Excerpt of Lionheart by Thea Harrison

London, 1811

The attack happened at one of those bloody masques King
Oberon and his Dark Court had once been so fond of hosting.

Those of the Elder Races—along with a select few humans
chosen for their Power and political influence—traveled
from around the world to attend Oberon’s masques, and all
England knew that whatever the weather, snow always fell in
the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens on the winter solstice.

The guests were treated to a lavish array of exotic foods
and mulled wine, magic, and mystery, all served by
attendants dressed in spotless, intricately embroidered
white uniforms. Intrigues always occurred along with
intimate conversations amid the entertainment. Illicit
affairs were pursued in the shadows. Treaties were born and
sometimes broken, and there was always the opportunity to
forge new alliances.

But mostly the annual festival was Oberon’s way of saying
fuck you to his greatest enemy, Isabeau and her Light
Court. The richness of the revelry, the contrived excess—it
all said, we dance in spite of you. We thrive.

Until at one masque, Oberon stood watching a swirl of
costumed dancers. As he cast a silent spell, large flakes
of clear ice drifted down from a cloudless midnight sky as
if the frozen stars themselves fell to earth.

The flakes reflected pagan color from nearby bonfires until
the air glittered with brilliant gold and piercing light.
All dancers came to a halt, and everyone stared upward in
awe while fey music raced through the clearing at a hectic
pace.

Laughter broke out along with applause, even among the most
Powerful and jaded of the guests. Oberon smiled to see one
pretty Vampyre reaching up with a slender white hand to
catch a flake. She stared, eyes wide with wonder as the
glittering ice melted in her fingers.

A sharp sting pierced Oberon’s neck along with a sense of
alien magic. It broke his concentration, and the weather
spell fractured.

His reactions were swift and catlike, but even as he
slapped one gloved hand over the spot and focused fiercely
on it, the brief pain faded. He spun around, his gaze
racing over the crowd.

It had been an attack. He had no doubt.

His gaze fell on one individual, a tall, handsome man in
elegant evening attire, wearing a plain black domino. The
man held a hollow reed between the fingers of one gloved
hand.

His direct hazel gaze met Oberon’s. “I have killed you on
the orders of the Light Fae Queen, and I must say I am
sorry for it.”

Oberon’s lips drew back in a snarl. A roar burst from his
throat as he lunged forward to slaughter the transgressor.
Even as he sprang forward, an intense wave of dizziness
struck him down.

Sharp voices soared overhead like the raw screech of
hunting hawks. He recognized Nikolas and Gawain even as he
turned his focus inward again, searching for that deadly
thread of alien magic.

There it was, the enemy that had invaded his body. The
magic wriggled deeper, seeking to enter his bloodstream.
Where it touched, coldness spread.

Panicked hands gripped his arms, and another, more feral
voice intruded upon his awareness: Robin. “Sire, what
happened?”

“Assassins,” he managed to hiss.

He did not need to say more. His knights roared through the
milling crowd, cutting short the festivities with drawn
swords. Trusting them to do their jobs, he closed his eyes
and concentrated everything on stopping the malicious spell
from completing its work.

Time passed while he tried spell after spell to counteract
the attack. The masque ended early, and everyone went home.
Over the next few weeks his knights roamed the streets of
London, hunting the Light Queen’s Hound, Morgan le Fae, for
that was who the assassin had been. They never located the
sorcerer. He had simply vanished, apparently into thin air.

Oberon retreated to the country, then eventually back to
Lyonesse, where he continued to search for ways to
eradicate the magic that attacked him from within. Some
spells seemed to work, at least temporarily, and for a
while the progress of the magic halted.

He gained a measure of respite

Weeks, months. Even years.

But each time, after a period of stasis, the bastard evil
that invaded his body reawakened and burrowed deeper,
always aiming for his heart.

It caused undeniable damage. He could feel himself
changing. The closer the magic came to his heart, the
colder he grew. Colder in his thinking, in his emotions. He
grew crueler, more calculating.