Eldritch, p.19
Eldritch, page 19
The general snapped her fingers, and two of the young women with long, blonde hair that failed to cover their bare breasts stepped forward. “Bathe him.”
Zevander’s heart pounded at the command. His breathing shallowed, as they grabbed sea sponges from a basket at the edge of the bath and stepped into the water alongside him. After soaking the sponges in soap poured from ornate bottles, they set the sponges to his skin, gently dragging them over his body. Muscles shaking, he forced himself not to look at their naked forms, his eyes burning with both curiosity and humiliation.
“Well, well. It seems you like a woman’s touch. That’s good.” The general knelt at the edge of the bath, undoubtedly taking notice of the stiff flesh between his thighs. A reaction he desperately tried to tamp down by turning his thoughts to his father.
Yes. Father.
Eyes screwed shut, he allowed the misery of his father’s death to infect his mind and steal him away from the soft hands across his skin.
“Stroke him.” The general’s voice cut through those dark thoughts, and the moment a delicate hand met his engorged cock, he clenched his jaw and buried his face into his trussed arm.
“Please…don’t …” A battle waged inside his head. The curiosity of being touched by a woman was only a minor distraction from the shame of having a complete stranger fondle him that way.
“Stop,” General Loyce commanded, and their maddening caresses ceased, but his body remained coiled in a turbulent mix of pleasure and mortification. Muscles trembling, he took deep breaths, willing the sensation away.
A sharp sting burned across his thigh, and Zevander eyes shot open to see General Loyce gliding a dagger over his skin. He hissed at the fiery pain and the blood that seeped into the water in ribbons of red.
“Stroke him again.”
Once again, the tormenting sensation returned, and his mind scrambled to place himself back in that arena. His bones and muscles battered and sore. Eyes locked on his father’s.
“Open your eyes, or I’ll cut them out of your skull.” When he refused, she set the blade to his thigh again, drawing another agonizing streak across his flesh. “Open your eyes, or by the gods, they’ll be next.”
Zevander opened his eyes and glared back at her with the same hatred he’d felt toward the orgoth who’d crushed his father’s skull.
“You will give me your seed, or I will have you sent to the incinerator where the ill are burned.”
“I’d much prefer death,” he challenged.
Intrigue lit her eyes. “Is that so?” She gave a nod toward the soldiers, and the cuff slammed into his throat once again, forcing his head below the water’s surface. Zevander kicked and writhed to get loose from their grip. What little air he’d managed to suck in prior to being submerged beat against his chest for escape. He shook against his chains, his muscles taut and burning, his lungs in flames.
“Stop fighting,” a voice he didn’t recognize spoke. “Let the darkness take you.”
He paid heed to the words.
An inky blackness filtered in from the fringes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ZEVANDER
Zevander opened his eyes to a single flickering candle sitting on a mist-covered surface below him. Beyond its halo of light was complete darkness, through which he couldn’t see. All was silent as he glanced around, trying to discern where he was.
“You’ve returned.” A disembodied voice—one he vaguely recalled from a long-forgotten dream—spoke from the shadows.
“Show yourself.”
The candle’s flame wavered, and from the darkness, a figure stepped forward, his face hidden by a black, hooded cloak. “I invited you then, as I’ve invited you now.”
“You.” Zevander narrowed his eyes on the stranger. “I saw you once. Years ago. You came to me in a dream.”
“Caligorya.”
“Am I dying?”
“That you’re here tells me you haven’t yet.”
“But I’m not here, I’m there.” Zevander trailed his gaze over the darkness, certain that, somewhere, General Loyce lurked.
“Your body is there. Your mind is here. I’ve taken your place. A swap of consciousness, if you will. I will witness your abuses, and you remain protected from it.”
He didn’t dare lift his gaze to that darkness again, for fear of what resided there. “How? Is your mind not here, as well?”
“The how of it is inconsequential.”
“Who are you? Your name,” Zevander clarified.
“My name is also inconsequential.”
“Then, so is your point.” Zevander turned away from him, no longer interested.
“Very well. You can call me Alastor. As I said before, I am a friend.”
“What do you want? Why am I here?”
Hands behind his back, he paced in front of Zevander. “The power you possess slumbers inside of you. It must be awakened, and you must learn to wield it.”
“Even if I possessed this power you speak of, I cannot wield it.” Zevander lifted his arm to show the black band burned into his skin.
The stranger lifted his arms, too, where an identical band had been etched into his wrist.
Confused, Zevander examined the dark marking. “Are you a prisoner, also?”
“Of sorts.”
Warmth settled over Zevander’s wrists, and when he looked down again, the band had faded, as if it were never there to begin. “What have you done?”
“Restraints do not exist inside your mind. They are a construct of reality. Here, you are free.” Alastor snatched the flame from the candle, holding it in his palm, then slammed it down. A circle of flames surrounded them.
“Nothing more than a dream,” Zevander said, unimpressed.
“Perhaps. But necessary, nonetheless.”
“How so?” Jaw tight, Zevander turned his head slightly away. “It changes nothing when I wake.”
Alastor threw up his hands. “So, your solution for your predicament is to withstand your suffering. To let it seep into your bones and rot you from the inside out.”
“There is nothing to be done.”
“Then, it is futile.” The older man rested his hands at his hips. “I’ve brought you to this place in vain.”
“I suppose you have.”
The surrounding darkness became a cobblestone street, and Zevander frowned, glancing around at the strange surroundings. A fountain in the center of a village, flanked by small shops and townhomes. “Where am I?”
“The mortal lands.”
Mortal lands? A dream, he reminded himself. But when had he ever felt so much awareness in dreams?
“Look the lorn in the eye, and everyone you know will die!”
The sound of children’s taunts reached his ear, and Zevander turned to find a small group of children gathered in a circle around a girl who couldn’t have been any more than twelve years old.
“Leave me alone!” Her voice carried a mix of fire and sadness.
A young redhead with long braids sneered. “My father says you should be burned, like all witches.”
“I’m not a witch,” the dark-haired girl argued back.
“You were found by the woods. And the woods are possessed by evil.”
“I am not evil!”
“What is this?” Zevander asked aloud, yet the children didn’t seem to hear him speak, as they kept on with their taunts.
Alastor casually walked toward them, close enough that they should’ve heard him when he said, “A hypothetical. To pass the time.”
“Do they not know we’re here?”
The older man waved toward the children. “They do not exist. We are merely observers of an image in your mind.”
“How could I dream of what doesn’t exist?”
“It is a vision of the gods, which may, or may not, come to pass.”
“And how am I seeing this vision, exactly?”
“I am a conduit for the gods’ eyes. And your mind is a host, of sorts.” Hands behind his back, Alastor stepped around the children, none of whom Zevander recognized.
One of the boys spat on the girl, and she spat back. When the expelled saliva landed on the boy’s arm, he let out a growl.
“He’ll die of plague!” One of the other children pointed a finger at her oozing saliva. “She’s cursed him!”
“Who is she?” Zevander asked, curious to know the point of the vision.
“She is no one. But imagine she were someone. Someone you cared about deeply.”
Lips pressed together, he scowled back at the girl. “But she isn’t. And I am in no mood to play games.”
One of the boys in the circle stepped forward and gave a hard shove at the girl’s chest, knocking her backward to the ground.
A raven swooped down at him, and the boy screamed, swatting at the bird, before it flew off into a nearby tree, where two other ravens sat staring down at the children. Their eyes glowed in the surrounding dark canopy.
“Cursed birds!” he called out to them, and he swung his gaze back to the girl who hadn’t yet gotten up from the ground. “Cursed girl. They’re drawn to evil.”
“Leave her alone!” A young blond charged toward them, one perhaps slightly older in age, and the other children scattered, laughing.
The girl on the ground sat staring off, trembling and pulling at the neck of her dress, as if she couldn’t breathe.
Watching her had Zevander’s own heart beating faster. He knew that feeling, that invisible attacker that strangled breath and sent a cold grip around the lungs.
The blonde knelt before her and gently ran her fingers down the girl’s face. “Look at me, Sister,” she said, and though mere inches away from her, she could’ve been miles, given the glassy look in the suffering girl’s eyes.
Zevander dug his nails into the palms of his closed fist.
The blonde gripped the back of her neck. “Breathe.”
As if that gesture alone had grounded her, the other girl’s unfocused gaze sharpened, and she nodded, her face twisted in panic.
“You’re safe. Just breathe.” Pulling her in, the blonde held her tightly, still gripping the back of her neck, until the girl’s trembling finally stopped.
Watching her slip into a chest storm, as his mother had referred to them, roused the clenching of his own lungs, and he glared back at the two of them—nothing more than chimera—for having the power to affect him that way.
Zevander turned away, disinterested in the silly vision. What did he care about some ridiculous scenario involving a girl to whom he had no connection?
“You feel nothing for her. No sorrow. No anger? No kinship to her pain?”
“Why would I? She is no one, as you said.”
“Fair enough. But I also asked you to imagine she was.”
Lips twisted into a snarl, Zevander turned back around. “Do you not know what has been done to me? Why I’m here? Enough of the games! Leave me!”
“You are only here by my invitation. You do not possess the magical skill for Caligorya. Now, if you wish to survive the next century, day, hour…I suggest a bit of grace. Unless you’d prefer to return.”
The sound of his own outcry over General Loyce’s laughter sent a tremor of panic rippling through him, and he slapped his hands over his ears, screwing his eyes closed.
“No! Stop!” The sounds faded again, and Zevander lowered his hands from his ears, taking long, shaky exhales. At first, he didn’t speak, his mind caught up in the flickering images he’d seen in those few seconds. Horrible images of hands on his body and blood smeared across his skin. How desperately he’d clung to anger and pain to distract himself from it. “They killed my father.”
“I know. You are enraged. I can feel that in you.”
“I should be relieved. He’s the reason I’m here. The reason I’m cursed.”
“Cursed.” Alastor hissed. “For centuries, men have long tried to understand the potential of the black flame. You’ve been gifted an incredible power.”
“I have nothing. I am a slave. Nothing more.”
A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Allow me to teach you what I know, and I will give you shelter in this place. You will not have to face the suffering of your circumstances.”
A phantom echo of hands grasping his cock made him wince, and he nodded. “For what purpose?”
“General Loyce longs to break you. I wish to strengthen your mind. What you learn from me, you will retain when you wake as if I were there in the waking world with you.”
“And what do you gain from these meetings?”
“Come. Let’s walk.” Alastor clasped his hands behind his back, and as they walked, the surrounding scenery morphed into a dizzying blur, coming back into sharp focus on another cobblestone path like that in the village they’d just left.
The two of them followed the suffering girl from earlier, who took cautious steps toward a set of red doors on what looked like an ancient cathedral, and once there, she pushed her way inside, Zevander and his companion slipping in after. The interior reminded him of the gods’ temple, where he’d grown up learning of the Lunadei and Soladei, only the temple at home was far more impressive, with its stone carvings and celestial maps.
The exterior of building she’d entered boasted gargoyles at the downspouts and ivy climbing the walls, but the inside was simple wood and candles. At the front of the expansive room, a statue loomed—a figure draped in red vestments and a cloak, revealing a pale, muscled chest, over which a glowing, red vial dangled from a delicate chain. Through the red hood, two glowing eyes stared out, the hostility reminding him of a lesser god he’d learned about as a boy—Atroxis, the god of war and bloodshed.
Rows of pews sat empty as the girl passed them toward a multitude of red candles flickering near the front of the church. She lifted a skinny bit of kindling and lit one of the candles, then knelt before the statue.
“Please, if you can hear me, I’ve a favor to ask.” Her quiet, angelic voice echoed through the nave. “Since I was a small child, I’ve longed to be like everyone. I’ve committed myself to your teachings, given my blood to Sacton Crain, and have tried to live good and godly. But still, they see me as aberrant. I know I do not deserve your mercy, or your kindness, but if I could be granted one small request, I would like to be like everyone else. To be no one. Invisible to their eyes. If only for one day.”
“They pray to a single god?” Zevander asked.
“Caedes. The Red God. They believe if they live by his principles, he will spare them from the great scourge.”
Zevander snorted and shook his head. “Gods do not spare anyone.” He picked up one of the anointing bowls behind her, nearly dropping it with the discovery that it was a tangible thing in his hand. Strange, for what was supposedly nothing more than a dream. In twisting the copper bowl, he noticed blood seeping out of a long gash on his palm and promptly dropped the object on a loud clatter.
The girl gasped and twisted around. “Who’s there?” she asked, her question distracting him from the wound.
Zevander stepped cautiously toward her. “How did she hear me?”
“The Liminal separates us from her. A boundary of time and space. If you should breach it, the consequences would be catastrophic. It could very well alter the events of her future.”
“Did I not breach it by lifting the bowl? And what does it matter, if it isn’t real? If I possess the power of a god in my thoughts, why not behave as such?”
“Because even gods must learn their limitations.”
“Hello? Is someone there?” she asked again.
“Who are you talking to, girl?” An older man in red vestments approached, and Zevander didn’t have to know his thoughts to recognize the contempt he’d felt for her. It was carved in his expression.
“I…heard someone. Or something. Was a loud clatter.”
Frowning, the man stepped past her and stooped behind the first row of pews, before lifting the bowl Zevander had dropped. “Clumsy girl. It’s a wonder anything remains intact in your presence.” He spat the words like a sour taste on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”
“My apologies for the intrusion, Father Crain. I came to pray.”
The old man sneered. “I am no father to you, girl. I am the sacton of this temple, and you will address me as such.” With a haughty tip of his chin, he stared down at her. “And why do you imagine The Red God would bestow his divinity upon you?”
“I’m imperfect, but I try to be as devout as all who worship. I only ask for his guidance.”
“Whatever for?”
“I want …” She swallowed a gulp, as if the words remained stuck in her throat. “I want to be accepted by the parish. To be one of you.”
“Foolish girl. What misery to be born so ignorant and naive. Look at you.” The man gestured toward her as if she was an awful stench in the air. “You are not one of us. You never were.” The subtle amusement in the man’s voice grated on Zevander. He had an arrogance about him, and a condescending tone that reminded him too much of the warden. “It’ll be dark soon. Go home.”
“Shall we commence our first lesson?” Alastor asked, interrupting Zevander’s observations.
He frowned back at the older man, who stood over the girl, looking down on her. “Yes. I’m bored of this.” Even so, he waited and watched as the girl pushed up from where she had knelt moments ago.
“Your Grace,” she said, giving a small bow before exiting the nave.
The old man sneered after her as she made her way out of the temple, then turned back toward the curtains from where he’d emerged earlier.
Zevander lifted another of the anointing bowls.
“Do not—” Alastor had scarcely spoken the words, when Zevander threw the bowl to the ground, and the old man spun around, nearly tumbling backward with a hand to his chest.
“Who is there?”
“You’ve had your amusements,” Alastor said. “It is time to begin your first lesson.”
Lips pulling to a smile of satisfaction, he watched the older man lift the bowl, his brows pulled tight.
