Possessed by the Fallen

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.

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