Page 153 of Disillusioned
But tonight, contrary to those ruminations, Garin Austol Trevelyan wanted tolive.
The Low Forest rumbled, an echo of death and the indescribable dark power that had driven his father mad. Bubbles appeared where Loumarch and the Morgen had gone down. They moved toward Garin faster than he could possibly swim, waves cresting in their wake.
Those hands grabbed at him again and pulled him under despite his scratching and thrashing. He struggled to climb onto her lily pad, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Water rattled in his chest as Garin pried their brittle hands off his shoulders, his muscles seizing.
He was fatigued. He needed blood. He neededher.
She blinked in surprise and looked down at him, her cerulean eyes scrutinizing and bright. “Garin?” Bewildered, she extended a bloodied, flame-covered hand.
He grabbed it, hoisting himself up with the last of his strength, relief and fear flooding him. Garin wept at her feet, pressing her palm to his cheek and kissing it front to back. Much like the faerie fire, it didn’t singe him, instead filling him with the golden warmth of reassurance. Of safety and—and love. Lilac wound her soft fingers into his hair, her thumb brushing his forehead. He felt her shift, craning her neck to peer behind.
Garin looked back. The Morgen were gone, the lake just as serene and eerily still as he’d discovered it. They were gone. She’d done it.
Before him, Lilac shone like a torch among violet twilight. She was his deity, and whether she wished him to suffer or worship, punish or be punished, Garin would do it. It was one in the same, as long as he lived to serve her.
She was moving again; this time she bent to his hear. “Garin Trevelyan,” she whispered.
Her voice. It sent tingles down his spine, soothing him against the frigid night. “Yes, Your Majesty. Anything.”
There was a sharp pinch at his shoulder. Her nails dug into him, and not particularly in the way he was fond of. “Control yourself,” she snarled, her mouth brushing his earlobe. “Everyone is watching.”
Everyone.
Warm light flooded his vision, no longer focused on her but throughout the entire room. They were barely in the Grand Hall doorway, the doorssplayed open. Piper and her handmaidens flanked Lilac, the three of them eyeing him in terror. The redhead bristled nearest the queen, jaw clenched tight, her hands balled into fists.
He was dry everywhere but inside the front of his pants, and he knew immediately it was not urine.
Lilac had not been rubbing his head; she had one hand braced against his forehead while the other clamped down on his shoulder, shoving him away.Hishands were up her skirts, gripping her soft inner thighs, his lips just inches from her mouthwatering?—
Garin pried his fingers off her. He didn’t dare move otherwise or glance behind him. He couldn’t bear to.
There was the clanking of armor, then. Several armed guards had crowded behind the girls, gathering out in the corridor. It sounded like a dozen more waited behind him, as if they’d been summoned in from the courtyard.
Lilac’s voice cracked across the still room like thunder. “Nobody. Touch. Him.”
“Your Majesty.” There was a pair of footsteps skirting across the floor from the front of the room. Panting, Myrddin was at their side in an instant. Tucked under his arm was the amber wine bottle. “It seems it was this wine that made him act. He’d been drinking it at the table, it sat among the gifts. It is—” He peered at the label. “I can’t tell. Maybe a fine claret.” Myrddin sniffed at the bottle mouth, then tipped it over his palm. A faint pink liquid pooled there, which he tongued, then brought to his mouth to slurp. A round of disgusted groans made its way through the crowd. “Mmmm. A claret steeped with mushrooms.”
“How do you know?” someone called out. “About the mushrooms?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” When no one responded, Myrddin rolled his eyes.
But the warlock was right. Those cold sweats, nightmarish hallucinations, were the symptoms of a particular mushroom. TheAmanita muscaria—or, the fly agaric. Garin was familiar because his father once warned him against putting them in his mouth—both fae-rooted and mortal variations—when he’d laid his foraging goods out on their dining table.
Garin himself had spiked Sinclair’s sacramental wine with the fae-rooted variety just weeks ago.
“The scandal this will cause,” Marguerite slurred. “Is someone out there trying to poison dear Albrecht? I-I mean, my dear daughter?”
“Poison?” Myrddin scoffed. “Unlikely. Not unless they were trying to poison her with temporary reprieve and a wicked good time.”
“I feel fine. More than fine, in fact,” Garin managed, desperately willing Myrddin to shut his mouth. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and he’d begun to shiver.
“See? It’s often enjoyed recreationally. We warlocks enjoy it from time to time.”
“He needs to see Madame Kemble,” Lilac said. She hadn’t moved from her spot or retreated, her body stiff.
Garin’s mouth went dry. He craned his neck up at her. “No, I do not.”
Lilac’s concerned frown flamed into anger. “Look at yourself and tell me you don’t. You’re not well.”
