Possessed by the Fallen

“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.”