her appearance to a friendly but forgettable face. She glanced over her shoulder, catching a woman looking her way. For a moment Lark froze, but the woman’s gaze skated past her. Lark frowned. Wasn’t that the same woman who’d been outside with the son of the Italian ambassador? She couldn’t be sure, but hurried on, mentally filing the incident.
Her path led past the apartment of Crown Prince Kyle, who was residing in Marcari these last few weeks before the wedding. Though the rest of his family had remained in Vidon, Kyle had chosen to be close to his bride. Beyond his apartment was a string of guest chambers and, finally, Amelie’s rooms.
With a casual flick of a spell, Lark slipped past the guards and stopped at the entrance to the princess’s sitting room.
Despite the best efforts of the staff, the princess’s chambers looked like a bridal explosion. A swathe of sparkly white tulle sat mounded on a chair, and wedding magazines were scattered across every flat surface. A pair of long white gloves looked as if they had been dragged to the floor and mauled by a dog. Several servants in black-and-white uniforms hovered at the edge of the storm, tidying up as best they could.
Lark edged past the chaos to find an army of shoes marching from the princess’s bedroom, as if Amelie had tried on every pair and abandoned them before she had made it all the way down the hall. Which, apparently, was exactly what had happened.
“They’re all uncomfortable!” Princess Amelie complained to her attendant, a harried-looking woman who clearly had no fashion sense of her own. “I will be standing for hours and hours—on international television! The world will be watching and texting as I marry the man I love. It’s all going to be hard enough without obsessing about the pain in my feet.”
Amelie’s attendant glanced around the drawing room, as if searching for answers among the litter of footwear. “Perhaps I can find something else for you to try, Your Highness.”
“I think perhaps you should aim for something under a five-inch heel, Your Highness,” Lark observed.
The attendant jumped and squeaked. “How did you get in here?”
“I’m sneaky.”
The attendant looked alarmed, but a flash of amusement crossed Amelie’s face. The princess knew Lark’s many disguises, and waved an impatient hand. “I need all five inches. Prince Kyle is tall. We look like a comedy act unless I wear the heels.”
She was right, so Lark changed the subject. “Please, may I have a word? There is something private that I must discuss.”
Amelie nodded, and the attendant left, taking the other servants with her. As soon as they were alone, the latest pair of killer shoes were abandoned on the rich burgundy carpet. Lark let her glamour dissolve, resuming her own appearance. Then Lark chanted another spell, stirring the energy in the room enough to bind a cage of static around any listening devices.
Watching with rapt curiosity, the princess waved Lark to a couch. “You are always cloaked in such secrecy and mystery! What can I do for you tonight?”
“We have a problem, Your Highness,” Lark said, feeling a wave of weariness as she sat.
“That is no way to begin a conversation.” Amelie frowned, running a hand through the thick, dark mass of her hair. She sank onto the couch beside her. “What has happened?”
“I found Jack Anderson.” The words opened the door to so much and so little. I found him and...he will never forgive me for what I did to him. “He’s with your father now.”
“Jack Anderson? The leader of the Four Horsemen?” Amelie sat back, her dark eyes wide. “But he was killed!”
“No more than I was. It seems he went undercover for a time.”
Amelie brightened. “That is wonderful news! But how is this a problem?” A puff of white fur appeared over the arm of the couch. “Ah, Lancelot, isn’t this good news?” Amelie picked up the little dog and cuddled it in her lap, stroking it as it wriggled happily.
Lark hesitated. She wanted to leave the princess as she was, not exactly an innocent, but at least less deeply involved in Marcari’s Night World politics. Unfortunately, Lark had no choice. “We came here from the Company headquarters. Your Highness, there’s nothing left of the place. The compound has been destroyed.”
Silvery tears slipped down Amelie’s cheeks. “Destroyed? My loyal vampires? What of the other Horsemen? Sam and Faran and Mark?”
“No doubt there are some who escaped,” Lark said hastily as she felt her own eyes sting again. By Puck’s wings, this is hard! Lark bit her lips to keep them from trembling.
“How did it happen?” the princess asked.
“Dark Fey magic.”
“Dark Fey?” Amelie gasped. The little dog began to whine, sensing her dismay. “They are imprisoned! We stopped the ritual that would have let them out.” Amelie grasped the ring that hung by a chain about her neck. The wedding ring bore the blood rubies of Vidon—a gift from her future husband, Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon, and key to the spell that could set the Dark Queen free.
Lark cleared her throat. “It seems someone’s ready to try again.”
“I thought we caught all the traitors. It seems we were fools.” The princess fell silent, burying her face in the dog’s fur. When Amelie finally spoke again, the words were muffled. “I thought the worst obstacle to marrying Kyle was the hostility between our countries, but now there is this threat.”
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
