Eldritch, p.46
Eldritch, page 46
“No. There couldn’t have been any survivors. Not the way they were attacked.”
“Not even the young girl?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know if they killed her before the spiders arrived.”
“Free me,” Zevander growled, never averting his gaze from the man he silently vowed would suffer the most gruesome death of anyone he’d ever slain.
She rounded Zevander’s body, her hand gliding over his skin. “The man bound before you is her brother. My slave.”
Zevander couldn’t even bring himself to care that she’d called him slave. He’d have gladly worn the insult for a chance to wrap his hands around the prisoner’s throat.
“Tell me, who ordered this massacre?”
Before he could answer, she drew her sword so swiftly, he hardly heard the chime against the scabbard, and she hacked his head clean off.
“No!” Zevander’s rage bellowed and bounced inside the cell. Fire burned in his muscles as he pulled at the chains, shaking and gnashing his teeth.
She sauntered to Zevander’s side and dragged her nails across his chest. “How disappointing it must feel to have the very thing you want withheld from your grasp.”
His chains rattled, as a raw, seething violence snaked through his blood. “I will never bond with you.”
She chuckled and stretched her arm down the length of his body, cupping his flaccid cock. “While I may not have your essence, remember this: You still gave me your seed,” she taunted, squeezing the soft flesh between his thighs as she kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll try again tonight, my love. I’ve come to learn of an enchantment that might prove successful.”
Zevander stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. If his heart had bothered to beat in the last hour, he wouldn’t know it. He felt nothing. Not the expanding of his lungs. Not the crescents he’d torn into his palms with his clenched fists. Not even the rage anymore.
He was a breathing corpse. An abomination of life. Empty. Hollow.
Dead inside.
What kind of monster failed to be moved by a loss so great?
He’d dreaded the moment when the pain would wash over him, when the fury would wither to calm and the weight of his reality would cut through him like a freshly sharpened blade. It didn’t happen immediately, he knew that, having suffered the loss of his father. Perhaps he’d endured too much over the years that his heart could no longer be moved, no matter how grievous the pain. Was there a limit to suffering? A point at which a man could no longer feel?
It wasn’t until a face slid into his periphery that he realized the Golvyn had climbed up his body, carrying a ladle of water. Zevander turned away when he attempted to pour it down his mouth.
“You must drink something. You need your energy.”
“For what?” Zevander rasped. “To watch as she takes her pleasure?”
“She is cruel, but she will not be your demise.”
Zevander sneered. “What would it matter if she were?”
Still clutching the ladle, the Golvyn lowered his head and sighed. “I am sorry for your family. It is a spiteful god who takes what we love most.”
“I wasn’t aware Golvyns believed in the gods.”
“We don’t. But you do.”
Once again, Zevander found himself staring blankly at the dark ceiling overhead. “Not anymore. I don’t believe, or feel, anything anymore.”
“You’ve given up?”
“I suppose I have.”
The Golvyn groaned and tossed the ladle to the floor, the clank of the metal against the stone only earning a bored glance from Zevander. “You know why Golvyn’s don’t believe in the gods?” He didn’t bother to wait for what would’ve been a disinterested response. “We need to see to believe. But you …. You believe nothing more than words.”
Zevander remained silent, not bothering to dispute the fact. What more could he have relied upon, if not the word of the man who’d seen it firsthand?
“They say your family is dead. What if they are mistaken?”
Had he heard news through the walls? A confession that Zevander hadn’t been privy to? “Say what you mean, Golvyn. I’m in no state for riddles.”
“No riddle. I’m only suggesting that you see with your own eyes.”
Whatever minute flicker of hope he may have felt in that moment quickly perished in disappointment. “I’ll be a rotted corpse before I’m set free from this hell.”
“So, you waste away for nothing.” He opened his small palm. In it, sat a tiny red ampoule like the ones Theron had given him before. “You see things when you sleep. Perhaps you can see your family?”
Intrigued, Zevander lifted his head. “Where did you get that?”
“From your friend’s supply. He keeps them in a small box tucked inside the wall. These walls are my home.”
If nothing else, it would steal him away from the incessant memory of her robbing him of his revenge, and the revulsion of her climbing atop his body again, determined and relentless and aroused. Godsblood, the visual alone made him ill. He couldn’t stand the thought of her taking pleasure while he seethed. “Give it to me.”
With the fervor of a starving hatchling, he tipped back his head, while the Golvyn broke the ampoule, and allowed him to pour it into his mouth.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
ZEVANDER
Crooked trees peered down from above, as Zevander glanced around at his unfamiliar surroundings. A forest, but not one he recognized. He carefully stepped forward, but at crunching beneath his boot, he stilled.
Through the thick mist, what appeared to be bones, hundreds of them, lay scattered and broken over the forest floor. The empty sockets of a human skull stared back at him.
Ignoring them, he trudged forward in search of his mother and sister.
Nearly a furlong ahead of him hunched a shadowy beast, the warped curve of its spine and twisted horns leaving him to wonder what kind of animal, or monster, he’d happened upon. As Zevander trod cautiously toward it, studying the bark-like texture of its flesh, he was reminded of his brother’s ruined skin.
Face buried in the broken ribcage of a carcass, it tore at the meat with its teeth, and yet, it clutched and chewed like a man.
At another crunch beneath his boot, Zevander paused mid-step, but not before the creature snapped straight. Threads of bloody sinew strung from its mouth when it turned around, revealing the ruined face of a man.
“How did you find me here?” the creature man asked, slowly rising to its full height. His voice held a familiarity that left Zevander frowning.
“Alastor?”
He snarled and lurched forward, unveiling the upper half of the carcass on the ground, a body skinned to nothing but glistening tissue and fat.
“What is this?” Zevander asked, confused by his appearance.
“How did you find your way into my head?” His voice held a tremble of consternation. “How did you find me here?”
“I didn’t intentionally seek you out.”
“You’ve not come when summoned. Years, I’ve attempted to call you to Caligorya, and you disregard me,” he spat, as if Zevander had done so defiantly.
“I was not aware that you’d summoned me. I no longer felt the pull to return.”
His monstrous face crumpled to a frown. “Then, what brought you here?”
“My family. It’s imperative that I see them.”
“Why?”
“Mercenaries arrived to …” The words caught at the back of his throat like a viscous poison he could neither spit, nor swallow. “I need to see them.”
Alastor stared at him for a moment through frightening, silvery eyes, and the scene around them shifted in a blur. The surrounding trees faded, replaced by the Eidolon foyer. Dark and cold, absent of life.
Zevander darted toward the staircase ahead.
“Wait,” Alastor warned from behind. “No matter what you see, you must not let it destroy you.”
Zevander didn’t spare him another second, but took two stairs at a time, until he reached the top of the staircase where a wall of webs hindered his passage. He clawed through sticky strands, entangling himself in the thick weaves. The silky threads clung greedily to his body, while the stench of decay burned in his nose.
Clumps of dense fibers resisted his tearing and scratching, and Zevander felt like a trapped fly, desperate for freedom. He could feel thousands of eyes upon him, starving and watchful, waiting.
When he finally came upon his mother’s chamber door, he pushed through to find the webs weren’t as thick on the other side. Within, only a few strung about the room, glistening in the small bit of light filtering in through the drapes.
He plucked the remnants of webbing from his body and froze as his eyes swept over the pools of blood around pieces of golden armor and clumps of yellow that reminded him of animal fat. Bones lay piled in a heap, the remnants of pink flesh telling him they’d been freshly stripped. On his mother’s bed lay a mound of blankets, swaddled like a cocoon around a body. The silvery hair spilling out of it, tinged in matted tendrils of gray, all but confirmed it to be his mother.
Zevander rounded the bed, where an obscure shape at the edge of his vision snapped his attention toward where Rykaia lay curled into herself. Nuzzled against her was Branimir, his face buried in her hair.
Tears blurred Zevander’s eyes as he stepped closer, gaze desperately searching for any sign of injury. While he found bruises and cuts, unmistakable signs of violence inflicted upon her, she breathed.
“She lives,” he murmured, and sank to his knees.
Branimir lifted his head, eyes searching the room, and Zevander could feel his spiders stirring somewhere in the shadows.
“He senses you here,” Alastor said from the doorway. “You’ve seen what you needed to see. Now, let us return. Quickly.”
Through a blur of tears, Zevander stared at his siblings. How much they’d changed since he’d seen them last. He wondered if he’d ever see them again. If he’d ever feel Rykaia’s arms wrapped around him, would ever see the sweet smile she’d worn for him. “Is it real?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Is it real!” he bellowed, jumping to his feet.
“You have somehow found your way into my thoughts,” Alastor said tonelessly. “I suspect it’s real, as I’m not privy to what happened here.”
“How is it possible? Me invading your thoughts?”
Alastor stared back at him and tipped his horned head. “We are connected, you and I.”
“Connected in what way?”
He looked around the room. “Come. I’ve shown you what you’ve asked to see. You will return when I summon you.”
“No. I will not. Why are we connected? Who are you, and why do your afflictions look like my brother’s?”
Like a rabid animal, his demeanor snapped to something vicious. “I am the one who watched as you were violated. Tormented. Beaten and burned. I’m the one who commanded your hands to touch them when you couldn’t bear to look upon them yourself! I brought you here to spare you of such sights!”
“For what purpose? Why would you feel compelled …” A deep, cramping ache spread across Zevander’s stomach, and he pressed his palm there. Doubling over, he exhaled a shuddering breath. “Why would you …” The ache sharpened like the point of a blade tearing across his stomach, and Zevander let out a grunt, wincing as it ravaged his insides. “Want to…control …”
Across from him, Alastor also clutched his stomach, grunting as both of them fell to the floor at the same time.
Zevander clawed at his throat, the scalding burn beneath his skin gnawing its way to his chest.
“What have you…done, boy?” Alastor gritted out, across from him.
Pressure at his chest expanded behind his ribs, and he wheezed. As if he felt it, too, Alastor clutched his chest, gasping and wheezing.
“I…did…nothing.” The stone floor smacked against his cheek, as Zevander collapsed forward, desperately sucking in gulps of air that failed to fill his lungs.
Lying across from him, Alastor reached out a rough, tessellated hand. “If you die…I die,” he rasped.
It was in that moment, a dreadful realization settled over him and he was reminded of the stories his parents had told him. Stories of the mage who’d cursed him all those years ago and the pain he’d suffered from throwing Zevander into those flames as a baby. As he stared at the beastly man across from him, Zevander gnashed his teeth, furious of the trickery. The lies Alastor had told to conceal what rotting soul lived beneath his skin.
“Cadavros!” Zevander called out, before he was yanked into the blackness.
Zevander’s eyes shot open on a gasp of air.
Panic crinkled Theron’s face, as he stood over him, his voice a distant echo to the clamor of blood hammering inside Zevander’s ear. Only the occasional word filtered through.
“How did you…poison…for General Loyce…who gave…you weren’t supposed…you were dead. Dead!”
He focused on the last word as he stared up at the dark ceiling above him—nothing but a blur through the tears in his eyes. In the silence of his mind, he heard the soft pounding of his heart. Felt the sting of his palms, where he’d clenched his fists earlier. The phantom ache of death lingering in his stomach. The burn of the poison he wasn’t meant to consume in his throat.
Shards of images cut through his thoughts—Cadavros, the imposter who’d claimed to be a friend, dying as he lay dying, his sister lying curled into his brother, his mother’s lifeless body cocooned, peaceful and protected from further horrors—and for the first time, he felt everything. Tears broke down his temples as he lay trapped in the fragile grasp of life.
He’d always imagined death to be the most painful experience of all, but it wasn’t.
Living was far more painful than dying.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
ZEVANDER
Present …
Sitting in a chair across from the bed, Zevander watched his moon witch as she slept. He’d cracked the drapes earlier, allowing the silvery bands of moonlight in just enough to illuminate her face in the dark.
His mate.
He pressed the heel of his palm into the freshly sealed wounds at his chest, sinking into the memory of watching her succumb to pleasure, her head thrown back in ecstasy, hair wild and damp, as she raked those claws across his skin, whispering his name like a prayer. He’d torn across the world, had heard his cursed name in the dying pleas of men, the vicious roars of beasts, and the breathless moans of women, but not a single one had ever seared itself in his mind and flesh, had ever given it so much worth as when it’d been spoken by her.
He longed to tear the wounds open, to savor that raw, burning rapture all over again. To remind himself of the exact moment he’d surrendered his soul.
That she’d even imagine he’d dream of any other woman was laughable. No one would ever nourish his starving, ruined heart the way she did. He’d been trained by brutal hands to fuck a woman properly and expect nothing in return. Being with her was the first time Zevander had known pleasure through the pain. The first time someone had ever given without taking from him.
Maevyth. Her name stitched itself into the hollow of his chest, a suffocating chamber in his heart that only she could ever touch.
He loved her.
Gods, he loved her.
For a man who’d spent half his life shackled in chains, he could say with certainty that no other woman had ever made him feel so free.
So alive.
And that alone made her a danger, a threat to anyone who might try to take her from him.
His body hardened all over again, his cock straining against his leathers, hands curled to tight fists. Clenching and flexing. The need to touch her bordered on violence, but as much as he wanted to slip back into that euphoric state, to relive that moment over and over again, he forced himself to push those thoughts aside.
He’d spent half the evening contemplating if he should journey alone to the mountains. She’d be safe in the temple, a fortress compared to the small shacks and abandoned homes he’d seen in the mortal lands, and who knew what they’d encounter along the way. As much as he loathed the annoying sky rat, Raivox would protect her.
And the truth was, she could protect herself. She was strong. Powerful, when she trusted herself.
Zevander had already dressed, resigned to leaving before she woke, and yet, he couldn’t stand the thought of it. Not even with the prospect of him becoming more and more of a threat to her without vivicantem.
She shifted in her sleep, the sheets slipping over the smooth curves of her body. “Zevander.” His name ghosted across her lips as a dreaming murmur and his chest tightened.
She was dreaming of him.
He pushed to his feet, crossed the room, and knelt beside the bed. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a silken shadow, and he brushed back the few tendrils that’d fallen onto her face. Her lips parted for the easy breaths that had her chest rising and falling like a gentle wave, and Zevander fought the urge to seize them, to devour her with a breathless kiss.
Godsblood, she was painfully exquisite.
He couldn’t recall a single vision in his life—sunrise, nor sunset; star shower, nor solstice—that’d roused the same awe he felt from just looking at her. She was the wild pulse in his veins. The steady anchor in his mind. An ungodly obsession he had neither the strength nor desire to resist.
A soft prickling brushed the back of his neck, and Zevander turned toward the door just as the knob rattled and shifted. He shot to his feet and summoned a cloud of smoke, vanishing himself in the dark room as the stranger stepped inside.
A blade led the way, as the intruder quietly tiptoed across the room, his eyes narrowed on Maevyth.
Eyes squeezed shut, Zevander pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, recalling the last time he’d thought someone had come for her while she slept.
