If she killed Garin in time, Sinclair might survive. If she left the vampire to his own devices, Sinclair would perish, leaving her alone with the Darkling. Then, he’d probably eat her, and the kingdom would be left with no future monarch at all.
Garin was a monster. So was Sinclair.
How did you destroy a monster without becoming one?
She held her breath, praying her decision would be the right one.
As Garin pulled the long sword back and readied to strike, Lilac grasped her own smaller hilt with both hands and charged forward. With all her might, she plunged the dagger downward. With a satisfying squelch, the weapon stuck between his shoulder blades, straight into his heart.
Goodbye, Garin.
The vampire let out a grunt and stumbled forward. He sputtered and teetered on his heels, releasing his grip on Sinclair.
Lilac retreated, gulping the crisp air. She’d done it.
But… sway as he did—Garin remained standing.
“Move, and I’ll snap your neck. I won’t even think about it,” he warned Sinclair, who had crumpled into the dirt.
Garin whirled on Lilac, his expression of fury turned murderous.
He wasn’t dying.
He wasn’t even injured.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
She couldn’t breathe. Her chest had constricted, and it felt as if she were choking on her own fear. Her dagger didn’t do anything her father said it would—all the stupid thing did was vibrate whenever it felt like it. Lilac’s jaw fell open as Garin reached back and yanked the blade out of his own back with nothing more than a brief groan of pain.
Pinned by his eyes, Lilac began to retreat step by trembling step. The creature before her was so far removed from the gentleman who’d playfully invited her to a drink at the inn. Who’d slinked into her room. Was it part of his plan all along? Her heart was beating so loud that she could hear it—and so could he.
She was wrong to think she could make it to Paimpont. Mind racing, she couldn’t help but think her only hope of rescue now was cowering on the floor. There was no one around for leagues. A choked cry for help rose up and caught in her throat. She could scream, but who would hear her? Nothing would come of it, except for Garin’s disgusting satisfaction.
He dropped the dagger slicked with ichor, so dark it was almost black. Glaring, he stretched out a kink in his shoulder and swore under his breath.
“Leave him alone,” Lilac demanded, trying—and failing—to force courage into her voice. “Let us go.”
“Why?” Garin laughed boisterously, his accent now rising and falling in a bygone cadence. “So you two can run back to the castle, get married, and become one combined pain-in-the-arse for all of us? Absolutely not.”
“I won’t tell,” she breathed, although she knew that Garin’s actions were more than enough to warrant the execution of his entire coven. “I won’t say anything, I swear. You have my word. You’ve had his men… N-now let him be. It’s only fair.”
For a brief moment he crossed his arms, tilting his head in feigned consideration. Then, shook it in a decisive no. “Must I remind you, princess? Your beloved betrothed and his entire family has hunted my kind relentlessly since the start of the war. You want to talk about fair? This is fair.”
Lilac willed herself to stop trembling and took a half step forward. “I beg of you. On my behalf, he’ll be no trouble any longer.”
The vampire’s lip pursed. He turned to Sinclair, who nodded vigorously from the forest floor. Then, he looked back at Lilac. For an instant, she thought she saw a flash of hesitation pass Garin’s peeved countenance.
Like a spectre in the flesh, he glided over to Sinclair with unsettling grace and grabbed him by the robe, yanking him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all. “If I ever see you again,” he said, voice eerily calm, “I don’t care what Lysyn or anyone else says. I will kill you.”
“L-Lilac,” Sinclair stammered.
“Bless you.”
Lilac’s mouth went dry.
No. Garin wouldn’t dare.
Despite his fear for his life, Sinclair’s brow furrowed in confusion. “No. You called her… Lysyn? Her name is Lilac. Lilac Trécesson. The princess.”
Garin gasped and clamped a pale hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean to. My apologies. I must be thinking of the wench I was with last night. Honestly, I can’t seem to get her out of my head. Delicious little morseling, she was.” He then shot Lilac a destroying grin and watched the color drain from her face. “Well, you know what I mean.”
With a shrug, he released Sinclair.
He sheathed both the longsword and Lilac’s dagger into the scabbards attached to the newfound baldric belt running across his chest. Sinclair’s blade went onto his back, while he slid her dagger onto his hip.
“You are free to leave.” He interrupted Sinclair’s sigh of relief with an arch of his brow. “But the girl stays.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sinclair muttered. “I can’t leave her.”
“Oh, you can. And you will. Either you leave her here, or I kill you both where you stand and continue on my merry way. Do not take my mercy lightly.”
Sinclair took one pained look at Lilac. Then, he started toward his belongings near the fire. Jaw slacked, she watched him go. Just like that. To save his life, he’d let her die; she could not say for certain that she wouldn’t have done the same.
Her vision swam, as if a reminder to keep breathing. Her affliction made her expendable. With her out of the way, Sinclair had a direct path to the throne; why should he save her? He’d done all in his power, after all—he’d return empty-handed, his parents would rejoice while her own shed tears for a week. Then, life would resume as they knew it, this time without the wicked princess.
“Leave everything but the horse,” Garin commanded, eyeing her carefully.
“But—”
“Are they worth your life?”
The coward grittted his teeth. Seething, Sinclair made way to his steed without another glance at either of them. Then, as fast as he’d appeared, he was gone.
When they could no longer hear the hoofbeats pummeling back west, Garin whirled on Lilac, who hadn’t so much as moved a muscle. A sheen of sweat clung to her upper lip, and her hands had grown clammy. Her breaths drew in shallow, ragged gasps, her pulse thundering in her throat as she anticipated his next move. The hilt of her only weapon—she’d realized, hardly a weapon at all—glinted against the dancing firelight from Garin’s hip.
Eyes darting, she was torn between the impulses to bolt, fall to her knees and grovel for her life, or tell him to go fuck himself.
Garin took a single step forward and jabbed a finger at his back.
“Is that serious? A dagger?” His nostrils flared angrily in her direction. “Even after your beloved revealed what I am, you dare try to take me on? That mortal foolishness you peg for courage is astounding—”
He’d begun growling on about how stupid her decision was, something about how she was extremely fortunate it was him she’d attacked and not another with less restraint, that she was lucky he hadn’t killed her on the spot—
But, she couldn’t comprehend his words, couldn’t read his lips. His voice faded in and out. Her stomach gave a violent rumble, and suddenly, firelight exploded into a thousand stars. Garin’s foggy outline disintegrated into the trees. A strange heaviness drew over her like a dark cloud, and then—
Black.
7
Lilac awoke slowly to the aroma of her mother’s shepherd’s pie. A creamy mixture of lamb, potatoes, onions, mushrooms, and carrots caramelized in salted butter, then wrapped in a thick, crisp layer of flaky dough. Marguerite had only bothered preparing it when Henri requested the pie during the frigid winter months, and it was the only dish she’d made better than Hedwig—though Lilac would never admit it out loud.
She grinned contentedly and snuggled further into her sheets, for once relieved to be home to enjoy the delectable m
eal.
Except... It was late Spring. And she most certainly was not home.
Her eyes fluttered open as she shot up on one arm. She rubbed them groggily with the other. Her dry throat felt like sandpaper, so she swallowed repeatedly to wet it. She’d dreamt everything. She prayed over and over that she had.
The fire still blazed in the dirt pit, now warming an iron pan suspended by a makeshift wire rack. Sinclair’s leather knapsack was neatly laid out next to it. As her vision adjusted to the flames, she focused in on a stone plate and set of silverware on the dirt beside her. On it was a single steaming slice of shepherd’s pie. Her mother’s.
“Sinclair?” Panic coated her parched throat. Maybe he had come back for her. She couldn’t believe she was actually hoping he had.
When the only answer to her call was an ominous crunch of leaves, she fought back a shiver. “Sinclair?”
“Not so loud.” A voice floated from the trees. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a killer on the loose.” The vampire emerged from the shadows held a goblet out to her. “Drink.”
“Ugh, no,” she cried, jerking her arm back. The thought of him sipping from the tainted cup earlier churned acid through her empty stomach. “Get away from me, you vile—” her hand flew to the leather scabbard on her belt, but it was empty.
Her ancestor’s dagger was gone.
Then, she recalled unsuccessfully stabbing him with it; surely, he wouldn’t have handed it back to her.
Garin dismissively waved a hand as if to sweep away her melodrama. “For now, your dagger is safe with me.” He patted his hip where her dagger hung, presumably silently. “Far out of reach from those grubby, impulsive little fingers of yours. And relax. I rinsed it out thoroughly. It’s fresh river water.” He squatted next to her and proffered the goblet again.
Lilac hesitantly accepted it, refusing to take her eyes off him and careful not to touch his dead skin. How on earth she missed his unsightly pallor at the inn, she did not know. Every bone in her body resisted trusting anything that came out of his mouth, but thirst overwhelmed her better judgement for now. She sat up and pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger while taking the smallest sip possible, in fear of tasting any metallic residue. There wasn’t any. Hungrily, she tipped the rest into her mouth.
Thirst somewhat sated, she narrowed her eyes at her captor. “Where’d you get all of this?” she demanded, jutting her chin at the shepherd’s pie and utensils.
Garin shifted his weight back to his feet, ignoring it completely when she scooted away in disdain. “Well, you fainted. And you hit your head. You were parched, and I guessed a little hungry, so I fished inside your little friend’s bag that he so generously left us and found some food and stoneware. Plus, that fabulous cast iron, which I would’ve relished in another life.” He shook his head and tsked twice. “His mummy dearest must take such great care of him.”
“Except, this is my mother’s pie.” A pang of emptiness resounded in her chest. Fork in hand, she skewered a tiny bite. Marguerite probably cooked it for Sinclair before he departed on his search for her. After the night’s events, the thought of her mother handing him the bundle of supper made her stomach churn.
She inspected the plate once more before popping the forkful into her mouth, where the mixture of meat and vegetables instantly burned her tongue. She nearly dropped the utensil.
“I just removed it from the fire. That’s often how it works.” Garin placed the tips of his fingers together, his condescending glare morphing into one of contemplation. “Speaking of your beloved, we need to find some shelter quick in case he returns with reinforcements.”
Lilac couldn’t be sure, but Garin looked as if he had attempted to wash himself off in the river. His face appeared far less matted with blood than she could recall, and his dark hair had regained some of its bounce.
She stared. Despite his monstrous truth now unveiled, not a thing had changed; on the outside, he was still a barkeep. Still caddishly tousled, still cautious, but in a way that seemed for her benefit instead of his. He’d been the first vampire she laid eyes on—to her knowledge. Like shifters, like Freya, there was no way to tell until you got too close. How many more of them were there? How many more could disguise their eye color, blend in with the crowd? Had there been any in the castle, deadly and glittering at her mother’s soirées? Did the castle’s stupid preventative bundles even work?
She scooted away from him while chewing on another mouthful of buttery mushroom. “We,” she swallowed, “as in you and me?”
The vampire nodded mutely.
“You,” she mumbled, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, “are delusional if you believe I am going anywhere with you.”
“Pity. I also thought it a marvelous opportunity for our previously forged friendship to blossom. Since both our facades were shattered in a mere matter of minutes, the only thing that’s prevented our reconciliation has been your contempt for me.”
Lilac squinted, as if seeing him more clearly would help make sense of his bullshit.
“Contempt isn’t even the half of what I feel for you. And I can take care of myself.”
“You’re heading back to the castle, then?”
Her pause was but a moment too long.
“It’s obvious you’ve come to Brocéliande for a reason. Plus,” he drawled, “I didn’t think you wanted to be saved by Sinclair. Especially not after what he tried with you.”
Blood rushed to Lilac’s cheeks and she suddenly couldn’t see through the moisture in her eyes.
She bitterly stuffed in the last mouthful and stood, taking the goblet with her. It was heavy, but better than having no weapon at all. She hoisted her sack over her shoulder before marching into the trees, ignoring his protests.
Once he was out of sight, Lilac spun to her left and then her right. She groaned, unable to recall which direction she and Sinclair had come from.
“Please.” Garin was suddenly in front of her. Lilac lowered her head like an angry bull and tried to shove around him, but he sidestepped and mirrored her movement with ease. “I’m being serious. It isn’t safe out there.”
Upon realizing what he was doing, she took a step back. “So just to be clear, this is a kidnapping?”
“Call it what you like. I’d like to think of it as attempting to do you a favor by saving you.”
“Saving me? From Sinclair? He’s harmless—look, touch me, and I’ll hit you with this goblet as hard as I possibly can.”
He stared at her in disbelief, traces of anger sharpening his angled features. “You do know that Sinclair tried to rape you, right?” He didn’t seem to care when she flinched at his words. “If you’re going to start justifying the intentions of that poor excuse of a man, please, do not do it in front of me.”
She glowered at him incredulously. He’d trapped her back at the inn and showed no intent of letting her go. He’d tried to kill Sinclair. Now he expected her to simply follow him?
“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I only meant that you are no better.”
The confused shock plastered upon the vampire’s stupid, beautiful face didn’t stop her from shoving at him with all her might. It was like pushing at a boulder; her shoulders ached with effort. Eventually, he stumbled backward out of astonishment.
“Get out of my way.”
“Princess—”
“You’re infuriating.” The words were useless, but they felt good coming out.
Garin clutched his chest. “I’m gutted.”
“I’ll have you executed,” she snapped.
“I’d like to see your men try.” He folded his arms, a wry grin tugging the corners of his mouth. “By all means.”
With a frustrated snarl, Lilac feinted left—then took off to the right. She sprinted with everything she had in her, with the pie and water sloshing inside her. She determinedly ignored the sharp pains stabbing at her sides. Not bothering to check if he pursued, she ran until she came to a screeching halt at the ed
ge of the sloping riverbank. It was another clear night. Moonlight reflected off the wide surface of the Argent, casting tinsel halos onto the dew-covered leaves above it.
“Your Highness,” Garin called merrily from the trees, as if they were on a pleasant nighttime stroll.
Anger surged through her chest as she caught her breath, glaring out over the water. She would never shake him.
Unless…
“Beautiful night,” he said, sounding closer now.
Without thinking, she slid the sack off her shoulder and charged into the river, gasping as the cold water soaked first her socks, then her dress from bottom up. She kept going until the river floor gradually dropped out from under her, and she began to tread water.
Garin stumbled out of the tree line and froze at edge of the bank. His jaw fell open. “Are you mad? What are you doing?”
“Saving myself,” she yelled back, keeping her voice even with effort. The water swirling around her was frigid.
The vampire began pacing along the bank like a ravenous animal. “By drowning yourself?” He grunted, frustration mottling his collected calm. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come back here this instant.”
“N-no.” She could’ve been imagining it, but the water beneath her legs grew colder still. If the surface water was cold, the undercurrents were downright freezing. “You—you can’t cross r-running water. I’m safer in here.”
But, based on Garin’s sudden burst of barely contained laughter, Lilac wasn’t so sure.
“Is that what you mortals are telling each other these days?” He threw his head back, howling madly as Lilac watched in horror. After catching his breath, he was serious again. “You do need to come back. The water isn’t safe.”
“I will when you promise to leave me alone,” she stammered, barely managing the words.
“I’m being serious. This—it’s dangerous. Swim back to the bank and we’ll talk.”
We’ll talk. Likely. Lilac stared at the opposite bank just a short swim in front of her. It was growing colder by the second, and a ached pulsing through her muscles indicated that her calves would soon begin to stiffen. While Garin had ridiculed her response, he also hadn’t jumped in to pursue her. It was impossible to tread water forever, and she could always swim back and grab her bag when he left, and if not, leaving her belongings behind would be worth getting rid of the persistent creature. In the accounts she’d read on vampires, that seemed to be one of the most difficult things about them; they were creatures of immense patience when they had to be.
Disenchanted Page 12
