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.
“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