“Well, I opened my note from Kestrel,” Garin said. The corners of his eyes were taut. “Now, it’s your turn.”
“I don’t have one. Thank God.”
But he stood to retrieve the bouquet from her vanity. “Who else would send the new queen the flower of death as a coronation gift?” he asked, sniffing the flowers delicately. “These are White Lilies.” He sauntered over to her and violently shook the bouquet.
“Garin, stop that, you’ll ruin—”
A tiny golden envelop fluttered from the petals and landed in his outstretched hand.
Her mouth fell open. She snatched it out of his hands, then hesitated with her fingers on the lapel. “You know what?” She opened her side table drawer and tossed it in next to her now-behaved dagger. “No.”
“No?” Garin gave a dubious grimace. “That’s from Kestrel. It reeks of him. No one ignores his letters. And I doubt sending congratulatory notes to the human monarch is common behavior for him, or anyone from the Low Forest for that matter.”
“I understand, and I will open it. But not tonight. Not right now.” She patted the bed beside her, wiggling back against a pillow. “If it’s true what they say, of the faeries taking advantage of returned favors, I don’t want to know what it is they want. Not yet. I’ve had quite enough enchantment for a few weeks, if not a lifetime. Haven’t you?”
Almost hesitantly, he climbed onto the mattress beside her. Closer up, she could see that something was off. Beneath his grey eyes, the dark circles that had made him look every bit undead as he was, were gone. And maybe the sun had returned some of his color, if it was even possible. When she reached out to grab his hand, his whole body stiffened.
She loosened her grip and didn’t push further, somehow knowing that whatever he concealed wasn’t nearly as dramatic as a magical ex-lover, or a murderous past. “Something’s bothering you.”
“The ability to walk in sunlight isn’t all Adelaide’s forgiveness granted me.”
“What else, then?”
“It’s unimportant.”
“Obviously not.” She sidled closer to him, her own stomach in knots. “Tell me.”
“Lilac,” he groaned, leaning away halfheartedly.
Hearing him call her by name instead of her royal title made her chest tingle. Names held a sort of power. There had been a certain intimacy in learning Garin’s real birth name at the farmhouse. In one swift motion, she positioned herself in his lap. She hesitated, waiting to see if he’d resist. He didn’t.
She leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss upon his cheek. “Then show me, if you won’t tell me.”
“Absolutely not.”
She bit her lip. “Perhaps it’ll help if I share something with you first. Would that be all right?”
She took his silence as a yes.
“I went to Ophelia—to Adelaide—to be disenchanted. For half my life, I’d believed I was cursed… that maybe, my parents had upset the wrong witch or warlock, even if they’d always denied it. What she gave me—or said she’d given me, anyway—wasn’t a disenchantment tincture at all. She performed a test. My Darkling Tongue was never the result of a curse to begin with.”
He shifted under her touch. “That doesn’t make any sense. What could it have been?”
“A random occurrence was what she called it. I’m an anomaly. There was no enchantment to remove in the first place.”
The most curious expression washed over Garin’s features. He opened his mouth to comment, then seemingly decided against it. Lilac withheld a grimace, first wondering what it was he protected her from now—but she, too, pushed the thought from her mind. The moment was too perfect.
“For what it’s worth,” he offered instead, “I am sorry it worked out this way, especially after everything you’ve been through. You still have your ability.”
“I’m not sorry.” Lilac ducked, burying her smile into Garin’s neck, and the aroma of nightfall filled her head. Her answer was slow and sure. “Because now I know what to do with it.”
He pulled back to glance at her thoughtfully. “Nyns yw unn yeth lowr.”
Her heartrate accelerated. What did he say? Did he just—
As if reading her thoughts, Garin gave a boisterous laugh, his eyes a sparkling slate. His fingers traced lightly along her jaw. “My parents’ home tongue from Cornwall. It means, ‘One language is never enough.’ Your Darkling Tongue is a gift. Don’t let others fault you for it. Instead, use it to your gain.”
Lilac nodded and inhaled deeply once she’d remembered to breathe. “Will you tell me now? I haven’t forgotten,” she said, managing a rueful smile.
In answer, he only pressed his lips to hers—first
hesitantly, then furiously, deeply, as if there wasn’t enough time in his endless existence. When Lilac turned for air, he moved his attention to her ear with an unfamiliar recklessness. Eventually he reached her jaw, mouth inching lower still.
Garin removed himself only to whisper chillingly in her ear once more. “Memento mori.”
She gripped at his shoulders and didn’t have time to do anything but gasp when his teeth gently split the skin above her collarbone. The searing pain she’d felt when Piper bit her was absent, or perhaps beneath her notice.
The vampire pulled hungrily from her, and the queen fearlessly gave. Lilac was unaware of time passing, if at all. When her consciousness finally began to slip, she yearned to lean even deeper into their deadly embrace.
Then, just like that, the pressure was gone.
Garin stared down at her, mouth ruddy. He blinked wearily at her through his thick lashes. His eyes were wild, pewter—deep as dusk, and luminous as the stars.
Epilogue
“Au Revoir, Monsieur Rabelais. Have a marvelous evening.”
Vivien lurched back, tugging the thick brass ring on her enormous oakwood door. Her husband was out on business; of course he was. He’d told her it was a matter of routine politics, but deep down she knew he was out somewhere, a few glasses of brandy deep into a whore.
Lips pursed, she forced the infuriating memory of the princess’ ceremony out of her mind. She didn’t need a dozen physicians circulating in and out of their estate to tell them that Sinclair was a perfectly healthy boy. Whatever it was that induced his manic episode, she knew he wasn’t mad. Nor was he sick, despite the slight fever he had now.
And even if he were, it’d still make him a far better ruler than Lilac. The girl had something to do with her son’s ailments, she knew for a fact. Not a single soul on earth knew of her plan, nor of her whereabouts on the eve Laurent was murdered… not even her husband, and certainly not Sinclair. Following the ceremony, Armand had withdrawn further into himself than usual, suggesting only for her to consult the local witches—namely, their impious neighbor Ophelia, who’d mysteriously gone missing just before what should have been Sinclair’s crowning. She and Armand had spent days consoling the insufferable king and queen at their châtueau, and it was all for nothing.
Vivien dug her heels impossibly into the marble, and the door finally gave way with the third pull. Swinging it open, she leaned out into the night air. The biting remnants of winter were finally gone, and the milder late-Spring breeze tasted of wildflower. It was, if she said so herself, the perfect soirée weather.
However, she and her family were forbidden from enjoying any social freedoms until further notice from the queen. The queen’s guards sharply eyeing her from either side of her outer doorway had made sure of that.
The nerve of the outright bitch.
“But Madame,” came a rasping voice from behind her.
“François,” she replied, forcing her widest, most amorous grin from the doorway. She peered at doctor Rabelais, who held his briefcase hesitantly at the bottom of the interior stairwell. “I insist. You have the night off. Go home to your family.”
François stroked his silvering beard. “I live in Paris. Her Majesty ordered my presence of one week while your son is on medical observat
ion. I won’t have a carriage ready until then—”
The duchess waved her hand. “Ah yes, but I’ve already called one for you. It should be here any moment now, but in the meantime, you may wait on the courtyard steps.” She nodded as he crossed the parlor and made his way out onto the porte-cochère. “That’s right. Out you go, now. Merci, and good night.”
Groaning, Vivien rubbed her tired eyes once she managed to wrangle the door shut. The entire week, their pristine home had been full of imported physicians and local alchemists she’d already lost count of, filing in and out of her poor son’s upstairs bedroom. Now that the last was finally out, she wouldn’t be letting any more back in.
She pressed her back to the cool oak door and closed her eyes. A hot bath and glass of cognac was in immediate order while her son slept soundly upstairs. “Godwin,” she barked.
Godwin didn’t come. He’d probably gorged himself on supper leftovers and fallen asleep, again. The lazy cretin.
A sudden rustling could be heard from the next room over. Frowning, she made her way into the dining room—and slipped on something. Vivien cussed, barely catching herself on the edge of the table before her face hit the marble floor.
It was slicked wet with something thick. Red.
“Madame.”
She looked up, unable to utter a word. A pale hand reached out toward her, fingers twitching. Godwin lay crumpled on the floor, his rotund body wedged halfway beneath the table. His other limbs seemed to be twisted at ungodly angles, wrapping around the chair legs. She noticed his neck last; every guttural inhale was accompanied by an exhaled spurt of blood from his throat. His jugular was mangled beyond recognition. It was a miracle he was still conscious.
“H-help,” he sputtered, blood and saliva dripping from his mouth, dappling the bearskin rug under him.
Before she could muster a reply, he slid backward—
Yanked like a ragdoll, as if he weighed nothing at all.
A black leather boot came down on his neck at an angle, and in an instant Godwin was gone. His glassy brown eyes bore unseeingly into hers.
Vivien opened her mouth, attempted to release the wail building up inside. But she was frozen. Trembling, she shifted back onto her rump and pushed herself back against the wall, further smearing the trail of her servant’s blood.
The boots began making their way around the long table, slowly. Tauntingly.
“Stay away!” Vivien finally shrieked, startling herself. With an abrupt rush of adrenaline she stumbled to her feet and bolted for the parlor, not bothering to look back.
A tall figure leaned against the oak front door. A man. She squinted by the flickering torchlight and gasped—it was the priest from the coronation ceremony. His face was smattered with blood, and so were the fingers that he drummed against one another.
Before she could yell for the guards, he was behind her, one hand wrapped tight in her hair and the other wrapped around her wrist. Her other limbs were free to kick and flail, but that made no difference; his grip was immovable.
Ignoring her pleas, the priest sniffed at her wrist and let his eyes roll back. Then, he cleared his throat. “I’d like to propose a toast.” He paused and dragged her to the door. “This sort of thing doesn’t feel right without an audience. Know what I mean?”
He effortlessly swung both doors open and lifted her out onto the porch. As soon as they were in view of the guards, Vivien began to scream for her life—but both sentry and the doctor, who’d perched himself upon the top step, remained oblivious. As if under a spell, they stared on in mild interest despite her shrieks.
“Don’t bother.” The priest started over in front of their new audience, jostling Vivien silent. “As I was saying. I’d like to propose a toast. To all of the Darklings who’ve perished at either the carelessness or cruelty of human hands. To my maker, Laurent Beaulieu… May he rest in peace. Never again will we suffer under your family’s ignorance.” He raised her wrist, which had turned purple from his vice-like grip. “And to Lilac, my beloved.”
Vivien’s eyes bulged.
“Long live the Queen.”
He sank his fangs into the duchess’ wrist, fingers twined in her hair as he forced her to watch. Just before she slipped into darkness, he dropped his voice just above a whisper.
“And God help anyone who disrespects the Queen.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my own loving Darkling for manning the fortress and watching our own little korrigans all the hours I’d spent on DISENCHANTED. Thank you Benjamin, Scarlett, and Anastazja for being my “why”.
Thank you Olivia Swenson for believing in my story from day one, and helping me shape my world and characters.
Thank you Aimee Jones and Beth Wilkinson for helping me mold and reaffirm my admiration for the cultures of the Celtic Nations, and their lovely horses.
Thank you to my parents, Alyson, Tony, and Wayne. Our family was never broken—my horizons, only broadened. Thank you for pushing me, sometimes dragging me, to chase my dreams.
About the Author
With an education in Mass Communication—and an engrossment in the curious and bewitching—Brianna Sugalski is a writer and Blog Director for The Parliament House Press. Previously, she was a staff contributor for Lifestyle & Fashion online magazine, Sarah Scoop, and also served as Copy Editor and Editor-In-Chief at her school publications. All this time spent writing paid off; her Dark Fantasy YA novel, DISENCHANTED, was recently acquired for publication, and is slated for release in March of 2020.
Brianna was born and raised on the island of Oahu, Hawaii, but now travels every few years with her husband and two children. She admires a few luminaries of the Victorian Era; the romanticism of period literature has inspired her to twine vibrant settings of nature with fast-paced narratives that readers will hopefully enjoy.
Ultimately, she aspires to make her readers laugh, to challenge their perspectives and to help them discover the magical meaning of their own powers within.
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