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.
