Page 4 of Disillusioned (A Lay of Ruinous Reign #2)

Behind him, two more guards escorted a man she didn’t recognize. Probably their family coachman, judging by his long coat and high boots.

Henri was at their rear, flanked by two men—Gondard and Perane, his councilmen of many years. He locked eyes with Lilac. “Everyone out! If anyone mentions a word of this, you’ll meet your fate at the guillotine. John has your names, places of work, and residences documented!”

“Where to, Your Highness?” asked one of the guards over Armand’s screeching.

“Anywhere but this room. This session is over.” Henri strode to her desk, standing off to the side, almost protectively in front of her. The councilmen took their positions behind the both of them, on the bottom steps at the rear of the desk. “Bring them chairs and fetch Madame Kemble.”

The guards dragged both men to the center of the floor, keeping them far from the desk.

The room was silent except for the opening and banging shut of the doors as the remainder of the crowd was ushered out into the courtyard, one guard rummaging in the storage room in the far corner, and another darting into the keep for the infirmary.

“Father,” she said through her teeth, but Henri silenced her with a finger in the air.

The duke’s grimace had stretched into an equally terrifying smile, either at her or at least in her general direction, despite the grim expressions worn by the guards beside him. The coachman gazed off into the distance, his eyes heavy-lidded as he gave two slow blinks.

There was a sudden knock. “Come in,” called Lilac and Henri simultaneously.

One of the doors opened, and in barged Madame Kemble, her long blonde-gray hair tucked into a bun, several cloths slung over her shoulder and a tool belt hanging from her apron donned over a nightgown, which indicated she’d been roused from a nap.

She nearly stumbled under the weight of the bucket she carried, water sloshing as she made her way to the men.

Just then, the guard returned from the storage closet with two spare chairs, upon which both men were promptly seated closer to the patch of late morning sunlight pouring from the high windows.

Nausea burned Lilac’s throat. Something was terribly wrong.

Kemble moved nimbly around them. She’d placed Armand’s left foot into the bucket of water and placed a cold cloth against his temple and right eye, which was swollen, blooming in splotches of red and yellow. Yet, his smile-grimace remained.

Deep circles lined the purpling skin beneath the coachman’s eyes, and his lips were several shades too pale. He held a faraway gaze as if he were… sleepwalking. Kemble noticed, too. She waved a hand before his eyes.

Before anyone could stop him he made to rise, only to fold at the middle in an almost comical bow. Then, his knees buckled and his torso followed.

The man hit the floor face first with a muffled crunch .

Armand made a strangled noise through his smile. The coachman remained face down and did not get back up.

“Is he…” The words died on Lilac’s lips.

Kemble was already shifting, patting her hands dry upon her apron before placing a knuckle against the side of the man’s neck. The shake of her head was nearly imperceptible.

“Armand’s driver,” her father muttered. Then his voice rang out. “Remove him.”

“It’ll take a bit to fetch the linen and stretcher, sir.”

“You have hands and feet, don’t you?” Henri left his station at the front of the desk and moved to stand beside her. “Go. Take him out the courtyard door, quickly now, while everyone is at the chapel.”

Two guards did as Henri said, hoisting the corpse by its blue arms and feet and taking him out the courtyard door on the southern wall.

“What could it have been?” asked Gondard.

“People drop all the time,” said Henri gruffly. “Armand will make everything clear once he snaps out of this shock he’s in. In the meantime, no one enters or leaves the room until we conclude this session.”

Lilac dared a glance at Armand; he sat nodding, the remaining guard’s hand clamped upon his shoulder.

There was no response to her father calling out his inaction, something he would’ve absolutely revolted against—if he were right in the head.

Damp spots lined the collar of his white shirt and armpits, and there was a visible sheen on his forehead.

He was not suffering from some normal ailment, some excess of alcohol.

No, this man had been spelled. But by friend or foe?

It was no secret that Armand was not the same supporter of her as he had been of Henri.

Maybe Adelaide had poisoned him after the fact and sent him as a cruel joke.

Or were the Fair Folk behind his behavior?

Lilac shuddered at the thought of Kestrel; she was already dreading having to face him as night drew near .

Only one way to find out.

“Your Grace,” she said, welcoming him to begin.

John adjusted in his seat, readying his quill.

Armand’s gaze cast to the floor, and he began to mumble under his breath. Kemble turned toward him, brow furrowed in concentration. Lilac cocked an ear but could make out nothing.

Kemble spoke quietly to him, kneeling and shaking her head as he slowly tried to spin in his seat, but the guard behind him grunted warningly.

Lilac waved a hand. “Yes, Armand? He may speak. Let him speak.”

“I think he’s saying he cannot speak with you until he gives you his gift, Your Majesty.”

He’d brought her a gift. Something was certainly wrong. “Very well, then.” She outstretched her arm, crooking her fingers. “Give it here.”

The guard stepped back and released him, but not without a reluctant grimace, his hand sliding to rest at the hilt at his hip.

The freedom allowed Armand to twist in his chair, swiping his arm behind him rather frantically.

Kemble used her foot to push a long, narrow bag closed by a drawstring to within reach, and the man snatched it, cradling the package to his chest like a doting mother would hold her newborn babe.

Then he turned his unnerving smile on Lilac and held it out to her.

She stood from her chair, and Henri’s arm shot out to stop her.

“What if the same madness has infected him, Lilac?”

“That’s what our guards are here for.” And his type of madness isn’t catching.

It was also what the jeweled dagger strapped to her outer thigh was for.

Ignoring the dread gnawing at her insides, she shrugged him off and marched straight toward the man who had fathered her worst nightmare.

She stopped an arm’s length away, and as she accepted the bundle, his fingers brushed hers.

They were clammy, and cold. As soon as he released the bag to her, he slumped forward.

She took two quick steps back, keeping her eye on him as she deposited the bundle upon her desk. It landed with a thump .

The duke took deep, shaking breaths, eyes closed, as relief and a mixture of other emotions washed over him.

Lilac smoothed her skirts with one hand and placed the other upon the hilt that rested on her right thigh .

“Why are you here, Armand?”

The words, like some sort of counterspell, washed over the duke, stripping away whatever deep enchantment had bound him. Eyes bulging, his entire body seized; then an unholy scream escaped his lips. He jerked and twisted until he toppled the chair, tipping the bucket at his feet.

Red-tinged water spilled toward her.

“My foot,” Armand bellowed, causing the guards to circle closer. “My fucking?—”

“Silence him!” Henri roared from beside her.

One of the guards grimaced and clamped a gloved hand over his mouth as Armand writhed, nearly sliding out of his chair. When the guard released him, the duke did fall to the floor, sobbing and clutching his leg with one hand, the other hand curled inward toward his body.

Kemble, with the help of two guards, hoisted him upright. They struggled to catch his flailing limbs, but the moment Kemble snatched his foot—the one that had been shoved in the bucket—he stilled.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” His gaze swept the room like an animal ensnared in a trap.

“Who?” Lilac glared down at him, forging through the unease in the pit of her belly. “Is who here?”

Armand trembled, the afternoon sun blinding him from the high windows like a torch held to his face, pressing the answers out of him. But he said nothing—until Kemble began to tug at his boot.

“No,” he moaned, but the men behind him only tightened their grip on his shoulders. “Don’t! Please, God. Don’t touch it.”

“The moisture will cause infection,” Kemble shouted over him. She pulled a thin knife from her apron and slit the boot up the side.

He screamed.

“Oh my.” A startled gasp escaped the nurse’s throat, even as she moved to cut his hose away with her shears.

Lilac stepped around her father’s warding arm.

Blooming in a mosaic of purple and red, his foot was bent in an unnatural form. The last two toes curled back, as if they’d been cracked off their joints, and his outer ankle was smashed in. Some of the skin had been torn across his shin, revealing the bones and meat underneath.

She glanced away from the mess of flesh. Her ears were ringing. There was no way he’d hidden pain that great without magic. Without faerie ether, a spell, or entrancement .

“What happened?”

He began to stutter, but every word turned into a whimper. Kemble fished in her apron and pulled out a flask. After a couple large swallows Armand groaned and, still shaking violently, said, “Vivien is dead. And she was killed by your vampire.”