and carrots caramelized in salted butter, then wrapped in a thick, crisp layer of flaky dough. Marguerite had only bothered preparing it when Henri requested the pie during the frigid winter months, and it was the only dish she’d made better than Hedwig—though Lilac would never admit it out loud.
She grinned contentedly and snuggled further into her sheets, for once relieved to be home to enjoy the delectable meal.
Except... It was late Spring. And she most certainly was not home.
Her eyes fluttered open as she shot up on one arm. She rubbed them groggily with the other. Her dry throat felt like sandpaper, so she swallowed repeatedly to wet it. She’d dreamt everything. She prayed over and over that she had.
The fire still blazed in the dirt pit, now warming an iron pan suspended by a makeshift wire rack. Sinclair’s leather knapsack was neatly laid out next to it. As her vision adjusted to the flames, she focused in on a stone plate and set of silverware on the dirt beside her. On it was a single steaming slice of shepherd’s pie. Her mother’s.
“Sinclair?” Panic coated her parched throat. Maybe he had come back for her. She couldn’t believe she was actually hoping he had.
When the only answer to her call was an ominous crunch of leaves, she fought back a shiver. “Sinclair?”
“Not so loud.” A voice floated from the trees. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a killer on the loose.” The vampire emerged from the shadows held a goblet out to her. “Drink.”
“Ugh, no,” she cried, jerking her arm back. The thought of him sipping from the tainted cup earlier churned acid through her empty stomach. “Get away from me, you vile—” her hand flew to the leather scabbard on her belt, but it was empty.
Her ancestor’s dagger was gone.
Then, she recalled unsuccessfully stabbing him with it; surely, he wouldn’t have handed it back to her.
Garin dismissively waved a hand as if to sweep away her melodrama. “For now, your dagger is safe with me.” He patted his hip where her dagger hung, presumably silently. “Far out of reach from those grubby, impulsive little fingers of yours. And relax. I rinsed it out thoroughly. It’s fresh river water.” He squatted next to her and proffered the goblet again.
Lilac hesitantly accepted it, refusing to take her eyes off him and careful not to touch his dead skin. How on earth she missed his unsightly pallor at the inn, she did not know. Every bone in her body resisted trusting anything that came out of his mouth, but thirst overwhelmed her better judgement for now. She sat up and pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger while taking the smallest sip possible, in fear of tasting any metallic residue. There wasn’t any. Hungrily, she tipped the rest into her mouth.
Thirst somewhat sated, she narrowed her eyes at her captor. “Where’d you get all of this?” she demanded, jutting her chin at the shepherd’s pie and utensils.
Garin shifted his weight back to his feet, ignoring it completely when she scooted away in disdain. “Well, you fainted. And you hit your head. You were parched, and I guessed a little hungry, so I fished inside your little friend’s bag that he so generously left us and found some food and stoneware. Plus, that fabulous cast iron, which I would’ve relished in another life.” He shook his head and tsked twice. “His mummy dearest must take such great care of him.”
“Except, this is my mother’s pie.” A pang of emptiness resounded in her chest. Fork in hand, she skewered a tiny bite. Marguerite probably cooked it for Sinclair before he departed on his search for her. After the night’s events, the thought of her mother handing him the bundle of supper made her stomach churn.
She inspected the plate once more before popping the forkful into her mouth, where the mixture of meat and vegetables instantly burned her tongue. She nearly dropped the utensil.
“I just removed it from the fire. That’s often how it works.” Garin placed the tips of his fingers together, his condescending glare morphing into one of contemplation. “Speaking of your beloved, we need to find some shelter quick in case he returns with reinforcements.”
Lilac couldn’t be sure, but Garin looked as if he had attempted to wash himself off in the river. His face appeared far less matted with blood than she could recall, and his dark hair had regained some of its bounce.
She stared. Despite his monstrous truth now unveiled,