“That didn’t sound like an earthquake,” said the princess, her voice small and tight.
“That was an explosion.” Lark jumped up, catching sight of the orange glow through the balcony doors. Instinct warred between terror and a reckless urge to rush to do battle. “There’s a fire.”
“What?” Instantly, Amelie was at her elbow. “Is anyone hurt? Can you tell?”
“Let me get a better look.” Lark motioned to the princess to stay where she was. Cautiously, she opened the balcony doors, all of her magical senses on high alert. The sea breeze was cool, but held none of its usual sweetness. Instead, it reeked with the thick smoke hanging in the air—and with the now-familiar stink of Dark Fey spells. She stepped outside, keeping low. There was no point in tempting snipers.
Amelie was far less cautious. In seconds, she was crouching to Lark’s left, craning her neck to see what was going on. Her stance was as urgent as a strung bow, every trace of the girlish bride abandoned like another pair of shoes.
“Your Highness, get back inside!” Lark exclaimed.
Amelie ignored her. “That’s the memorial arch that’s burning! How is that possible? It’s made of marble.”
Despite herself, Lark stared at the graceful monument that framed the entrance to the public garden. It was indeed on fire, eerie orange and blue flames streaming from its surface. The flagpoles beside it were burning, too, and the flags with the proud black hawk of Marcari were already all but consumed. “Marble doesn’t burn, princess, but magic does.”
Fear twined like an icy serpent up her back, and she barely gulped back the acid taste of panic. Whatever happened at the Company headquarters is happening here.
And after the fire that had burned her, flames were Lark’s nightmare. She’d spent months healing from her injuries. Now the urge to bolt was so strong it made her shudder, and she gripped the balcony rail to steady her knees.
But this was no time for fear. Lark summoned her best voice of command. “Your Highness, get back inside. Now.”
Amelie gave her an imperious look. She clearly didn’t like giving in, but was smart enough to retreat indoors. Lark followed, latching the doors and drawing the curtains. Her hands trembled a moment before she let the lace panels go, then she took a steadying breath. She’d promised to protect Amelie, and the daughters of the Light Court kept their word.
“I’ll be right back,” said Lark. “Someone needs a lesson in manners.”
“I’m coming with you,” Amelie said at once. “And don’t tell me to stay here and twiddle my thumbs like a good little princess!”
Lark shot her a look. “I’m sorry, but that is precisely what I’m begging you to do.”
“Lark!”
She tried for humor, hoping to soften her words. “I’m prepared to conjure a troll to sit on you if you try to follow.”
Amelie’s eyes went wide with annoyance. “I don’t care if you’re an agent of the Light Court or the Company, you have no authority over me!”
Lark had reached the door, but now she spun and regarded the princess squarely. Amelie’s expression was a fierce blaze. Lark’s heart went out to the brave young woman, and she blinked to hide the tears that blurred her vision. “My job is to keep you alive, Your Highness. I take that seriously.”
With a sigh of frustration, Amelie subsided. Lark turned to go before the princess changed her mind.
As Lark opened the door, she saw palace security was reacting to the blast. Guards poured into the corridor to join the ones already on duty. Lark didn’t like leaving Amelie, but at least there was no chance the princess would be left alone.
“Look after her,” Lark said to the guard on duty, putting a tiny push of mental compulsion into the words, “and loan me your backup gun.”
Lark didn’t have a vampire’s talent for mind control, but she had enough. The guard handed his weapon over, and it turned out to be a Smith & Wesson much like the one Jack had taken from her. It was the first stroke of luck she’d had all night.
With that, Lark sprinted down the corridor, her feet silent on the patterned runner. She had to get a closer look at the burning arch. Fey weren’t exempt from the urge to view their handiwork, and there was every chance the culprit was lurking somewhere in the crowd and gearing up for his next move.
She dodged lightly around the guardsmen hurrying toward the stairs, but speed wasn’t possible once she got to the main passageway. People were dithering in the stairwell like a herd of nervous sheep. She settled for using her elbows to force her way through the crowd. Once she reached the entrance hall, she dashed out the doors and across the lawn. Police, firefighters and throngs of onlookers were already there.
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