Garin retreated several steps and hurled himself at the open door. Hisshoulder slammed against the solid, invisible force. Heaving, he grabbed the frame of the door, and a fistful of wood came away easily, but his fingernails scraped against the invisible barrier when they reached the perimeter of the house. He pulled his hands away; some of his nails cracked to the bed.
Garin roared and stuck them in his mouth.
Calmly, Artus returned the jewelry to his trousers and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a faded piece of parchment, folded at the middle.
Even if he’d never laid eyes on it, Garin knew what it was before Artus even began reading.
“On this day 1338, under the Chief Lord of the Fee, His Majesty John IV of Brittany and Duke Geoffrey de Penthièvre, this property at the northwesternmost corner of the Paimpont Farmlands falls under the ownership of Pascal Trevelyan of Cornwall.” Artus looked up, his eyes twinkling. “Funny little parcel I found just outside the Jaunty Hog. Picked it up off the street after witnessing a couple ruffians get thrown out into the square.”
The crowd behind him gathered. Garin’s stomach knotted, dread poisoning him. He’d forgotten all about the envelope Sable had slipped him when they’d first left the inn, and had been too distracted with suppressing his fury after watching Lilac nearly get mauled to death by that revenant.
But this didn’t make any sense; he didn’t understand—he’d had access to the property all these years, hadn’t he? He’d had it when he and Lilac had taken shelter there. “Physical possession of the deed doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ah, but it does when there is no heir named. All this time, the deed remained on the premises, likely within your father’s belongings.”
Pascal’s box beneath the floorboards.
“By the time this farmhouse’s first set of owners died,” Artus continued gleefully, “the deed was never signed by their son. The magistrate never possessed the property, as it should have been. Many things were missed during the ongoing war, you see. So, all these years, whether or not it as it was occupied, it belonged to its inhabitants, but remained under the original family’s name because of these administrative matters sopoorlytended to. Until today, after falling vacant due to the most unfortunate circumstance. With no apparent heir, this farmhouse now belongs to the owner ofthe fief.” He turned the parchment toward Garin to show him a fresh stamp and scrawled signature at the bottom, just below Pascal’s. “And that owner of the fief, boy, is me.”
There was once a time Garin wished to return to his property, before realization of what he’d become had fully struck him. He’d returned one evening, years and years later, when curiosity got the best of him. It was that summer evening he’d met Adelaide, then stayed far away after he’d murdered her family in the parlor.
Garin blinked. All thatblood.
What would Lori and Adelaide think of him now?
“What’s wrong?” Artus’s insufferable voice broke his reverie. “All those years antagonizing us and nothing to say for once?”
“Armand is dead and Sinclair was denounced. So were you.”
“Poor Francis was so eager to get rid of me over our misunderstanding that he only removed me from his court that night.”
“It was no misunderstanding,” Garin snarled. “You know what you were trying to do.”
“And what would you have cared of it?” Even as Garin towered over him, Artus’s gaze was effectively condescending. “Have you ever asked yourself that?”
He remained silent.
“Francis demanded I leave the castle, but no one stripped me of my title on paper. He told me he could not stand to see me, but deep down, he must’ve known executing me or anyone in my lineage would become averypublic affair, giving France another one of many reasons to engage in a war that would inevitably crush his puny kingdom. So, he merely banished me. Quietly and swiftly.” His smile grew knowing. “You remember that fateful night, now, don’t you?”
Garin refused to allow the unbearable memory of the eve of the Ermengarde trial to resurface. He stepped to the door, placing his palms flat against the threshold. “You have no claim to my parents’ land, Artus.”
“Oh, but I do. It is your own law that prevents your entry. I am but a man.” Artus chuckled. “A man you cannot get to. The magic speaks for itself.” He stepped back into the house, hardly hobbling as he’d pretended to at the Jaunty Hog. “How funny, the very magic that keeps your unnatural heart beating.”
The crowd parted for someone shuffling through, then. Bog appeared, eyes glassy, shoving Hamon aside. The tavern owner stumbled and grinned at the sight of him; a bravado, Garin could tell, from Bog’s hammering heart. His fangs began to throb. How he’d love to stoke that sweet-smelling fear.
Someone else bumped into Bog from behind, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
“Sorry,” the man muttered, emerging next to him.
He was nearly a foot taller than Bog. Broad shoulders and an irritatingly open if not aloof demeanor despite the familiar way his eyes shifted from the murmuring crowd, back to Bog for nervous approval.
Justlike Bog’s did to Artus.
“You clumsy shit.” Bog reached up to slap him on the head, then kicked aside the pieces of the glass Rupert had been carrying.
Rupert was dressed in poorly fitting armor, a dull broadsword at his hip. His determined grimace turned cold at the sight of Garin. Then, seeping realization as his gaze trailed down Garin’s body, landing on his blood-soaked sleeve and pant as Bog and Artus watched in silent amusement.
Aloof as Rupert appeared, the recognition in his eyes shifted unexpectedly to alarm. He began to stutter under Garin’s heavy-lidded haze. “Erm, he’s bleeding. Perhaps we should let him?—”
