Page 254 of Disillusioned
Garin said nothing, heard nothing she said. Finally, he brought himself to bend and brush his knuckles against Lilac’s hand.
It was cold. Garin began to tremble against the slow-burning ache that would consume him, the need to tear into something—someone. He’d do it if he didn’t soon hold her, feel her pulse hammering back to life.
But the sea witch kept talking. “I imagine you’re quite the bladesmith. You have a smithing station in your Sanguine Mine, don’t you?”
“I scarcely used it. My skills are rudimentary,” he lied.
But Morwenn gave him a knowing smile. “I should travel through the Argent, pay them a little visit. Find someone else willing.”
He bared his teeth, fear and disbelief striking him even deeper. The Isle of Ys was legendary—a folktale. A thing of legend.
Then again, so was he.
“Leave them be,” he snarled, straightening.
“My Duchess has kept me well-informed, you see.” Morwenn watched Garin pick up the dagger that had clattered near Lilac’s blood-soaked head. “My dark creatures would relish working alongside an esteemed soldier such as yourself. Adaywalking Strigoi,” she commented, assessing, “stuck in his form because… I’m guessing his own thrall is a prude?”
Garin slowed halfway up the steps. His nostrils flared. “She gives me everything and more.”
Morwenn’s brow rose.
“And I don’t care what you need.”
“You will. François might be dissuaded from advancing for the time being, at least from launching into full-fledged war now that he’ll see your Daemons are openly, publicly on Lilac’s side. But what of Maximilian? With an empire that large, I doubt such frailties would not discourage him so easily from pursuing her hand.”
His head was pounding, his hunger pulsing to life once more—not for her body, not even distinctly for her blood. Certainly not like the overwhelming tide of urges to end her life, as the opposing end of Kestrel’s deal had demanded.
He wantedher. Wanted her for himself.
And Morwenn was regrettably right. France would leave them alone for the time being, butsomeonewould come knocking, or snooping eventually. Lilac would not be the one to answer.
“You’ve got nothing left here but ghosts.”
Slowly, tiredly—fondly—he hummed in disagreement. “I have her.”
Henri remained sitting in the middle of the floor, clutching his hip where he’d fallen. The others had remained, too terrified to move from their spots. He kneeled so they were face to face.
Then, Garin bowed reverently, his forehead nearly touching the floor. “I have to do this.”
Henri began to sputter, to tear up, to beg. His arm rose to cover his face.
“I have to. Your life given will save her. It will bring her back; I’ve seen it done before. Your daughter is not lost. She is fierce and unyielding, willing to listen and learn. To grow. Eleanor is meant to lead, with or without a crown. She’ll make a great leader one day.” Garin swallowed, glancing back at the chapel ruins. “Somewhere, for the kingdom wise enough to trust her. She will.”
Henri was quiet for a long moment. His eyes, heavy with grief, no longer wavered. Then, with surprising strength, he reached for Garin’s hand and folded his weathered palm over it.
“She already is,” the old king replied. He gave Garin’s hand a rough shake, the tremble in his beard betraying what his voice refused to. “Take care of my daughters. All of them.”
Garin’s only answer was the tightening of his grip, and the promise in his silence.
“You won’t come back from this, Your Grace,” warned Myrddin over Garin’s shoulder. The warlock’s fingers were moving feverishly, his eyes softly shut. “The dagger won’t bring you back if I exchange your soul for hers.”
Henri offered a small smile, but his gaze was fixed on Lilac. “I know.”
The old king’s nails dug into Garin’s hand as he skewered his heart.
It was instant, the life in his eyes fading immediately. Garin yanked the Dawnshard from him, and Henri slumped back onto the granite.
Marguerite turned away, into the organ. Piper watched with wide eyes while the twins held her, as if they knew what wasn’t yet spoken.
