sorry, Sinclair. I don’t mean to offend you, it’s just—as future queen, I it is my duty to ensure that we are prosecuting the right people. We mustn’t punish an innocent man.” Only the night before, she’d sat down for a drink with the prisoner slumped before her. “I mean, his eyes are grey,” she stammered. “In my studies—”
“Throw away your studies and those silly little manuscripts, my beloved,” Sinclair said, grandly waving his free arm at Garin. The only thing he hated more than Darklings was being questioned. “You’re receiving an excellent course right now! Like me, you’re an adventurer at heart, always questioning, always eager for information. A bit unusual, but I’ll bet that’s how Brocéliande lured you in—not the silly bluebells. And, in a week’s time, you’ll stand beside me as we eradicate these foul beasts one at a time.”
She shuddered, but he only shifted her closer, purring against her hair.
“Now, his eyes aren’t red because, for whatever reason, he no longer drinks from humans—this, I’ve gathered from our previous encounters. His lack of traditional diet means he isn’t quite as strong as the others, but only slightly so. He’s still dangerous.”
Fighting the urge to dry heave, the princess dared glance down at Garin. His eyes were somber as they came to meet hers. Then, as if made of silver liquid, something in them shifted.
There it was, the expression she’d caught fragments of through his tavern candor. Something between a wanton hunger and curiosity—though this time, the look was far less subtle.
Then, his gaze lowered to rest upon her rapidly reddening cheeks.
Feelings of pity mixed with the strongest surge of loathing she’d ever felt. Everything else faded into the background, except for the deranged prisoner before her and the contrasting memory of him at the tavern-inn. His alarming behavior in her chamber, and the way he was reluctant to let her leave.
She swallowed, both fascinated and afraid. Suddenly she didn’t know what to do with her arms.
Sinclair folded his, watching the growing horror on her face with satisfaction. “He’s an old one. Not the oldest, of course, but my father says he appeared shortly after the War of Succession. My father hunted him in his youth, and so did his father before him.”
Through the blood and grime caked on his face, Garin’s expression was almost calculating. Calculating an escape? Or, how to reach her…
“Show her his cheek,” Sinclair ordered the guards.
Mathis held Garin still at the shoulders while Enzo gripped his chin and forcefully twisted his head to the left. Lilac cupped a hand to her mouth and gasped. She couldn’t help herself. There were no marks from the sword, not one.
Blood, yes. Dirt, yes. But his skin was perfectly intact.
Sinclair had held it there for an excruciating five or six seconds. Twice. She’d heard his skin sizzle against the scorch of the blade.
“He’s healed. As you’ve probably read,” Sinclair drawled, a teasing edge to his tone, “vampires bleed as we all do; granted, the blood on his shirt is his own. But within minutes, his body regenerates. The devil’s work, he is. He’s put on a show to garner your pity. He’s perfectly fine.”
The guards released him, and Garin’s head slumped over again. The fire dancing off his profile made him look alien. She had been an idiot to ever get close to him.
“I need to lay down,” she said bleakly, straining lightly against Sinclair’s arm toward the blankets and pillow. The shadows cast against the trees were starting to dance. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Certainly. Enzo, Mathis.” Sinclair cocked his head in a vague direction toward the trees.
The two exchanged a look, let go of Garin, and mounted their horses. They disappeared into the woods as Garin toppled to his side with a cough and groan.
“Where are they going?” She spoke around an enormous yawn, settling onto the thin blanket. She forced her attention onto the scratchy wool between her fingers and the rugged forest floor beneath the soft moss; on the hunger scraping her insides. Anything to stop the thoughts of the bound Darkling—or man, she still wasn’t sure—from impeding the last shards of sanity she clung to for dear life. The roaring fire between the makeshift bed and Garin wasn’t nearly enough space from him as she would’ve liked, but it would have to do for the night.
“For a walk,” Sinclair answered finally.
She felt Sinclair’s eyes on her back as she stretched her arms high above her head before resting onto the pillow.