got that one covered. They’re nothing but a hole in the ground now.”
In the depths of her panicking mind, Lark murmured an invocation to the Light, and tried with all her will to squeeze the trigger.
Her finger wouldn’t move.
Drusella grinned.
Jack had barely finished his conversation with the king when the blast hit. One moment they were organizing the next steps to respond to the attack on the Company. The next, he saw Lark bolting across the lawn right toward the conflagration, long mahogany hair flying like a banner behind her. Fear struck him like an electric charge. She was either doing her best to prevent disaster, or she had created it. With Lark, you never knew.
He didn’t stop to ponder why she wasn’t still locked up. That would come later. Without another word of explanation to his monarch, Jack charged from the room.
He didn’t bother with the palace steps, but leaped from the porch to the ground, landing in a feline crouch. Springing up, he sprinted toward the burning arch. The magic of the flames rasped against his nerves, telling him that it came from the Dark Fey. No wonder Lark was on the move.
He reached the edge of the crowd and stopped, searching every face. Worry tore at him. This was magic on a scale he hadn’t seen in centuries. He pushed through the mass of people, opening all his senses in hopes of catching some sign of Lark. She would have zeroed in on the source of the Dark Fey power more efficiently than he ever could—if he found her, he found whoever was behind the blaze.
His concentration shattered when something thumped into his knees. His temper flared, but then he looked down to see a boy of about five, red faced with tears and clearly frightened. The child was trying to worm past him, obviously preparing to hurtle onward. Jack went to one knee, catching the child before he could get away. “Where is your mother?” he asked gently.
The boy sucked in a jagged breath, readying a fresh batch of tears, when he looked squarely into Jack’s face. His brown eyes flew wide, and a knot hardened in Jack’s gut. Sometimes children and animals could see his true nature—darker than even a vampire’s should be. He braced for a bout of hysterical screams, but instead the boy chewed his lip quizzically, as if he couldn’t figure Jack out.
“Pierre!” A young woman burst from the crowd and snatched the boy’s hand. Her expression wavered between panic and exasperation. “I told you to stay with me!”
Jack rose. “He’s not hurt, but he’s frightened. He needs to go home.”
The woman opened her mouth, about to speak—maybe to tell him to mind his own business—but then an oak tree shattered into a rain of splintering wood. Immediately, Jack grabbed Pierre and his mother, sheltering them from the rain of spear-like shards. It was undoubtedly a dumb move for a vampire, but women and children came first.
He got lucky, but many didn’t. Cries of pain ripped from the throng and Jack smelled the warm richness of blood. Hunger leaped to his throat like a viper, as his fangs descended.
“Go!” he ordered, giving his charges a shove in the direction of the palace, and then turned away before they saw his face.
Pierre’s mother didn’t hesitate, but grabbed her son and ran, joining a mass of fleeing humans. With a sense of relief, Jack risked a glance back just as Pierre looked over his shoulder. The look on the boy’s face was filled with radiant awe, as if he’d seen an angel instead of a demon. Disconcerted, Jack plunged back into the fray.
At the edge of the crowd, he finally picked up Lark’s scent. It drew him like a beacon, unmistakably hers. Possessive hunger flared. He could feel her like a bright pulse somewhere beyond the throng of humans. He traced the scent away from the milling humanity, from the roar of the flames and engines, and found himself among the trees.
The relative quiet eased his nerves. Even so, she was still blocked from his sight. A wave of impatience surged through him, begging him to rip out every oak and ash in his way.
“Lark?” he called, straining to hear an answer.
No sound came back to him. He plunged forward into the trees, the familiar, peaceful garden transformed by the grotesque light of the fire. Danger hung in the air, almost a scent of its own among the smoke and blood and trampled earth. He scanned the scene, alert to the slightest motion, but nothing was there. What if she found the source of the magic and it went horribly wrong?
Eventually, unwillingly, he began to hunt among the low bushes for her fallen form. Success came just when Jack was fending off despair. No shadows could hide the familiar curve of Lark’s body as it lay on the ground.
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