Page 156 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)
As I got older, it was the clanking of the armor we were forced to don, and—understandably—the cries of dying men. But eventually I grew numb to it, as one does when he is subjected to continuous war for a decade of his youth. Many of us did.
When I was turned at twenty-five, I found the feeling returning tenfold.
Sensation fed into my anger, which then fed into my hunger.
Years later, the inn brought me great reprieve, and the Algovens seemed unbothered by my need to interact minimally on my shifts, and looked the other way when I’d slink down to my cellar room where I’d rot, a bottle of blood in my hand, until the next evening.
Even on the tavern’s most raucous nights, it seemed being among Daemon folk—not even necessarily other vampires—was different for me. Soothing. Calming .
Reassuring, almost—and on my darkest days, when the memories refused to quiet, I’d sit and ponder if I was ever meant for the human life I scarcely truly missed. Of the childhood that came to me in eye-blurring fragments.
And then, the princess walked in, and everything changed. Like the fates themselves were calling out to me, a burning beacon of change and reprieve. It was as though everything warm and good in the world stood right in front of me, in the form of a rain-soaked woman making a mess of my floor.
I’d banished the thought of making a mess of her immediately from my fucked up mind.
Last night I was hardly myself, either. Shards of the evening unfold: sitting at the card table with Bast, Myrddin, and that loathsome Casmir. Drinking. Betting. Gambling, and running to Rennes, feeling as free and as caged and scared as I’ve ever felt.
That thumping, sweaty mass of writhing bodies that drove my senses wild. And the queen—the queen in her mask, smelling of magic and dusk and Myrddin’s black powder, and her blood that sings out to me. Centers me.
And that dripping, sweet cunt that leaves me breathless and drives me over the edge all over again.
Last thing I knew, I was in an alleyway, and the next, I’m chasing the warlock down the stairs and out the door. Adelaide nearly took my eye out with one of her exploding bottles, but Myrddin didn’t manage to get very far from me, either. It seems that we, too, are tethered in a way.
At the moment, I am blinded by the sensations of a red lust and ravenousness, locked in a most intimate embrace and whispering sweet nothings to the soft, white linen canvas before me.
“ Die already ,” I snarl, hardly aware of the enormous repercussions of what I’m doing—of just how important the man beneath the pillow I’m holding taut is.
But he’s got a lot of fight in him, probably from all the magical pottage Lorietta’s been feeding him the past week.
His hands scramble for purchase over mine, gold rings adorning them—and a palm slams at the locked bedroom door for the umpteenth time .
“Don’t do it,” Lori snaps. “Remember yourself, Garin. You’ll cause more trouble than you’ll solve.”
Then, Meriam. “I don’t know. Maybe a mortal death in our walls would be good for Daemon business, after all.”
“ Not the emperor’s emissary ,” Lori screeches.
Adelaide bursts out laughing. Of course she does.
But ?I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. My mood’s already inexplicably soured from the thrall bond that’s snapped into place, and the bloodied blur of the night. My dick is still ragingly hard, my mouth watering at the thought of kneeling for my queen.
And my hands, as they move to murder—they shake, desperate to feel Eleanor again. Desperate to feel the swell of her ass against me, desperate to hold her fingers in mine. Sweaty at the thought of her at the altar with anyone else.
What an infuriating, idiotic mistake I’ve made—and will continue to make. Because it is the right thing to do, the chivalrous thing to do.
But for now, I am blinded by the inescapable, cemented knowledge of two things: the first, the force that drove me to chuck The Histories of the Lasting Night into the Argent.
Stumbling upon the knowledge that vampire-human marriages unsanctioned by the arcane powers are strictly outlawed, and would put a magical bounty upon their heads. Surprising? No.
Infuriating? Absolutely.
Ancient law or not, I’d raze kingdoms, traverse treacherous seas to keep her.
“Garin, if you stain my walls in the Imperial emissary’s blood, you will never be allowed back, mark my words.”
Lori has a point. She abides by Francis’s treaty—at least that part of it—and wrath hath no fury than a witch scorned… I should know.
I lift the pillow from Albrecht’s ruddy face and yank him up by his shirt.
He fights me again, sputtering through blue-tinged lips, but I’m doing him a favor.
No one wants to see the wrath that might come on Lilac’s wedding day, especially if I’m forced to keep my distance from her.
Yet again, I’d be the worst kind of wedding guest imaginable.
I swing the door open, to the witches’ shocked faces, and gently excuse myself between them.
Lori is screaming at me; Meriam has decided to stay out of it, though I’ve never seen her more uncomfortable.
Adelaide watches warily from the bottom of the staircase, and most of the Korikaned in the tavern are instantly hushed by Bast and Casmir.
I break out into the night. Early morning? I’m not sure.
The git sobs at my side, begging for his life. Poor thing, he didn’t ask for this. He’s the messenger—Maximilian’s proxy. None of this is his fault.
But I drag him to the edge of the Argent, just under the window Lilac jumped out of in order to escape me that lovely, fateful day.
I drop to my knees, the lapping water soaking my trousers, and shove Albrecht’s head face-first into the slow-moving river, bubbles and his frantic scrabbling frothing from beneath.
The rage surges through me, out of me, my mind clearing just a bit as my uneven breath steadies. The blinding bloodlust remains, but this is better than nothing.
Better him than the emperor, right?
I stand and float his body to the middle of the Argent, where two pairs of hands snatch him by the legs and yank him under.
He disappears without a sound, until a lone pale-green head pops up above the surface, her eerie eyes glowing in the dim light of Brocéliande.
She waves in gratitude, and I nod before turning my back on her, shuddering.
The door swings open as I trek up the bank. Out stumbles Giles, followed by Myrddin. Blitzrik and Ra’arak watch from the windows, their button noses pressed against the fogged glass.
“Ready the carriage and the horses, please,” I grunt. “Myrddin, get your things.”
The warlock is mysteriously much too chipper to be caught in the middle of all this; without further clarification, he disappears into the inn without a word.
Giles also obliges, humming a hymn that’s supposed to be solemn to himself.
It’s chipper, upbeat, and I can’t help but feel a stab of dread-filled hope as Bisousig slinks around my ankles, purring loudly.
Bastion ducks his head out, wary of the soon-rising sun. “Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going?” I say. It might be my fault the emissary is no longer, but Lilac will not be kept waiting for the meeting I myself had organized.
The second thing is that, by vice or virtue, Lilac is my queen. Eleanor of Brittany . Not only do I kneel for her with unwavering reverence .
There remains a steady truth, unavoidable and unsettling as fate itself:
I’ve fallen in love with her, Dear Reader. It is a simple, nonsensical fact. Against my better judgement and rudimentary sense of self warring with the thing I’ve become—both are in agreement. It is her.
The one my thirst burns to covet. The one the man in me, buried beneath decades of vine and sinew, yearns to serve. And cherish. And hold, in sickness and in health. In this life and the next.
There is no other choice but to go to her , I decide, as Myrddin lumbers out with two travel bags.
Hunger does things to a person, you see. Need skirts reason, logic is no longer a boon, and may the end always justify the means.
Disastrous and unholy as it sounds, although it is my ultimate wish for Eleanor to be safe in the arms of any powerful ruler with the resources to ensure her kingdom’s safety?—
At the end of all this, it’ll be my ring on her hand.