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 meal.
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.