Chapter 21
Trystan
The night came and went without more bloodshed.
Much to Trystan’s regret.
“She finally fell asleep,” Sage said as she left Lyssa’s room, rubbing at her eyes, which had dark circles smudged beneath. “But only after I retrieved her new pet snail from Blade.”
“Are you referring to the lord Winnifred transformed by accident?”
“His name is Blossom now…and he’s Lyssa’s new best friend,” Evie said with a small smile. “She tucked him in just now with a flower petal.”
He half laughed, half sighed. “Seems entirely reasonable. As would the idea of you also getting some sleep. Now,” he ordered, sounding far angrier than he’d meant to.
“And you don’t?” she accused, narrowing her eyes. The gray mist hovered by her shoulders, ready to strike out at him. It was odd to view that magic as an outsider. Odd but not unpleasant. It was where it belonged now.
The sunrise was upon them, the rain still making its steady descent, though the thunder had abated.
Trystan had escorted a grateful Roland and a still-ailing Marvin through the thorny grove and off the premises, along with several Malevolent Guards flanking them.
Roland had left on the promise to return the moment he found a cure among the magical plants on The Fortis Family Fortress property.
Which would prove to be a fantastic idea or a terrible one. He was eager to find out.
And eager to see the continued success of the enchantress-in-training currently sitting cross-legged in the pathway to the courtyard where they stood, holding her wand over the broken magical locks, slowly mending them. Slower than the lord-turned-snail—or Blossom, he supposed.
Winnifred had been at it for nearly the entire night after spending several hours hiding away from the noise and chaos. The rest of them had managed to trap the worst of the prisoners, the ones who’d survived the Malevolent Guards. The number was low. For which Trystan was thankful.
He could not afford to lose any more workers.
Nor did he want to.
The scales had already tipped wildly in Benedict’s direction, and with the new wanted flyers of Sage, the rest of the kingdom was likely to rally against them more than they already had.
His only allies—outside of those he’d hired or coerced—were reprobates in their own right, and the thought of any of them coming within five feet of Evangelina or Lyssa, or any of those he’d come to care for…
“I wasn’t referring to my sleeping habits,” he stated churlishly. “I was referring to yours, and by my count, you have not slept a full night in the last week, if not the last month. Go to bed.” He knew he was far too erratic for this conversation, but he couldn’t seem to stop his mouth.
She pressed a finger into his chest, a spearing poke, with a look that made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow.
Her chest heaved with her anger, the tops of her breasts rising and falling.
It robbed him of breath, as it did rational thought.
If he hadn’t just recovered his last semblance of humanity, he would have had her pinned to the pillar beside them, tearing through her dress until her breasts were exposed to the chilled air; how he could warm them with his mouth—
“I’m sorry, is my conversation getting in the way of you ogling my chest?”
“A bit,” he admitted, growling when her foot landed on his shin. “Why do you ask me questions you do not wish me to answer? You realize that is nonsensical.”
“Don’t call her nonsensical,” Winnifred said lightly, causing Trystan to jump. He’d forgotten she was there, still enchanting the locks with an amateur’s hand. “She’s contemplating how easiest to kill you.”
His face heated as he homed in on Sage’s narrowed eyes, which met his with an unapologetic shrug. “I think it would be poison,” she said blandly, “but you’re the expert. Would it be slicing an artery? Maybe suffocation?”
“Suffocation and poison are cleaner if you’re afraid of getting your hands dirty.” He emphasized the word to get a rise out of her, and she took the bait.
“That’s big talk from a man who couldn’t admit he even had feelings, let alone romantic ones, until two seconds ago.” Her exaggeration only served to enflame him, but he was better at control than she was.
“Very well. You’re right. I did suppress emotion when it didn’t serve me.” He waited for her guard to lower, her eyes to soften before he struck. “At least I never feigned happiness when I felt none; I should think that’s worse.”
Her nostrils flared, eyes darkening with an anger that manifested in smoking mist hovering all around her body, waiting for instruction to strike.
He was prepared to walk right into that magic.
Right toward her. But then the anger faded as he took a step closer, her guarded gaze lowering for something more trusting.
This woman never stopped trying. Even when she claimed to give up, her life force never did, her vibrancy only brighter with the dark power swirling about her wrists.
When that same magic used to rise in him, he’d learned to live with the sting of fear at something that was out of his control, something as a part of him as the dark sweep of his hair or the angle of his nose.
A thing that was natural to him was dissatisfactory to the world, was ostracized, rejected.
It hurt more than he’d ever admit, and he’d lie down and take strike after strike of that same magic before he let her feel a hint of hesitancy.
He had none.
It had burned away.
He’d let that magic mark and steal his soul before he’d turn his back on her. He’d grovel on bended knee, would scale the highest towers of an enchanted keep. “I’m not afraid of you, Sage.”
“I am!” Winnifred called, casually moving on to the next group of locks.
“Thank you, Winnifred!” Trystan answered with a toothy smile that he knew was more predator than ally.
“So much for not faking happiness,” Sage teased, shoving at him until he caught her hands and tugged them to his chest. There was a tender pinching feeling where they touched, so overwhelming he exhaled a harsh breath.
Still, the contact inspired thoughts of her undoing his belt and dropping to her knees—
“Trystan Maverine is aroused,” Winnifred stated from behind Evie. Clamping her lips shut when she realized what she’d said, she added with round eyes, “I’m sorry.”
Though the apology was immediately followed by a very unapologetic correction. “You’re both aroused. May I go?” Her tone indicated her observations were as genuinely innocent as they were charming.
And embarrassing.
Sage’s cheeks went scarlet red, but then the sound of approaching conversation indicated a second unwanted audience. “Ms. Erring. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Trystan asked. “What is this?”
Becky had come from behind a pillar, and now Tatianna and Clare joined her. The group had seen better days. They looked tired, world-weary, all in dire need of a full eight hours of sleep. All likely not to get it. “We brought outdoor breakfast,” she offered, dangling a basket from her fingers.
“Outdoor…” Trystan trailed off, scowling at Sage, who was sheepishly smiling and taking careful steps backward. “You told them, you urchin!”
Sage threw her hands up. “Your aversion to the word ‘picnic’ is hardly a revelation.”
“It’s not an aversion,” he grumbled. “It’s a preference for— No, put the blanket away.
As soon as Winnifred is finished with the locks, we are all going to our respective corners to recuperate.
We must catch the guvres today and begin working on stealing the book—” A scone was shoved in his mouth, the tips of Sage’s fingers brushing his lips.
When she realized how his eyes held hers, her cheeks turned pink, and she shoved her hands back to her sides.
He would not grab them.
Staring at them longingly was clearly a less pathetic option.
“Quiet down and eat your scone, Evil Overlord,” she encouraged gently, then bit into a strawberry, licking at her lips. He fisted his hands and took a bracing breath, lest Winnifred sense where his thoughts had gone this time. “Outdoor breakfast has begun.”
“Where is the frog?” Winnifred murmured, her curiosity appearing to be the only crack in her mouselike demeanor. He wondered if her character had been born of innate wariness, or if it had been instilled in her as Trystan’s had.
By his heinous mother.
Tatianna laughed into her hand, her eyes strained and uncomfortable. “About that…we have some…news, Trystan.”
“But it can wait until after we’ve eaten,” Clare added quickly.
“That’s the last of the locks,” Winnifred said, standing to brush off her skirts. The purple smudges under her eyes were stark against her skin. “I’m not certain if what I did worked. You’ll have to test them. And there’s no guarantee they will hold if another fading wave of magic hits the manor.”
Trystan stood, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Thank you.”
Winnifred was bewildered by the gesture—it was evident in her widened eyes—but she shook his hand anyway, quietly asking, “Sir, when will you consider the favor I requested?”
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Trystan was attempting amiability, handing her a scone. “I’d urge you to rest a few hours first, then see if you still want to return to my mother’s residence.”
This snapped Clare from her dazed state. “Wait, what? Why on earth would you want to go back to that place?”
“My job is there,” Winnifred responded uncomfortably, eyes darting this way and that.
This was a woman who’d been conditioned to find comfort in discomfort.
He’d give her this: she’d be sure to find discomfort anywhere his mother resided.
“Mistress Maverine has just lost her husband of thirty years. I owe her greatly for all the time she cared for me, and she’ll need assistance with the funeral. ”
“The woman had your mother imprisoned for a crime she herself committed. A real saint, that one,” Tatianna grumbled sarcastically, tying her thick hair away from her face with her favorite faded pink bow.
Winnifred tensed, her mouth pinching shut, brows pushed together in frustrated confusion.
“Arthur Maverine was the only person to show me kindness since I began my work for them. I’d like to pay my respects to him and help with the funeral.
Amara will only allow it if I remain employed with her. Of that, I’m sure.”
Tatianna softened, adept at knowing when she’d pushed too far. “I’m sorry. You clearly have experiences with her I could not possibly understand. It was her I was judging, not you. I apologize.”
Winnifred appeared to respond to apologies just as Trystan did—uncomfortably. Nodding, she turned away to pick up her glittering wand, tucking it into her side. “Try the first lock I did. It’s been sitting with the enchantment the longest.” Then she turned to depart.
Trystan saw a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, near where Winnifred had just passed into shadow underneath the roof’s awning, causing her to yelp. It startled her enough for sparkling magic to shoot out of the wand in small sparks, landing against the roofing above.
It crumbled and fell.
Right toward Winnifred.
A scream sounded through the dawn, and each one of them made to save her, but the blur beat them to it—a green blur, which nose-dived for Winnifred and the falling stone.
The rest was a trick of the eyes—it had to be. For when the stone fell, a brighter light shone, and the crumbling slab of stone was stopped. Not by Winnifred.
Not by Kingsley the frog.
But a human stood there, holding up the wall with both hands as the sparkling green light faded away, revealing who had stopped it.
No. Not Kingsley the frog.
It was Alexander Kingsley.
The human.