light. It was a chilling reminder that although he was at times cordial toward her, friendly, even, she was still his prisoner. A piece of his ploy.
Nausea rolled over her like the pungent waves of decay, and she was unable to shake the nagging feeling that she’d made a mistake to even think of trusting him. Perhaps, the only way she’d survived all those years in the castle was by knowing there would always be a way out—a choice, if she wanted it. If she dared. She would escape through the dungeon and out to the rose hedges; if and when she’d wanted it bad enough, Brocéliande has always been there. Ophelia’s note merely fed the princess’s flames of desire and curiosity enough to warrant action.
Now, Lilac hated that there was no way for her to escape in case things went very, very wr—
A shattering clang broke her distraction. Lilac couldn’t help it. She glanced away from Garin and at the prisoner who’d leaped at the cage door. Her chalky hands clawed feverishly at the bars. Shackled at the wrists, it appeared to be a woman. A young woman, beneath the flaking grime on her cheeks, beneath the matted hair, flaming red and tucked into a bonnet. A soot-covered smock hung, half torn and falling off her shoulders.
“Princess!” the woman croaked through her feeble attempts to break the bars imprisoning her. “What a cruel illusion—”
Lilac stumbled backwards when Garin released her in his own shock. She’d never seen the frantic stranger, but pity and fear tore at her heart. The woman’s gaunt cheeks were suddenly wet with tears, and skin at her collarbone sucked in as she panted.
Garin gripped the cage and pressed his face between the bars. The woman shrunk away.
“You will hold your tongue this instant. How dare you address—”
He paused. Then, he tensed. The next thing Lilac knew, he had put himself between her and the wooden door behind them.
“What—”
“Don’t,” Garin growled through his teeth.
In a flurry of dust, the door flew open. When the cloud cleared, a man stood in the doorway of the entry passage, his dirty blond hair knotted at the nape of his neck. A distinct nose bridge and high cheekbones hinted at Eastern ancestry, and his eyes, exotic and deadly even from a distance, were a shade of deep garnet. As he took in the sight of Garin—and Lilac peeking out from behind him—his mouth, smeared with crusted mahogany, spread into a wide smile.
“Brother!”
Brother?
In no time, the newcomer crossed the length of the hall. He clapped a filthy hand on Garin’s shoulder. “And you brought a guest?”
Her subtle effort to remain hidden were futile; he stepped around to size Lilac up and down.
“A human guest,” he crooned. “New cattle?”
“Cattle?” Garin repeated, turning warily to face him.
“Indeed.” The vampire’s eyes bore into the back of Lilac’s head as he circled her, never lifting his gaze while he addressed Garin. “Things have changed in your absence.”
“Are these everyone’s thralls?” Garin asked, turning and motioning at the cages. “Why are they confined this way?”
“We haven’t had an individual servant system since the king’s law. These are the community thralls, so to speak.”
Garin’s face was almost unreadable. Then, he raised his brows in mild surprise, though the concerned glint in them remained. “Where did you get them?”
“I don’t know.” The vampire gave a rough laugh. “Brother, why the interrogation? They’re the broken, bruised, and battered of society who had no one. Nobody cares that they are missing.” He shrugged condescendingly. “Cattle, as I said.”
Without warning, he brushed Lilac’s hair back off her shoulders, a movement and touch so light she would not have noticed, had she not been hyperaware. She flinched and willed herself to still.
“And this one,” he purred. “Is this your contribution?”
“My own, Bastion,” Garin replied, never taking his eyes off the blond vampire. The territorial disposition in his own voice shocked even her.
“Your thrall, then.” Bastion nodded approvingly. “I was only curious, brother. No harm intended.” He clicked his tongue at the roof of his mouth, looking her up and down and then turning his attention to Garin. “I assume she wasn’t traveling with a beau? Or, perhaps a brother? I’m sure you’d have brought me a scrumptious apology gift.”
“Of course, I would’ve.”
“No matter.” Bastion winked. “You look good. Healthy. It’s been what, forty years?”
“Forty-two.”
“Yet you don’t look a day over twenty-five,” Bastion said, hands on hips.
“That is how vampirism works.” Garin’s voice held none of the airy lightness that Bastion’s did.
The blond