“We saw the use of hand cannons, or thearquebus, toward the middle of the Hundred Years’ War. Alor refused to issue them, and so did the king. I’ve never touched nor trained with one of those abhorrent weapons. Neither had any of the men I’ve led.” His lip lifted into a soft snarl. “But I have extracted my fair share of bullets. The ones that were removable, anyway.”
Now that he’d finally stopped squirming, she sucked in a steadying breath and inserted the fine tip of the hooked tool into the wound on the exhale. It was hard to see with all the blood that oozed out. The end of the tool hit something solid, causing him to wince. This wound was much shallower, maybe just over a knuckle deep—one of her knuckles, she noted, peering sideways at his massive hands, which were clenched over the armrest. Lilac lifted the tool slowly, straightening and placing it back onto the cloth.
“Maybe,” he choked, and it looked like he was holding himself against the back of the chair. “Maybe put the muzzle back on now.”
She approached with the forceps this time. “Tell me about him.”
“About what?”
“About Alor.” Without warning, Lilac lowered the head of the prongs into him; they were wider, and had to hit the raw meat of his arm in order to grasp anything. He groaned, the sound sending a wave of heat through her thighs. “Emma told me a bit about him,” she said breathlessly. “I take it you heard.”
His knuckles paled against the armrests. “I’d gone to see him at the tents outside his estate when they were home on a short reprieve. I sentmy father to act as medic for another battlefield with a forged letter maybe a week before. They were ambushed on the second day.”
“I take it he didn’t make it,” she said quietly.
“No,” he answered, but there was no grief behind his eyes. “Alor and Laurent were fathers to me more than Pascal ever was—eventually. At first, Alor told me I was much too young, but I’d pointed out he himself was barely old enough to lead a kingdom into war. He argued Geoffrey wasn’t made for it like he was.” Garin laughed, and his dimples flanking the rows of fangs made her breath catch. “He was right. Mid-thirties, talented leader, and a barren wife, or so we thought.”
“What does that mean?”
“Katella married the king and fell pregnant with his son just after Alor had gone missing. It was a quick affair, but she was wrought with grief. She refused to address it publicly. Rumor had it, Alor had left her a note telling her he couldn’t live with himself after everything he’d witnessed. But Bast and I knew the truth.”
He ground his teeth; Lilac had inched the head of the forceps further into his wound.
“You told me he’d gone to kill himself before completing the change.”
“That’s… right.” He exhaled roughly. “I’ve heard it’s hard to do.”
His fists were clenched so tight, she feared the chains would pop off of their own accord. “Did Alor and Geoffrey reside in the Le Tallec estate?” The forceps caught the end of the bullet, then slipped off, causing him to snarl; he turned his head away from her to do so, and Lilac took another deep breath as she repositioned the prongs.
“Back then, it was the Chateau de Penthièvre,” he breathed, “and I prefer to recognize it as such today, though my newfound abhorrence for them makes it almost impossible to see it as much else. The king back then wanted Alor to take anyone tall enough to wield a sword and bow, ride a horse, but the duke’s son was eventually willing to make exceptions—especially for me and Bastion, who never left my side after I saved him from being impaled by the new recruits. He was shorter, then. Two years my junior.”
The prongs closed around the bullet, and his breath hitched. Lilac lightly placed her hand reassuringly on his bicep, feeling it flex—then relax—at her touch. “Did he know your parents?”
“He knewofthem. Alor knew I was Pascal and Aimee’s son. My mother was an acquaintance of his wife’s—they’d met briefly before, at The Fool's Folly.”
“Katella was a customer of your mother’s?”
She’d glanced up at him, somehow shocked yet another peek into his incredible but brief human existence—accidentally yanking the prongs out. He jumped at her sudden movement and, likely, the pain, his legs kicking out involuntarily. The chair skidded back, almost toppling him over. She caught and steadied him before quickly scuttling away.
“Fuck!” Garin cussed in a roar, the word tapering off into a low groan that felt like hands gripping the small of her waist as the wound upon his bicep began to close before her very eyes.
Lilac opened her hand. The object in it was multicolored and marbled, but she couldn’t tell much else. It was covered in his blood. She went to dip it into the still-warm bath and held it up in the light; it was smooth and round, coated in a thin, clear layer. Inside was a crude swirl of metal and dark wood.
“Iron and hawthorn.” A wave of nausea roiled through her. She turned it over and over in her hand, picturing the armory cart left on the hill below Garin’s property, where they’d gotten the bows and quivers filled with arrows.
Garin straightened. Blood from his leg covered the seat and dripped onto her rug. “Those fucking bastards.”
“It’s covered in glass.” Lilac tapped it with her nail, each plink a deafening sound in the still air. “That barrier must be what kept you conscious.”
“Let them come,” Garin growled. “I’ll finish each and every one of them.”
“You won’t. Not now that we know they have guns, and this kind of horrid ammunition.”
She teetered, stomping past him to deposit the bullet onto her mantle, far away from him. Her letter would make it to King Henry, and they could send their horses, but Garin wouldn’t have any part in it except for training new recruits. She wouldn’t allow it. Her own men would have to fight, as they should’ve all along; François’s army posed an even greater threat to her Daemon populace than burning Brocéliande to the ground.
Except, there was no time. His men were already outside her borderingfortresses, waiting with cannons and guns filled with weaponry poised to destroy all of Garin’s coven if they so pleased.
She rounded his chair, interrupting his string of curses. “Your leg. Now,” she demanded, snatching the long hooked tool again and positioning herself. She kneeled and spread his legs, lowering the prongs into Garin’s thigh. The shaft of the hooked tool sankmuchdeeper than it had in his arm. He inhaled sharply when it hit the bullet—roughly half its length down—and she withdrew it.
