Possessed by the Fallen Page 2

  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.

  Chapter 2

  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 the remains and immediately went into witness protection. I owe him a big favor.”

  She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whispered curse. The scent of her fear found Jack, giving him a twinge of satisfaction. She’d seen his demon side, and she knew she’d crossed him. She had every reason to tremble.

  But vengeance wasn’t all he hungered for. What he felt was infinitely more complex, and simple revenge wasn’t going to satisfy him. He took two more steps, shock robbing his movements of grace.

  “Jack?” she said cautiously, pulling her trench coat closer.

  He raised his arms, his first instinct to touch her. She swayed forward, but the moment dissolved once her gaze flickered across his face. Whatever she saw there stopped her cold.

  Jack let his arms fall. “How do I know it’s really you?”

  Her full lips twitched. “Do you think I’m a warty goblin out to trick you into kissing me?”

  “Your design studio burned the night you stabbed me,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I thought you died.”

  She moved a step deeper into the shadows, keeping distance between them. “I almost did. It’s taken me until now to recover. Whoever tried to kill you got to me first. There was more than a simple robbery that night.” She lifted her chin as if daring him to doubt her. “Go ahead and say it. I should have let you stay.”

  “Instead of sticking a knife in me?” This time, he let his anger show. “Don’t bother asking forgiveness for that one.”

  Her head bowed, as graceful as a flower. “I won’t.”

  “Good. It’ll save us both time.”

  Silence fell. Jack could hear his own breathing, harsh with emotion, but Lark remained immobile as a mouse beneath a hawk’s shadow. After a long time, Jack found composure enough to go on. “But you survived.”

  “I like to defy expectations,” she said, lifting her gaze. Her eyes held a trace of rebellion. It was a look he knew too well.

  “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. O
ld 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.”