Possessed by the Fallen. Sharon Ashwood
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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.
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