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.
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. Old 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.
