Sinclair grimaced beside her, but she only stared. Only a night ago had he rolled his sleeve in a similar fashion before mopping the tavern floor.
“A little blood will help the healing process, even if from a dead bloke. In your possession, I would’ve played along until I got bored, then finished you off. I decided to break free when you got handsy with the poor girl there.”
Lilac watched Sinclair’s expression fade from rage to an unfamiliar timorousness. Brocéliande had grown so quiet that she could hear her own heart racing. She’d been inching back during Sinclair and the Darkling’s exchange, weighing the odds of the pair getting into a skirmish long enough for her to escape unnoticed. Sinclair, however, would not stand a chance; it would be over in all of two seconds. Then, she’d be alone with Garin again—this time knowing the truth about him.
Garin suddenly turned his attention to her, and Sinclair didn’t move a muscle. Alas, she thought begrudgingly, her valiant savior was fine with delivering her straight into the hands of the beast, if it meant he was to remain unharmed.
Eyeing her almost hesitantly, the vampire approached her with caution. She trembled when he stopped less than an arm’s length from her, bowing and grasping her hand on his way up. She instinctively thought to yank it back in disgust, but the courage evaded her.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, cradling her palm ever so lightly. Skin cool against hers, it was his glare that bore into her, mesmerizing as he pressed his red-stained lips to the back of her hand. The muscles in her knees and thighs itched madly, urging her to bolt—but her feet were stuck in place.
At that second, Sinclair made the decision for her. He broke and made a run for it while the vampire was distracted. He darted frantically for the trees as fast as his legs would carry him.
Garin sighed extravagantly and gave a quick half bow. “Pardon me.” Gracefully—but faster than she’d ever seen a person move—he caught up effortlessly and snatched Sinclair by the robe before he made it past the camp outskirts.
Sinclair swept his sword at Garin aimlessly before the vampire snatched it from his grip. “No, no, no,” Garin scolded. “You’re doing it all wrong—” He paused, suddenly distracted. “Lo! This blade…”
Sinclair twisted and turned, almost choking himself in his own robes. Garin ignored this and peered at the weapon closer. He grinned through all the blows Sinclair landed on his shoulder.
“Is that a 1420 ivory hilt? Gilded at the tip as well! My…” He tsked several times with such avid admiration that Lilac couldn’t tell if he was being sincere. “If only our commissariat had been so gracious.”
Then, shifting Sinclair to his opposite arm as if he were a small child, Garin gripped the hilt in his left hand. He extended his arm and cocked his wrist with the blade pointed inward, past his own body, to rest the tip heavily onto Sinclair’s breastbone.
“This, blondie,” he hissed into his ear, pressing the blade lightly into the his chest, “is how one would do it. And, if one really wanted to make me suffer, he would do it slowly.” He pressed the blade in further still, his smile widening the more Sinclair winced.
“Please,” Sinclair begged. He looked over Garin’s shoulder at Lilac. Those flat blue eyes, once predatory, now squandered for mercy. “Please!”
Garin shook him roughly. “No! You don’t get to look at her,” he snarled into his ear. “Not after what you were about to do.”
Just an hour ago, Lilac had saved Garin’s life from Sinclair, and now the tables had turned. The vampire was impossibly standing up for her—but to what end?
She should let Garin drive it through his chest.
Her hands shook violently as she fingered her belt until they brushed the jeweled hilt. She’d come to assume her dagger magically vibrated to alert her when Darklings were near, but now it laid dormant.
With the gift from her ancestor—the dagger she never thought she’d use—she would get revenge on the monster, and save Sinclair’s life. Maybe then he would stop acting like she owed him something.
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.”