Page 252 of Disillusioned
Why?his logic and hunger snarled within, anger and confusion merging into an ungodly wrath, slamming into him all at once.Why had this happened, why had Kestrel’s curse gripped him the moment she’d been crowned?
Garin tore his wrist with his teeth and let his blood flood her mouth.
Breathe, he thought desperately. It was all he could think, even with the nearing measured footfall of that blasted nuisance sea witch.Breathe. Choke on it. Sputter.
“Come on,” he muttered through his teeth, slapping her face. Gods, it was still warm. Still pink and warm. She would live, walk among his kind. He would rather her fall out of love with him, walk by his side as his fledgling than lose her—that much was clear as dawn.
But his blood only pooled at the back of her open mouth, spilling out.
“Come.On.”
There was another set of footsteps, then. Henri knelt behind him, sniffling.
“She’s gone, son.”
Son. Garin spun, clutching the hulking git by the front of his white silken robes. He was hardly moved—the drunkard should have been on his arms and knees, begging the Old Gods for his daughter back.
“This is your doing,” Garin hissed. “And if she were to marry—” The words caught in his throat. “If she were ever to marry me, she’d takemyname. Join my forsaken bloodline. I would have taken her far from this cursed place. Far fromyou, if not for her reluctant duty to the very honor you squandered.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I am no son of yours, and never will be if you could not stand to love her in the first place.”
Garin stood, passing Morwenn and dragging Henri by the nape of his neck. He strode straight toward the group huddled at the chapel’s far end, his gaze hardening on the priest, who’d broken down in the corner and was sobbing quietly. “P-please, Sir Trevelyan,” he cowered. “Spare them. They know not what they do.”
“They know exactly what they have done, Father.” He roughly dropped the old king and tilted his head up. He glowered at Marguerite, still perched on the organ like some cowardly bird. Her friends and formercourt cowered beside her. His eyes lingered for a moment on Edith Menard’s daughter. He tipped his head and turned away. “Ostracized, forlanguage? I should tear your throats out where you stand. You have no idea whatelseshe’s capable of. She is much,muchworse than she leads on.”
He turned back to the open chapel. They didn’t deserve his broken, cruel eulogy for the woman who was the world to him.
Lorietta and Adelaide stood against the far wall. Adelaide clutched one of her glass bottles, frenzied liquid gold inside. Lori locked eyes with him, offering a gentle smile filled with sorrow yet reassurance.
He forced himself to look away, shame boring into him. His friend had seen enough of the cruelty and carnage he was capable of.
Beyond, the wounded watched from the chapel’s broken edges—guards and servants peeking through crumbled stone, limbs poorly bound, expressions wary. A few sat bleeding in the dust of the bailey, too weak to stand. Others simply stared, as if waiting for orders that would never come.
It was quiet beyond. There was no more movement at the gate.
He stalked down to Lilac’s body like a lion refusing to waste its spoils—and caught the glimpses of Lilac’s sisters off to his right, gathered in the dim light just beyond the ruined choir rail. Isabel, her soft eyes alert and unreadable. Yanna, shoulders squared, one hand on her twin’s shoulders as she returned his gaze in loathing—and Piper, her face withdrawn, fixed on him with something like mourning.
They huddled close together, silently watching.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at them long. It had beenhishand that reached for something he should never have touched in the first place. His hands trembled—not with fear, but with the ache to tear something apart. To bleed the world back into balance. But there was no other enemy here.
Only the ghosts of what once was, and the monster who made them.
Garin sank to his knees, almost refusing to touch her. He couldn’t bring himself to feel Lilac’s skin cold—colder than his
“Lilac,” Morwenn mused, singing her name. She circled them with slow, liquid grace, her strange shoes clicking, echoing off the walls with each step. There was something eerily familiar in her stride, slow and elegant. Intent. “Feisty little one, wasn’t she? Your queen, Eleanor. Your own curse, in and of herself. Trepid, yet more consuming than your bloodlust.”
“Speakher name again and I’ll cut your tongue from your mouth, witch.”
“Sorceress,” she corrected. “Water mage, to be exact. Necromancer reigning.”
His lips spread into a threatening sneer. “I don’t carewhatorwhoyou are.”
“For now.” She smiled. “There he is, the monster behind the mask. I imagine your lovers prefer you angry. Thirsty.”
Garin didn’t even hear half of whatever the fuck she was saying. He glanced around, combing the room for the blasted warlock. Where was he—where had he been?
Did death work the same for thralls? Was this truly the end? He was going to be sick.
Morwenn stepped closer. Water curled around her feet. “I’ve an offer. A request I think you’d find quite appealing.”
