Garin scoffed, actually affronted. He shouldn’t have been surprised. “So he lied to the queen about his duty.”
“I was told I’d become Junior Armorer if I brought her the wine and pried about property inheritance law,” Rupert blurted, blanching when Artus shot him a deadly glare.
Garin didn’t know which was more ridiculous, believing the unspoken rules of vampirism care about a kingdom’s shifting legalities, or the thought of Rupert working anywhere near the armory.
Bog spun, relinquishing the battle of tugging Rupert back down the hall. “Igave him armor and a weapon. I have prepared him. He is to lead us.”
Artus balled a fist and sent it into Bog’s ribs. “Shut. The fuck.Up.”
“Against me?” Garin scoffed, despite the alarming notion of a group this size on a Daemon hunt. “He wouldn’t stand a chance. None of you would, but especially him.”
Rupert stiffened near the hallway entrance.
“But youknewthat. He’s an academic. Sorbonne, straight into the castle guard after years of travel? No training or experience? Come on, he’s too broad for his armor. He’s not even got the right scabbard on.”
“What are you on about?” Rupert growled, though he thumbed the strap at his chest.
“You were trying to lead Eleanor with your left hand on the dance floor. That’s why you looked like the blind leading the blind. Your left hand is dominant.”
Rupert snarled to hide a grimace. “Your point?”
“Your scabbard hangs on your left. You’ll have to switch hands or draw with your right, already a costly second in sword combat. That blade there is at least two decades old, if not older than yourself, and hasn’t been sharpened in years.” Garin passed a hand over his face; he might’ve actually felt bad for him, had he not played a willing part in Artus’s ploy against the queen. “How trained were you in Renald’s guard?”
“I received six months.”
“Of swordplay? Or a hay bale?”
Rupert didn’t answer. Evidently.
Garin stepped back from the threshold, licking his lips. “And that, gentlemen, is what happens when a kingdom operates on the belief that its greatest opponent is a community of species they’ve worked relentlessly to oppress. Now, you’ve got a new generation of men unprepared for battle against your own kin.”
His comment seemed to strike a soft spot for Artus. “We are notunderprepared for either,” he spat, as his crowd began to murmur. “Don’t listen to him!”
“Why train the towns’ militias when annexation under your neighboring crown would grant your and your daughter-in-law’s families a place in their court? Especially when you had a hand in Eleanor’s downfall. You, stripped of your duties in your time as duke. The Ermengarde scandal and your son’s failed role as head of their army? No one noticed all the while, because your family succeeded in turning everyone’s attention toward the forests. The Daemons were to blame for their fears and strife. Then, your spineless grandson grew of age. And you knew you had one last chance.”
The scum didn’t even bother denying it. Garin’s accusation didn’t seem to rile or shock anyone in the crowd, either. Bog and Rupert remained dead silent.
“Youare unprepared for France because you were born a traitor, weren’t you? And so with Armand and Sinclair. And now that the queen has decided to—” Garin broke off with a shuddering inhale, for the very thought of her at the altar still stole the breath from his lungs. “She has decided to marry Maximilian. What will you do? With knowledge of this potential new alliance, do you think France will bother sparing you? Or your little inn? Or your family’s estate?”
Finally, moisture began to well behind Artus’s eyes. But it was not enough.
“You’re grasping at straws. Did you plan to win the king’s approval by the prize of your hunt? He’s your only hope, because half the town and forest know by now that your queen has been safe, and shall remain safe in my arms. In my bed.”
“You are nothing but her pawn.” Artus lurched forward and spat a glob at Garin’s feet. “You are nothing. You think she’ll make you an equal?”
“I don’t want a crown, Artus. I want her.” Garin looked pointedly at Rupert, ignoring Artus’s murderous glare. He felt almost sorry for Emma’s son, for what a spineless father he had—not the fact his dick had been in Lilac’s mouth. “That sword and scabbard they gave you would not only hinder your ability in battle.” Rupert’s trousers were expensive, well-made, and lacked pockets. No other weapon sat on his baldric. “They haven’t armed you with one bit of hawthorn, have they?”
Rupert shook his head slowly, helpless as realization sank in.
“You’re their sacrifice, Rupert.”
Fear flashed across the bastard’s face.
Garin exhaled, letting his tensed shoulders droop and his gaze to sharpen. He felt the ancient, Sanguine Magic buried beneath his skin begin to work its way to the surface. “You don’t want this. You don’t want this life, Rupert. Come to me.”
“No!” cried Bog, sobering, watching his son’s eyes glaze over.
“I’ll have him drag you out, too,” Garin snarled at Bog under his breath. He locked eyes with Rupert once more and smiled disarmingly. “Come, friend,” Garin commanded, “and use your mighty blade on anyone else who stands in your way.”
