Page 216 of Disillusioned
Kemble’s hand went to her hair, voice dropping to a terrified whisper. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Well, there’s us. Probably a few others close to Her Majesty,” Rupert responded. He was slumped over the side of the furthest cot, shoulders angled toward the door. “More might inadvertently learn of it if you don’t shut your mouth.”
A low groan interrupted Kemble’s scathing response.
In his sleep, Garin attempted to move his wounded leg, but winced. Lilac was at his side in an instant, lifting him up. There was a sharp intake of breath from Kemble as she righted him against the pillows like he weighed nothing at all. His head lolled forward—there was a wet warmth beneath Lilac’s fingertips.
She gripped his jaw to discover his fangs coated in fresh red. “Garin,” she whispered frantically, patting his cheek. There was a flash of purple light—followed immediately by a white-hot heat at her knuckles. Lilac jumped, cursing, and dropped Garin back onto the pillows. She stuck her pinky into her mouth. “What is wrong with you?”
“I wouldn’t wake him if I were you,” warned Myrddin through his teeth, apparently finished with his whispered incantation. “Not here.”
A rush of heat flooded her. “Will this kill him?”
“It shouldn’t, but I’ve also never seen a Strigoi up close before—for good reason. His injuries won’t do his voracious appetite any good.” Myrddin squinted. “Whatever’s harming him is still inside him.”
“Yes, the ammunition,” replied Lilac impatiently. “We’ve been over that. Can you remove it?”
“Me? Not without potentially blowing his leg into smithereens.”
“I’mnot getting close enough to try.” Kemble stumbled back, unable to tear her eyes from Garin’s oozing wounds.
“Can’t you levitate them out?”
“I can’t without being able to see or visualize the bullets lodged inside him. It would take immense concentration—arcane levitation is not meant to substitute the skill of a surgeon. If I try, and it rouses him, then we’re all in trouble.”
“He saved my father outside of Monfort-sur-Meu.” Lilac felt pathetic, like she was begging. Because she was. “He saved Henri’s life, and that of two of his men.”
“I’m sorry. It’s impossible, yet even if there was a chance…” Kemble sighed. “Vampires might not be the sole reason we’re so widely regarded the way we are, but pillaging Paimpont fifty years ago certainly didn’t help. They set us back decades. I refuse,” she said, chin quivering. “Vampires are no friends of mine, certainly not some primordial version of them. Unspell the door, Myrddin, or I’ll flag down the Midraal Market, too.”
Myrddin smiled begrudgingly down at Garin. “Actually, my score with them has been settled by that very Strigoi.”
“This isn’t funny. Don’t you see? Does anyone understand the gravity of the queen being the thrall to a Strigoi? Once he drinks and is reverted to himself, it is just a waiting game before it happens again.”
“Not if he remains fed, though,” Lilac asked. “Right?”
“Once a regnant becomes a Strigoi, he is always susceptible to it if he hasn’t been sated. At times more easier than others. Sanguine magic is fickle.” Myrddin cleared his throat with a sideways look at Kemble. “As I’ve said before, if it were a branch of arcana studied more freely, we’d have far more insight on the matter than we do tonight.”
“This implicateseverything,” insisted Kemble. “With France, with Maximilian. A regnant would never willingly secede its bond with its mortal for anyone. Even an emperor. Even for a king with his armies at our throat. What do you think a Strigoi would do?”
Lilac looked down. Garin’s hand had twitched against hers, his thumb rubbing her knuckles—then stilling once more. She grabbed his hand, sweeping her fingers across his inner wrist. His weak, slow pulse was imperceptible now—if he even had one anymore. The only things that told her he was alive were his shallow, ragged panting and the occasional wince.
Daemon as she was, Madame Kemble was a person who’d chosen comfort over resistance for years, apparently. Lilac couldn’t blame her forthat and that alone, but it was at the cost of camaraderie. Solidarity. Of everything else. It had provided her the ultimately grand illusion of safety, which was a cage, much like Lilac’s tower; Henri would’ve had her executed the moment he’d discovered her pretense.
“You’re wrong, Madame Kemble. About everything. The cruelty you’ve once endured would’ve persisted, with or without their Raid. Stripping anyone of their right to exist freely, shrouding them in a society that forces them to exist on scraps of justice—all while that same society has continued to benefit from their roots and magic—makes people do terrible things. I will never blame them if the ones in charge, my ancestors and otherwise, were not held accountable, either. You were never doing yourself any better by hiding here. It does not make you strong; it does not make you safe. It doesn’t make you free.” Lilac squeezed Garin’s palm in hers. “And you have no idea what he is willing to do for me.”
The good, the bad.And the bloody.
Kemble said nothing, hesitancy and self-disgust written upon her pursed lips. But the disdain in her eyes was stronger.
“Well?” said Lilac. “You heard the witch. Get to it. Unspell the door.”
“What?Why?” Myrddin frowned so disapprovingly, even his blonde mustache furrowed. “I mean,” he stammered, glancing at Kemble, “not that I anticipated trapping you, or incapacitating you and tying you up. Certainly not with—” There was apopand cloud of smoke, and a large bundle of what looked to be a chain of thick iron links and rust-colored rope materialized before him. His voice rose an octave, and he snatched it out of the air. “Gods—and we certainly didn’t usetheselast night.”
Even Rupert glanced up from his hands. He looked like was going to be sick. “For fuck’s sake, Myrddin.” Rupert shot up from the cot just as Kemble backed into him, causing her to fall flat on her ass. He was so pink from the neck all the way to his ears, he didn’t even seem to notice; his ruby red glower was fixed upon Myrddin as Kemble scoffed in disgust, peeling herself off the floor.
“Out of my way, you beanstalk of a vamp—” She cocked her head at him. “Emma?” she screamed, shrill. “Not Emma’s son?”
Myrddin waved his hand, and the door was outlined in a shimmer of violet once more. Kemble scrambled for the door, fumbling the handle.
