Apparently that was good enough. Lark stepped out of the dark forest without warning. Here the moonlight was bright enough to catch her features, showing more than the shadowy murk near the café. For the second time that night, Jack’s dead heart nearly stopped all over again.
“Why did you disappear like that? Where did you go?” he demanded, but the words lacked force. It was hard to growl when he’d lost his breath. And then for a blessed instant he forgot the horror where the compound had been. He forgot everything but her.
Lark was beautiful, like all the fey—tall and slender with pale skin and delicate features. But her coloring, all creamy skin and mahogany hair, radiated warmth and life. It had been that vibrancy that had attracted him, her fey light to his profound darkness.
“I meant to leave,” she said. “But I got curious about what the commander wanted with you. I couldn’t figure out what was so important.”
“And so you kept on following me?”
She didn’t answer, but scanned the devastation below. The night vision of the fey was almost as good as a vampire’s and her eyes widened, her expression mirroring his horror. She crossed to his left, keeping distance between them, and peered down at the ruin. Slowly, she sank down to a crouch, one hand gripping the thin trunk of a sapling. She looked as if she might faint.
“By Oberon,” she gasped. “It’s all gone.”
“And everyone in it. There was an email calling a general meeting tonight. It came from administration. No way to know who actually sent it.” No way to know who had lured all the agents into the trap.
She turned to look up at him, her eyes wide and bright with tears, but her lips clamped in a grim line. “Did the commander have some hint of this?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Is that why he called you?”
“He knew something was up and that it was urgent, but obviously he didn’t know enough. He asked for my help.” Jack kept his voice steady, but his heart raged at the admission. “I should have come straight here.”
“But then you’d be ash, just like them.” Tears slid from her eyes, glittering as they fell. She wiped her cheeks with her fingers. There was no fuss or drama. Lark rarely wept, but when she did it was as graceful as everything else she did. Jack wanted—needed—to hold her, but logic stopped him from dropping his guard. She’d deceived him, abandoned him and spied on him.
And yet here she was again, sharing his tragedy in a way no one else could. The look on her face was identical to the emotion slashed into his soul. At a fundamental level, beneath the deception and anger, they’d always understood one another like twin spirits.
So Jack stood there in fury, cycling through love, desire, distrust and anger one more time. He had no idea what to do with her. He had to trust his head, because his heart was spinning out of control.
“Who did this?” Lark asked.
Fey. But he needed hard evidence, or at least more information. “I don’t know. But I do know you’re a wild card standing next to a crater where my home used to be.”
Lark’s head jerked up. She looked genuinely shocked as she rose to her feet. “I didn’t have any hand in that.” She gestured toward the scene of devastation below. “I swear.”
Jack holstered the gun, if not his suspicions. “The fey lie as easily as they breathe.”
The spark died from her eyes, replaced by anger. Without a word, she took three steps to close the distance between them, her long coat swinging with her strides.
“Don’t,” he warned.
But she kept coming. One moment she was out of reach, and the next her coat was brushing his knees—and he’d let her get so dangerously close because some mad part of him wanted her there.
Her fingers curled into fists and she raised them, poised to strike. He knew from experience she was a more than capable fighter. Quick as lightning, Jack grabbed her wrists. He felt her tense, her fierce fey strength straining against his.
“Don’t what?” she growled, her voice husky with anger.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t do that to me again. Not now.” For an instant, her very nearness put him off guard. Yearning froze him where he stood and softened the iron strength of his grip.
“I didn’t do this!” She gulped a shattered sob, her anger sliding suddenly back to grief. “You have to trust me that much!”
“No, I don’t. I have no reason to.” Nevertheless, relenting, he released her wrists.
“No.” She shook her head, her eyes tightly closed. Tears stained her cheeks again. “You know me better than that.”
“No, I—”
“Remember this.” Lark slid one warm hand on either side of his face, pulling him down so that her mouth was on his. Jack took a breath to protest, but then she was stealing the air from his lungs and filling him with a painful longing that burned down to his core.
In that scene of death, she tasted like something hot and sweet and golden, and his emotions rocked with the contrast. Desire clawed through him, merciless as a tiger. It had been like this whenever they touched, as if madness could be transmitted by skin-to-skin contact. He jerked her close so roughly her feet left the ground. There was no need to hold back—the fey were almost as indestructible as the undead.
But the undead could be destroyed. They were standing next to their cold ashes. Reason slammed down like a sheet of ice, forcing Jack back to his senses. He released her almost as quickly as they had joined. His sudden move made her skitter back, panting from their kiss.
She opened her eyes, her dark gaze searching his face. Her expression was full of guilt, but there was anger sparking through her sadness, too. “What’s the matter, Jack? Didn’t you like that? You were the one pushing me against a wall just hours ago.”
Heat rose to his face, proving that once in a while vampires could blush. Of course he wanted her. The truth ached in his groin, but that wasn’t his smartest asset. “Don’t ask me to remember what we had. The ending’s not to your advantage.”
Her mouth flattened into a line.
He pushed on. “Now explain what you’re doing in Marcari. Did the Light Court send you? Why did you talk to me tonight of all nights?”
“I wanted to.” She smoothed the front of her coat, her look resentful. He saw the slight guilty tell—a downward shift of the eyes.
“I don’t have time for your games,” he snarled. “Not after that.” He jerked his head toward the ruins.
Slowly, Lark nodded. “Whoever did that needs to be caught. No question.”
“Who did it?”
She gave a slight shrug. Her lip was trembling, as if holding back another bout of tears. He prayed she didn’t start to cry, because as the first shock faded, howling grief was setting up shop in his gut and planning to stay for a good long while.
“It changes everything,” she said. “A move like this has got to be a part of something larger.”
She was right, but it wasn’t enough of an answer to satisfy Jack. Gruffly, he grabbed her by the elbow and began marching her toward the Escalade.
She tried to jerk her arm free without success. “Where are you taking me?”
“Away from this grave. It’s not safe to linger.”
“I can help you.”
“Do you really think so?” He quickened his pace, his long legs making her run. “No, sweetheart, helpful people don’t spy on me. They don’t lie and they don’t stab and they