Possessed by the Fallen. Sharon Ashwood
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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.
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