him on the lip or run, she sighed loudly. “I can’t wait until I no longer need entertain your ridiculous endeavors.”
He turned and crouched again. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wash off your garments here?”
“Positive.”
“Brilliant. Your funeral, then.” With that, he patted his shoulder again.
Grace evaded her once more—as if it were ever hers to begin with. She awkwardly straddled the middle of his broad back. As he straightened, she immediately lost her already-poor balance, lurching forward and almost hitting her face on the hilt of Sinclair’s sheathed sword. Lilac fought for her balance, one arm hooked around his shoulder while the other took turns pulling her drooping neckline back up over her cleavage, and the hem of her dress down.
He placed the sack between his teeth and looped his arms under her bent knees. Without warning, he crouched forward onto the balls of his feet, his back muscles tensing under Lilac’s legs.
“Are you ready?” His voice was slightly nasal now; she sat at such a close proximity to his own nose and mouth, and the incision at her throat was still only a couple of hours old.
She struggled around his wide shoulders, finally latching her arms around his neck. “Ready for?”
“Whatever you do, please be sure of two things: your fingers stay locked around me, and you’ll need to remember to keep breathing.”
Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Why would I—”
But Garin suddenly bounded forward, her burlap sack hanging in his mouth—and Lilac found her hands straining to maintain their interlocked position as her weight slung back against his forward momentum. She scrabbled to regain her grip, her braid and cloak hood whipping behind them.
The trees began to disintegrate into darkened streaks of umber-brown and night. To her right, the only thing she could make out was the bright reflection of the moon off the lake, and it too disappeared quickly.
Garin was running.
16
The only sources of light were the tiny flashes of tinsel dew tinting the damp brambles. They were in the thick of the wild wood, now. She stifled a scream when their position abruptly changed, and they jostled up a steep incline. The moisture in the air seemed to thin around them, and soft things began to whip at her bare forearms and cheeks. Even as Lilac hoped they were only leaves touching her, she knew Garin wouldn’t possibly let anything dangerous near. She shut her eyes when their bobbing and swerving grew too overwhelming—but that wasn’t a good idea, either.
“St—stop,” she managed past the lump in her throat. “Stop!”
“A bit more,” came Garin’s muffled yell through the burlap in his mouth.
When they finally reached an opening in the trees, Garin screeched to a halt. Lilac dropped from his shoulders and could only focus on the spinning ground. Hands out in front of her, she stumbled to the nearest tree, gripped it for balance, and waited for the world to grow level.
“That was thrilling!” Garin roared, laughing into the strong breeze. Then, when she failed to reply, he spun around. “Princess?”
Lilac retched, the wind blowing bits of her hair into the threads of bile hanging from her lips. She groaned in disgust, but a hand gathered the hair draped over her face and swept it back over her shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” Garin’s voice had been melodiously and charming when he’d feigned kindness; it was deadly saccharine when he was actually being genuine.
“I—I closed my eyes,” she groaned. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Ah yes.” He snorted. “I forgot the third rule: keep your eyes open. I don’t ever have to remember it myself.”
“Thanks a lot,” she muttered. “You call that running?”
“Vampire running.”
She spat to clear the bile from her mouth. “Why didn’t you do that on the way to the Mine?”
“I was trying to refrain from scaring you. Too much, anyway.”
Garin hooked his hands under her shoulders and slowly hoisted her up, not stopping until she was fully cradled in his arms. This time, she didn’t resist him as he carried her away from the copse of trees and into the open air.
“What are you—”
Lilac gasped. She knew that certain portions of Brocéliande were hilly as the rest of the Breton moors, but she never imagined quite a view from the forest existed. She’d certainly never witnessed anything like the scene unfolded before them.
They stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking Brocéliande. Her kingdom, but also—mostly—Brocéliande. The sprawling treetops of the remaining High Forest rose and fell like waves in a jade sea, leading into