Sharon Ashwood - Possessed by the Fallen

From the ground, the flaming arch was terrifying. Orange light painted the sky a ghastly hue and turned the tree branches into twisted claws. By then, three fire hoses were dousing the gardens, the spray a shower of gold in the reflected firelight. Although it seemed to be saving the neighboring oaks, the water was doing nothing to douse the monument. Lark slowed to a halt, swearing under her breath. Slowly, she made a complete turn, looking for someone out of place.

Gawkers stood in clumps around the edges of the scene, almost eerily transfixed by the roaring flames. The villain would be with the looky-loos. Lark fell back, her senses tuned to detect the scent or even the telltale tingle she felt near Dark Fey magic. It tended to cling to the user like static electricity—if she worked her way through the crowd, hopefully she’d pick up a trace of the culprit.

The bystanders spread all the way back to the trees, faces limned by touches of firelight. She deliberately pushed through where the throng was thickest, catching the scent of aftershave and cigarettes but not magic. These folks were all human. But then just as she neared the edge of the crowd, Lark’s scalp prickled, as if a thousand ants swept over her—far more than just residue.

There wasn’t enough time to do more than flinch. An oak tree exploded a dozen yards away. It didn’t burst into flame; it fountained up in a cold blast of power that reduced the ancient wood to a hail of toothpicks. The noise was like a thunderclap, barely ending when the woman next to Lark screamed as a shard of wood buried itself in her cheek. It was too late to duck. The tiny pieces flew with such force that they burrowed right through clothing into flesh. The only reason Lark escaped injury was the number of bodies in her way.

Lark turned and suddenly she had a clear view of the path by the ornamental pond. There, barely visible in the shadows, a figure sprinted away. Immediately, Lark bolted after, using superhuman speed to close the distance between them.

Within seconds, she’d drawn close enough to see the figure. Despite the bulky coat he wore, it was plain her quarry was tall but slight, a shapeless hat pulled low over his brow. He ran across a small footbridge that arced over one of the ornamental ponds, heading toward the maze. Oh, no, you don’t , thought Lark. Chasing someone around the palace’s huge maze would be hopeless.

Lark cut to the right, intent on heading him off. As she ran, she drew her Smith & Wesson. Fey might have a thousand tricks, but a well-aimed bullet would still kill them. She leaped lightly over a bed of spring bulbs just starting to bloom and skirted a low rhododendron, startling a cat that streaked away with a yowl.

Her quarry heard the sound and glanced her way, his pale face a flash in the darkness. With a curse, he changed course. Gritting her teeth, Lark strained for more speed. Her breath was already ragged. Her burns might have healed, but a long convalescence had sapped her reserves. Her stamina wasn’t what it should be for a chase like this.

A moment later, the figure glanced back again. He wasn’t gaining ground, and the high wall of a yew hedge loomed in his path. Without warning, he stopped and spun, planting his feet as if bracing for a fight. Lark stopped a dozen feet away, the gun at her side. She sucked in air, letting it out slowly to quiet her rasping lungs. Behind them, flames still tore at the sky, fading the waxing moon to insignificance. The rushing sound of the fire drowned Lark’s thoughts for a moment before training took over and she gripped the gun with both hands.

“What do you hope to gain by this?” she demanded.

“That will become clear enough in time.” The voice surprised Lark. It was low, but it belonged to a woman. The shapeless clothes were an effective disguise.

“Who are you?” Lark demanded.

“That depends on who is asking.”

Lark jerked the gun, reminding the woman she had the advantage. “Tell me something useful unless you enjoy getting shot full of iron.”

The woman shrank back. Iron was to the fey what silver was to werewolves. Even if the wound was slight, it would poison the blood.

“Hurry up,” Lark prompted.

“That fire will burn for several more hours before it goes out on its own. No amount of water or chemicals is going to smother it.”

Okay, that was useful, but not the kind of intel Lark had in mind. “Are you working for the Dark Queen?”

“Naturally.” The voice held scorn. “And whether you like it or not, so are you. For those first few days after you healed, your flirtation with the Dark made you incredibly easy to follow.”

“What?” Lark didn’t understand that at all. “I’ve never worked for your side!”

The attack came so fast, Lark barely had time to pull the trigger. She never even felt the recoil. A pale blue fireball slammed into Lark, sending her tumbling backward. Reflex conjured a shield against the worst of the impact, but she still felt her bones rattle. She rolled to her feet, shaking her hair out of her eyes.

The woman was clutching her shoulder, so Lark’s shot had struck home. Quickly, Lark summoned a burst of power, weaving it small, precise and strong enough to punch the door off a tank. The woman batted it away as if it were a pebble. Lark gripped her gun, suddenly appalled. Who was this chick?

“Stop,” the woman said as Lark took aim again.

Lark froze as the spell swamped her. When she suddenly remembered to move—she couldn’t. For a horrifying moment, Lark remained still, gun pointed and feet spread apart like an action figure posed on a shelf. The smoke-scented breeze fanned her hair and brought tears to her eyes, but she couldn’t even blink. Her brain and her muscles weren’t connecting.

The woman took a step forward, then another. Her features were still obscured by shadow, but Lark could make out the sneer of her mouth.

“I should drop you where you stand,” the woman said softly. “What business does the Light Court have working with the bloodsuckers?”

Horrified, trapped, Lark barely heard her. She’d never encountered any creature with this much power before, and the woman was drawing closer and closer. Lark’s limbs began to tremble, agonized by the strain of trying to move. Her chest, barely able to breathe, was pulling in tiny, panting gasps. Gradually, the world was starting to swirl as Lark starved for oxygen.

You’ve got to focus! She’s strong, but you’re tougher. The gun was growing slippery with sweat and Lark feared dropping it from numbed fingers. She willed herself to grip it tighter even as she strained to make out her approaching tormenter’s face.

When Lark finally did, she wished she hadn’t. It was the pretty young woman she’d seen watching her in the hall, but she looked different now. Her hair was pulled severely back, showing features freshly scrubbed of makeup—and now Lark knew her from surveillance photos. Drusella Blackthorn.

No wonder Lark was no match for her. She was a Dark Fey sorcerer of immense power.

Drusella gave a humorless chuckle. “I could send your dead body as a message to the Company to stay out of this, but I think we’ve 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.

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