm sweetness of melting syrup. Heat settled low in her core.

She almost groaned with relief when she saw the double doors to His Majesty’s rooms. Soon she could put an end to this torturous closeness and attend to her mission.

As if reading her thoughts, Jack stopped, pulling her against the wall. Lark shivered, feeling the hard curves of his muscles against her side. His hand was still laced through hers in an unyielding grip.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said.

She heard a scrape of metal and, in seconds, he had removed the invisible cuffs without breaking the glamour. “Impressive dexterity,” she murmured, “but next time use the furry ones. Those chafe.”

She heard the clink of metal as he put the cuffs away. His answer came soft and low. “If memory serves, you like a bit of chafing.”

That sounded like the old Jack, her Jack. A bittersweet pang ached in her throat. “Only for a good cause.”

The leather of his jacket rustled and his grip tightened. “Let’s get going.”

There were royal guardsmen outside the king’s chambers, but Jack simply barged past, Lark in tow. By the time the sentries reacted to the doors opening by themselves, she and Jack were in the room. The large, high-ceilinged space was done in greens and yellows, gold leaf decorating every other surface. King Renault of Marcari was alone. He stood at the window, framed by a vista of city lights and the distant harbor. At the guards’ cries, he turned with alarm flashing in his dark eyes.

Jack let go of Lark’s hand, and the glamour vanished.

At the sight of them, the king gave a shout of astonishment. The air filled with the thunder of the guards’ feet. Lark’s hand twitched toward her Smith & Wesson before she remembered Jack had taken it.

But the twitch was enough to alarm the help. Hands grabbed her, forcing her to her knees. She went down hard, the carpet barely cushioning the impact. The guard wrenched her arm behind her. Lark gave an involuntary yelp as pain shot up her shoulder.

“Don’t touch her!” Jack commanded.

Just as quickly, she was free again. Through the curtain of her hair, Lark saw Jack lifting her attacker—one hand hauling him into the air by the front of his jacket, the other wrapped around the man’s throat. Lark gasped, relieved and afraid at once. The look in Jack’s eyes was feral, the pale blue of the iris disappearing as his pupils enlarged. He snarled, lips drawing back. Predator eyes and predator fangs. Not quite the demon she’d seen that night she’d betrayed him, but close enough. Fear froze her lungs.

There was the unmistakable clatter of weapons getting ready to fire, but the king held up a hand. “Wait.”

Time stopped, filled only with the rasping breath of the guards. Lark remained perfectly still, knowing better than to come between a beast and its prey. “Jack,” she said softly. “Put down the human. He’s only doing his job.”

Jack let the guard go without ceremony. The man stumbled awkwardly, giving the vampire a filthy look. Jack turned his back, dismissing him, and immediately bent down to help Lark back to her feet. His eyes resumed their normal arctic shade.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. For a moment, concern softened his expression—and then it was gone, vanished like a trick of the light.

Her stomach twisted, wanting that softness for a moment more. “I’m fine.”

He gave a slow blink and bent until his lips nearly brushed her cheek. “No one else handles you.”

His words, the brush of his breath, raised the fine hairs along her neck. She wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a promise. “How flattering.”

Jack made a noise that might have been a laugh, and dropped her hand. Then he turned and bowed to the king, his manner instantly somber and respectful. “Your Majesty, I have dire news to report.”

Catching his mood, the king’s face darkened. He waved to his guards. “Leave us and say nothing of our visitors.”

Obediently, the royal guardsmen bowed and withdrew without a word. As soon as the door was shut, King Renault folded his arms. “What is this, Jack? And who is your companion?”

Jack spread a hand toward Lark. “Your Majesty, this is Jessica Lark, an agent of the Company. She also designed Princess Amelie’s wedding gown.”

As introductions went, it could have been much more damning. Perhaps the double-agent part would come later. Counting her blessings, Lark sank into a deep curtsy.

“Ah, I thought you had perished in a fire, madam,” the king said drily. “The agents of the Company seem to have a phoenix-like talent for resurrection.”

Lark rose from her curtsy, reading curiosity in King Renault’s expression. Though in his middle years, he was extremely handsome with his neatly trimmed beard streaked with gray.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “Forgive the intrusion, but as Jack says, we have dire news.”

“Then, speak,” the king said. “Whatever worries both a fey and a vampire has my full attention.” He gestured to a cluster of armchairs, inviting them to sit. It was a gesture of royal favor, and there was little they could do but obey.

Once settled, Jack related what they had seen in the woods. As he spoke, Lark felt her pulse begin to quicken, her body reliving the horror through Jack’s words. She wasn’t the only one affected. The color drained from Renault’s face until he was ashen.

The king immediately rose and picked up the phone sitting on the desk in the corner. Although Lark only heard his side of the call, he was checking the duty roster. All of the Company guards who were scheduled to work at the palace had booked off that night to attend a meeting, leaving the human guardsmen in charge. That fit with the email Jack had found. The king set down the phone, even paler than before.

“We shall find the authors of this outrage,” Renault said as he returned to his seat, rage snapping in his dark eyes. “I will inform the other Company leaders as soon as we are done here. Los Angeles, Paris, Bombay—they should be able to send reinforcements. My loyal agents will not go unavenged. But fine words are nothing without action, and action is useless without intelligence behind it. I have heard your account, Jack. What do you have to add, Ms. Lark?”

Lark’s throat had clogged with aching grief, and she cleared it. “I saw what Jack saw, Your Majesty. There was nothing left of the compound.”

The muscles of Jack’s jaw twitched as he turned to her. “But there are things left to tell us, aren’t there?”

“Such as?”

Lark braced herself, her stomach sinking. His mood had darkened as he’d told his tale, and whatever softness she’d seen in him minutes before was gone. All that remained was the Company agent who’d seen the grave of his friends. “What exactly brought you to Marcari?” he asked.

“I’m here on behalf of the Light Court. The Light is well aware of the attempt to steal Princess Amelie’s ring and open the gates to the Dark Queen’s prison. We also know that they are likely to try again. As I told you before, Jack, our aim is to keep the gates to the Dark Queen’s prison firmly closed.”

“Is that all?” Jack asked.

“We’re also tracing one of our own.” That much was true. Of course, there was more she hadn’t said.

“Who are you seeking?” asked King Renault. “Is there some official assistance Marcari could offer?”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” Lark replied.

The king gave a nod, his expression carefully neutral. “Go on.”

“The spell that would release the Dark Queen requires very specific ingredients, including blood from the Haven clan of the Light Fey. My mission is to locate the two remaining members of that family and ensure their protection. After years of living under a false name, the last full-blooded member is on the move.”

“Therrien Haven?” Jack asked, sitting back in his chair.

“Yes. A week ago he paid cash for a plane ticket from Prague to Marcari under a false name. It seems he has a half-human daughter living here whom he hasn’t seen since she was a girl.”

“Her name is Lexie.” Jack frowned. “I had no idea Therrien was aware of Lexie’s whereabouts.”

“The photographer who is to shoot my daughter’s wedding?” King Renault asked.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Haven has followed his daughter’s photography career,” said Lark. “His apartment in Prague was filled with clippings from magazines that featured her work. He must know she will be at the wedding. He might have come hoping for a reunion with his daughter.”

“Or to protect her,” said Jack. “She’s a potential target of the Dark Fey, too.”

“A father would be likely to do either,” Renault murmured, no doubt thinking of the princess.

“Haven booked a room but never checked in,” said Lark. “As far as I can tell, he’s vanished. My next step is to question his daughter.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “I can tell you right now, she doesn’t know a thing.”

Lark bridled at his tone. “That’s something I’d like to figure out for myself. I’ll tread softly.”

Jack held her in his ice-blue gaze, his expression stubborn. It was clear he was protective of this woman, Lexie. Then his manner shifted as if he was mentally turning a page. “Are there other reasons that you’re in Marcari?”

The angry suspicion in his tone made her pulse jump, but the king spoke before she could reply. “Why do you ask that, Jack?” He didn’t sound pleased.

Jack leaned forward. “Ms. Lark suffers from complicated loyalties, sire, since she’s both an agent of the Light Fey Council and the Company. Given what has just happened in the woods, I’m certain there is more that she’s not telling us. I don’t believe in coincidences. There is a connection between the attack and her arrival in Marcari, even if it is an innocent one—and I’m not easily convinced of innocence among the fey.”

“Jack!” Lark protested, her already pounding heart now speeding with apprehension.

King Renault had clearly heard enough. “Unfounded suspicions are beneath us, but neither can we afford to be careless. Perhaps Ms. Lark should relax in a private room while you and I discuss what has become of the Company compound. Then I’m sure we’ll have questions for her to answer, and she shall answer them.”

Lark sprang to her feet, instinct screaming at her to flee from the king’s stern presence—but it was Jack’s eyes she sought. “No, you have this all wrong.”

But his expression told her she’d run out of free passes. For an instant her old guilt robbed her of the will to fight, sapping her strength like a deadly fever. It was only for a heartbeat, but it was enough time for Jack’s hand to close around her arm.

“That’s an excellent idea, sire. I’ll make sure Lark is comfortable.”

His frown said she’d be anything but.

Chapter 7

The tiny room where Jack left Lark was mostly empty, with a chair and side table and not much else. Lark swore under her breath. The lock was electronic, operated by a keypad. In other words, she’d need more than a knack with handcuffs to get out of this mess. Lark prowled the few feet of floor, frustrated and longing for her guns. Blasting the guts out of the lock would have suited her frame of mind.

Finally, she slumped in the chair and buried her face in her hands. All at once the sheer awfulness of the past hours slammed into her like an avalanche. She leaned forward, folding her arms on her knees.

Disaster had struck. Even if, by some miracle, some of the local agents had survived the blast at the Company’s headquarters, every sense she possessed told her the casualties had been high. No doubt Jack and the king were putting wheels in motion—securing the site, calling the other Company offices, preparing a cover story the human newshounds would believe. Then would come even more activity—forensics, notifications, burial arrangements. The Company had a protocol for every contingency, even one as dire as this.

But their orders only covered action, not emotion. Fine souls had been lost this night—good friends and brave hearts. The world was a poorer place now.

Face after face flashed through her mind, each one tearing away a piece of her. Tears slipped down her cheeks, the first signs of a coming flood. Alone and with nothing to distract her, Lark soon gave in to a storm of sobbing. And Jack thought I played a role in that terrible destruction!

She should have known her reunion with Jack would not go well. I could have stayed in the shadows, but I approached you because you’re slipping, Jack, and I’m the only one who knows why. You need someone who understands. Helping him was the only way to make up for stealing his secret in the first place.

To make matters worse, what good had her betrayal of Jack done? He hadn’t possessed the spell or formula or supernatural stardust that would restore the Light Fey to their former strength. His extraordinary power was a curse—not at all something they could or would want to duplicate for themselves. And now, with the Company in ruins and the Dark Queen on the brink of freedom, the stakes were getting steadily higher.

Lark rose and crossed to the window, fishing in her pocket for a tissue. She mopped her nose, her eyes feeling scratchy and raw. It was dark out, but there were lights enough to see the palace gardens below. They were clearly trimmed and manicured to human tastes—nothing like the half-wild gardens the Light Fey preferred.

She wondered how long those gardens—or the Light Fey—would last. What chance did her people have against the coming of the Dark Queen?

There was one last gamble, and that was why Lark was in Marcari—and why she had to get out from under lock and key.

Lark examined the windows. They were casements, opening out over a sheer drop to the rocky garden path below. Not her first choice of exit. She leaned her forehead against the glass. She was exhausted, and there was so much she had yet to do before the night was out.

She returned to the door with its keypad. Oddly, crying her heart out had seemed to clear her head, because inspiration struck. She placed her hand over the glowing panel, sensing the flow of energy from contact to wire to a central computer somewhere in a basement office. As her mind drifted along that energetic frequency, she detected magical residue thick in the air—probably fallout from the blast that had destroyed the Company’s compound. It was causing static throughout the electrical grid, and anything wireless would be down. If there was one thing magic was good at, it was screwing up tech.

Sorry, Jack, but I can’t afford to sit quietly like a good girl. Lark risked sending a pulse of power into the keypad. The buttons flashed spasmodically, and she heard the click of disconnection. She whisked through the door, pulling it shut before the system registered more than a negligible flicker of disruption like all the others. At the same time, she summoned her glamour, turning invisible in the space of a blink. She was free.

About time, too. She had to see a princess about a wedding. Lark walked swiftly and silently through the marble halls, feeling her spirits lift for the first time that night.

Once out of sight of King Renault’s rooms, Lark pulled on a new glamour that made her visible but altered her appearance to a friendly but forgettable face. She glanced over her shoulder, catching a woman looking her way. For a moment Lark froze, but the woman’s gaze skated past her. Lark frowned. Wasn’t that the same woman who’d been outside with the son of the Italian ambassador? She couldn’t be sure, but hurried on, mentally filing the incident.

Her path led past the apartment of Crown Prince Kyle, who was residing in Marcari these last few weeks before the wedding. Though the rest of his family had remained in Vidon, Kyle had chosen to be close to his bride. Beyond his apartment was a string of guest chambers and, finally, Amelie’s rooms.

With a casual flick of a spell, Lark slipped past the guards and stopped at the entrance to the princess’s sitting room.

Despite the best efforts of the staff, the princess’s chambers looked like a bridal explosion. A swathe of sparkly white tulle sat mounded on a chair, and wedding magazines were scattered across every flat surface. A pair of long white gloves looked as if they had been dragged to the floor and mauled by a dog. Several servants in black-and-white uniforms hovered at the edge of the storm, tidying up as best they could.

Lark edged past the chaos to find an army of shoes marching from the princess’s bedroom, as if Amelie had tried on every pair and abandoned them before she had made it all the way down the hall. Which, apparently, was exactly what had happened.

“They’re all uncomfortable!” Princess Amelie complained to her attendant, a harried-looking woman who clearly had no fashion sense of her own. “I will be standing for hours and hours—on international television! The world will be watching and texting as I marry the man I love. It’s all going to be hard enough without obsessing about the pain in my feet.”

Amelie’s attendant glanced around the drawing room, as if searching for answers among the litter of footwear. “Perhaps I can find something else for you to try, Your Highness.”

“I think perhaps you should aim for something under a five-inch heel, Your Highness,” Lark observed.

The attendant jumped and squeaked. “How did you get in here?”

“I’m sneaky.”

The attendant looked alarmed, but a flash of amusement crossed Amelie’s face. The princess knew Lark’s many disguises, and waved an impatient hand. “I need all five inches. Prince Kyle is tall. We look like a comedy act unless I wear the heels.”

She was right, so Lark changed the subject. “Please, may I have a word? There is something private that I must discuss.”

Amelie nodded, and the attendant left, taking the other servants with her. As soon as they were alone, the latest pair of killer shoes were abandoned on the rich burgundy carpet. Lark let her glamour dissolve, resuming her own appearance. Then Lark chanted another spell, stirring the energy in the room enough to bind a cage of static around any listening devices.

Watching with rapt curiosity, the princess waved Lark to a couch. “You are always cloaked in such secrecy and mystery! What can I do for you tonight?”

“We have a problem, Your Highness,” Lark said, feeling a wave of weariness as she sat.

“That is no way to begin a conversation.” Amelie frowned, running a hand through the thick, dark mass of her hair. She sank onto the couch beside her. “What has happened?”

“I found Jack Anderson.” The words opened the door to so much and so little. I found him and...he will never forgive me for what I did to him. “He’s with your father now.”

“Jack Anderson? The leader of the Four Horsemen?” Amelie sat back, her dark eyes wide. “But he was killed!”

“No more than I was. It seems he went undercover for a time.”

Amelie brightened. “That is wonderful news! But how is this a problem?” A puff of white fur appeared over the arm of the couch. “Ah, Lancelot, isn’t this good news?” Amelie picked up the little dog and cuddled it in her lap, stroking it as it wriggled happily.

Lark hesitated. She wanted to leave the princess as she was, not exactly an innocent, but at least less deeply involved in Marcari’s Night World politics. Unfortunately, Lark had no choice. “We came here from the Company headquarters. Your Highness, there’s nothing left of the place. The compound has been destroyed.”

Silvery tears slipped down Amelie’s cheeks. “Destroyed? My loyal vampires? What of the other Horsemen? Sam and Faran and Mark?”

“No doubt there are some who escaped,” Lark said hastily as she felt her own eyes sting again. By Puck’s wings, this is hard! Lark bit her lips to keep them from trembling.

“How did it happen?” the princess asked.

“Dark Fey magic.”

“Dark Fey?” Amelie gasped. The little dog began to whine, sensing her dismay. “They are imprisoned! We stopped the ritual that would have let them out.” Amelie grasped the ring that hung by a chain about her neck. The wedding ring bore the blood rubies of Vidon—a gift from her future husband, Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon, and key to the spell that could set the Dark Queen free.

Lark cleared her throat. “It seems someone’s ready to try again.”

“I thought we caught all the traitors. It seems we were fools.” The princess fell silent, burying her face in the dog’s fur. When Amelie finally spoke again, the words were muffled. “I thought the worst obstacle to marrying Kyle was the hostility between our countries, but now there is this threat.”

Lark’s heart went out to the young woman. “We will deal with the threat, my princess, and Kyle’s people will come to know and love you.”

“The Vidonese who know about the Night World have called Kyle a traitor for marrying me. They hate me just because Marcari welcomes the supernatural within its borders.”

Lark reached across, cupping Amelie’s face in her palm. “Kyle is true-hearted. He won’t pay that any heed.”

But Amelie gave voice to the thing Lark feared most. “What if they knew the truth about me? About the fact my mother was half fey?”

It was true. Amelie’s mother—who had died before becoming queen—had been the daughter of a Light Court noble. “That’s exactly why I’m here. Your mother hid her fey heritage well, but we must be extremely careful.”

Lark spoke softly. Despite her wards, she had to be sure that no one could overhear. There was much she couldn’t explain even to Amelie—not yet. She didn’t want to frighten the princess by telling her the fate of an entire race was in her hands.

The fey were beings made of magic as much as they were of flesh and blood. Very little bound them to a physical form in the earthly realm, especially after isolating themselves for centuries. Now they were dying before their time. Lark had held her own mother’s hand, dry and lifeless as old paper and twigs, as she’d dwindled to nothing. Her eyes had grown dull as the magic within them had dimmed and guttered like a spent candle. Those had been the worst days and nights of Lark’s life.

Only an anchor in the mortal realm would save the Light Fey from fading away, and that anchor would come through the power of royal blood. This was why the royal wedding and the coronation that followed mattered so very much.

The treaty surrounding Amelie’s marriage to Kyle stipulated that within a year of the royal wedding, the kings of Marcari and Vidon would step down. Then Kyle and Amelie would ascend the thrones, unite the kingdoms and rule together in an equal partnership. Amelie would be a queen in her own right.

Like many coronation rituals, the oath of the Marcari monarch would symbolically tie her to the land in a wedding every bit as binding as her marriage to Kyle. Such unions worked in very concrete ways with the fey. Even though the princess had only a little of their blood, it was enough that Amelie’s coronation would bind the Light Fey to the earthly realm and save them from extinction.

The fact that the prince and princess had a love match would make the magic that much stronger.

Amelie’s face was grave. “If I marry Kyle, any children of ours will carry Light Fey blood. There are those among the Vidonese who would think nothing of harming them because of it.”

“True, and that brings me to my business here tonight.”

Lark reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a bottle containing a few ounces of clear liquid. It was small enough that Jack had missed it when he’d frisked her. “It took some time for our spell experts to find the right ingredients—some are incredibly difficult to obtain—but this was what your mother used to keep both her and you safe when you were very young. If you drink this, it hides every trace of fey characteristics in the blood.”

Amelie took the bottle. “Why do I need this? I’m not having a blood test.”

“Perhaps you should. Or perhaps you should cut your finger somewhere public enough to leave traces of your blood behind. Any enemies who suspect your bloodline will test the evidence only to find out their suspicions were unfounded.”

“I would like to say that is an unnecessary precaution, but I know there are those who hate nonhumans enough to go to any lengths.”

“Using the potion is a small price to pay for peace of mind. There are no side effects.”

“Thank you,” said Amelie. “Thank you for teaching me what my poor mother could not.”

Lark felt a pang of sadness. The death of Amelie’s mother had left her half-fey daughter without magical protection. Discreetly, without even the Company’s knowledge, the Light Court had kept a watchful eye—which was why Lark had been given the task of visiting the princess as often as she could. During those secret visits, Lark had taught Amelie about her fey heritage. Bringing the rare potion was the final step, and now that her mission was accomplished, the Light Fey had only to keep the princess safe until the wedding and coronation were completed. That should have been easy, but Lark wasn’t taking anything for granted.

“I’ll look after you, Your Highness,” she said. “I promise on my life.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a shudder ran through the room, rattling the china and knickknacks. The abandoned shoes toppled off their high heels. A split second later, a roar pounded from outside, sending another convulsion through the palace. Startled, the little dog scrambled from Amelie’s lap and bolted for the bedroom.

“That didn’t sound like an earthquake,” said the princess, her voice small and tight.

“That was an explosion.” Lark jumped up, catching sight of the orange glow through the balcony doors. Instinct warred between terror and a reckless urge to rush to do battle. “There’s a fire.”

“What?” Instantly, Amelie was at her elbow. “Is anyone hurt? Can you tell?”

“Let me get a better look.” Lark motioned to the princess to stay where she was. Cautiously, she opened the balcony doors, all of her magical senses on high alert. The sea breeze was cool, but held none of its usual sweetness. Instead, it reeked with the thick smoke hanging in the air—and with the now-familiar stink of Dark Fey spells. She stepped outside, keeping low. There was no point in tempting snipers.

Amelie was far less cautious. In seconds, she was crouching to Lark’s left, craning her neck to see what was going on. Her stance was as urgent as a strung bow, every trace of the girlish bride abandoned like another pair of shoes.

“Your Highness, get back inside!” Lark exclaimed.

Amelie ignored her. “That’s the memorial arch that’s burning! How is that possible? It’s made of marble.”

Despite herself, Lark stared at the graceful monument that framed the entrance to the public garden. It was indeed on fire, eerie orange and blue flames streaming from its surface. The flagpoles beside it were burning, too, and the flags with the proud black hawk of Marcari were already all but consumed. “Marble doesn’t burn, princess, but magic does.”

Fear twined like an icy serpent up her back, and she barely gulped back the acid taste of panic. Whatever happened at the Company headquarters is happening here.

And after the fire that had burned her, flames were Lark’s nightmare. She’d spent months healing from her injuries. Now the urge to bolt was so strong it made her shudder, and she gripped the balcony rail to steady her knees.

But this was no time for fear. Lark summoned her best voice of command. “Your Highness, get back inside. Now.”

Amelie gave her an imperious look. She clearly didn’t like giving in, but was smart enough to retreat indoors. Lark followed, latching the doors and drawing the curtains. Her hands trembled a moment before she let the lace panels go, then she took a steadying breath. She’d promised to protect Amelie, and the daughters of the Light Court kept their word.

“I’ll be right back,” said Lark. “Someone needs a lesson in manners.”

Chapter 8

“I’m coming with you,” Amelie said at once. “And don’t tell me to stay here and twiddle my thumbs like a good little princess!”

Lark shot her a look. “I’m sorry, but that is precisely what I’m begging you to do.”

“Lark!”

She tried for humor, hoping to soften her words. “I’m prepared to conjure a troll to sit on you if you try to follow.”

Amelie’s eyes went wide with annoyance. “I don’t care if you’re an agent of the Light Court or the Company, you have no authority over me!”

Lark had reached the door, but now she spun and regarded the princess squarely. Amelie’s expression was a fierce blaze. Lark’s heart went out to the brave young woman, and she blinked to hide the tears that blurred her vision. “My job is to keep you alive, Your Highness. I take that seriously.”

With a sigh of frustration, Amelie subsided. Lark turned to go before the princess changed her mind.

As Lark opened the door, she saw palace security was reacting to the blast. Guards poured into the corridor to join the ones already on duty. Lark didn’t like leaving Amelie, but at least there was no chance the princess would be left alone.

“Look after her,” Lark said to the guard on duty, putting a tiny push of mental compulsion into the words, “and loan me your backup gun.”

Lark didn’t have a vampire’s talent for mind control, but she had enough. The guard handed his weapon over, and it turned out to be a Smith & Wesson much like the one Jack had taken from her. It was the first stroke of luck she’d had all night.

With that, Lark sprinted down the corridor, her feet silent on the patterned runner. She had to get a closer look at the burning arch. Fey weren’t exempt from the urge to view their handiwork, and there was every chance the culprit was lurking somewhere in the crowd and gearing up for his next move.

She dodged lightly around the guardsmen hurrying toward the stairs, but speed wasn’t possible once she got to the main passageway. People were dithering in the stairwell like a herd of nervous sheep. She settled for using her elbows to force her way through the crowd. Once she reached the entrance hall, she dashed out the doors and across the lawn. Police, firefighters and throngs of onlookers were already there.

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 leaped 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.

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