Eldritch, p.36
Eldritch, page 36
She had aged enough that he knew she’d survived those dank cells in the temple. Knew she’d been spared. Her angelic face was peaceful in sleep, and he prayed she dreamed of anything but those dark days. He fell to his knees beside the bed, wanting so badly to touch her. To assure her that he’d never left her.
He turned to see his other self marveling at her, also. As he reached out a hand toward him, to confirm that what he was seeing was real, he hesitated, glancing back toward the girl. When had their paths converged?
No. He wouldn’t dare allow the gods to intervene, to change this fate.
For reasons he couldn’t reconcile in his head, though, the sight of himself stirred a jealous rage. Zevander jerked his elbow, hitting him in the groin, and the older self grunted, adjusting his leather trousers.
His cloaked version raised a hand again, sending another blast of flame toward her. Just as before, Zevander lurched, taking the brunt of the fire across his back, as he stared down at her beautiful face.
She shifted again, raising her arm above her head to show a marking there—feather-like with metallic accents. Once the flame had eased, Zevander ground his teeth, turning around to face the doppelganger.
“Enough of this.” He summoned the scorpion to his palm. Without warning, he curled his hand to a fist, crushing the scorpion, and a series of sharp stings prickled his body, from his hands to his legs. The other self grunted and jerked in a way that told Zevander he felt the stings, as well.
It was true, then.
He was staring at what he’d become. A rough and angry beast. Soulless, if he could so easily take the life of a sleeping girl.
What could’ve driven him to seek her that way? What had changed?
The other threw out his hand again, and Zevander parried with the flame, sending it back into him.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel that glimmer of frustration streaking through the other’s blood. Could sense the impatience. The indignity.
Zevander stared at him, the way he seemed drawn to her, in spite of his determination to kill her.
Why?
“Do you not remember her? How much you longed to touch her?”
As if he sensed his question, his other self closed his palm and reached out for the girl.
One touch. Zevander could feel the yearning in his aged self, the curiosity burning in his blood. His hand hovered a moment longer, contemplating. Jaw set, he reached for the blade at his hip instead.
As Zevander lunged to block his attack, a force threw him backward, and the bedroom wall crashed into his spine.
“You ignorant fool!” Alastor stood at the corner of the room and strode toward him, his eyes ablaze with a fury he’d not seen before.
Zevander pushed to get to his feet, but a force kept him in place against the wall. He watched in horror, as the masked doppelganger held the blade to her throat.
“No!” he cried out, writhing in futility against the invisible grip of his body.
Her eyes opened. The two stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Not a speck of recognition in his furious gaze.
The cloaked figure vanished into a cloud of black smoke, and the girl shot upright in bed, glancing around.
Zevander let out a held breath, the pressure at his chest easing. “What is the mark on her arm?”
Alastor crossed the room, staring out the window. “You changed her fate. She was once a simple mortal. Harmless and temporary. Now she belongs to death.”
“And yet, she lives,” Zevander said through clenched teeth.
The older man swung around, his eyes narrowed. “By the gods, boy. What have you done?”
“What you feared to do,” he spat back. “I walked where you fear to tread.”
A bitter smirk curved Alastor’s lips. “Is that what you think? That I fear the gods?”
“Why else would you idly watch the suffering of others?”
“Suffering is a fragile thread that transcends worlds. It wears a thousand faces and is as integral in our existence as a tightly-woven tapestry. We all must suffer. And yours will be the consequences of your actions. To take from fate means you must be willing to give in kind.”
“I took nothing. She is my mate.”
“She was a hypothetical. Nothing more than a whim of the gods.”
Zevander pushed to his feet, hands balled in tight fists at his sides. “I saw it. I felt it. It’s her. She is mine.”
“You are nothing more than chattel. A slave, as you called yourself. You have nothing! You are nothing!”
Each harsh word lanced his pride like a jagged blade. “No. You said a god resides in me. The ancient power.” Zevander pointed to where the aged version of himself had stood moments before. “Did you see? I am not destined to remain at the cruel mercy of the general. I will be free, and my powers will be restored.”
“You are unworthy of such power. To be confined inside an ignorant and lowly boy for eternity. What misery!”
“You are right. I have no land. No name. No possessions. In the eyes of the king, I am nothing. But I assure you, she is mine. Our souls are bound.”
Alastor let out a bitter chuckle. “You don’t even know her name.”
“Tell me. Say it once, and I will remember her for eternity.”
“Are you certain of that, boy?”
The room around him faded into a blackness he couldn’t see beyond. “Yes, I am…”
“Can you recall her face, even now?” Amusement clung to his mentor’s voice.
Zevander glanced back to where she’d lain only moments before, found nothing more than a vacuous darkness there. He focused on the face he remembered, but it had somehow blurred in his mind. “Yes…she…she’s there…”
“You’ve already forgotten the color of her eyes. Her hair. Her smell. That angelic voice is all but a distant sound you can’t quite place.”
His mind scrambled to cling to what scraps of recognition he could summon to mind, but it was true. He could no longer recall her eyes. The smell had faded. And her hair, damn the gods, what shade was her hair?
“Do not do this, I beg you.” Tears blurred his eyes as he fought the encroaching darkness, the slowly fading image of the girl.
“She will disappear with time. Until you can summon nothing. And, in turn, the sound of your voice, that tone she once likened to an angel’s, will blend into every other.”
Zevander shook his head. “No. I don’t want to forget. Don’t let me forget.” He ran his hands back and forth over his skull. “As I hung from my chains like carrion for the vultures, she spoke to me. She gave me the will to live. Don’t take that away!”
“You were never here this eve. In your mind, she burned at that stake. Now, sleep, Zevander. Sleep.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ZEVANDER
Present …
Zevander had just shuttered his eyes, when the sound of quiet footfalls bled through the door across the room. He snapped his gaze in that direction, watching for the shift in light beneath the crack of the door, hardly discernible with the faint beams of daylight pouring in through the drapes. He’d stayed awake for hours, watching his mate sleep, recalling every visit to Caligorya, every detail restored in his memories.
The rims of his eyes burned as he focused on that door, waiting for a flicker of motion. A sound. All seemed quiet and still, but his instincts told him otherwise.
Someone was there. Even if he couldn’t see them, he could sense their presence.
Aleysia, maybe. It was late enough in the day that she might’ve gotten up to scrounge more food. Though, she didn’t put his mind any more at ease than the idea of a stranger roaming about.
With slow and deliberate movements, he rose from the floor, careful not to make sound, nor wake Maevyth, and dressed quickly, keeping his eyes on the doorknob.
One more glance back at Maevyth assured him of the long, easy rise and fall of her chest, and he crept toward the door.
“Beg for mercy.” General Loyce’s voice brought him to a halt, and he spun around, searching the room for her.
No movement. No indication that any part of the room had been disturbed.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the last time he’d heard Loyce speak to him and the gouges he’d carved into the floor, too close to Maevyth.
Not real. It’s not real.
“Perhaps I’ll introduce her to my pets.”
That time, the voice sounded like it’d come from the other side of the door—an echo in the corridor.
She isn’t there.
Zevander cracked the door open, anyway, just catching a shadow of movement down the dark passageway, where the light from outside failed to touch. He exited the room, closed the door behind him, and followed after the obscure figure dashing around the corner ahead of him. He hadn’t even gotten a good enough glimpse to know if he was chasing a man or woman.
He paid no attention to the rooms that passed in his periphery, as he kept his eyes on the fleeting glimpses of his quarry, the dark cloak concealing their identity.
“Be sure to kill me.” General Loyce’s voice reverberated like jagged blades across his mind. “For I will pursue her relentlessly. She will be nothing but blood and bones when my pets have their chase.”
Zevander sneered at the threat. The hell she would.
He’d tear through the stinking bowels of hell to keep that from happening. And gods help her when he got his hands on her. He’d defied the fucking gods to make Maevyth his, and he’d damn his own soul before losing her again.
Endless stalking through the temple brought him staring down a familiar corridor. Its gray stone walls, oddly spaced sconces, and a draft cold enough to chill a corpse made it instantly recognizable, albeit a bit hazy as to where he’d seen it before.
A distant dream.
Or nightmare.
Whispered prayers. Cold. Screams. Blood.
Frowning, he turned toward a long stretch lit by sconces that faded to pitch blackness. At either side, iron-barred archways framed deep alcoves that curved into the stone walls. Prison cells. He turned to the one beside him, where phantom images of women and children huddled inside zipped through his thoughts.
Whispered prayers. Screams.
“Come.” General Loyce’s voice echoed from that direction.
“Show yourself,” he demanded.
“You were chosen by the gods, but she was not.”
A spectral chill brushed past his ear, and he instinctively yanked his dagger free, eyes sweeping the shadows. “No need for cowardice.” Zevander remained poised, ready to strike, the thrill of silencing that voice rippling through him in a cold rush. “Show me your face.”
A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness at the opposite end of the corridor and stepped into the flickering light of the sconces.
Theron lifted his head, smiling back at him. “Is that what you think of me? Nothing more than a coward?”
Zevander scowled. “I killed you.”
“And I healed. Turns out, my bloodline is quite useful.” He slid his sword from its scabbard at his back. “Shall we resume where we left off?”
Zevander raised his palm, holding it outstretched, and called upon the flame. It wavered, weaker than usual, but still a threat, as Theron’s eyes turned intense, studying it. “Let’s see how quickly sablefyre heals.”
Again, he smiled back at Zevander. “Here, I thought we were friends.”
“Is that what you thought?”
The smile on his face withered. “You’ve not forgiven me for what I did.”
“You betrayed me.” The words spilled from his mouth, though in truth, it’d been so long, Zevander could only vaguely recall the memory of what Theron had done. He just knew the bite of resentment still lingered. “I remained her prisoner for a century because of you.”
Remorse bled through the fissures of his stony face. “My greatest regret was spilling your secret.”
“And mine was protecting yours.” A sharp, stabbing pain struck Zevander’s skull, and he let out a grunt as he dropped to his knees, clutching his head.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ZEVANDER
Past …
“You’re lucky this didn’t fester.” Theron shook his head, wrapping a fresh strip of cotton around the wound at Zevander’s wrist, where his manacle had chewed at the flesh there. “Could’ve been avoided entirely.”
“This debate has grown moss, and I’m tired of it.” A few days of meals and water had returned his strength, and he was grateful to be sleeping on the marble floor of the observatory, instead of hanging from chains in his cell.
“You never spoke a word of what I confessed to you,” he said, referring to his professed involvement in betraying General Loyce. “Not even in the face of your worst punishment.”
“I never once believed it.”
Theron smiled, tying up the ends of the cotton. “Still, you could’ve pointed the finger at anyone to end your suffering. But you didn’t.” His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“The same defiant nature you nag at me about.”
Framed by the doorway across from them, the sturdy form of General Loyce stepped into the room, her gaze landing on Zevander. The smirk at the corner of her lips stirred his repulsion all over again.
“I’d sooner die than fall to my knees for her,” he added, glaring at the woman who approached to Theron’s rear.
His fellow slave glanced over his shoulder, quickly snapping his attention back to the gouge above Zevander’s kneecap. “A warning might’ve been kind.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
No sooner had he spoken the words than the general sauntered up behind Theron, eyes appraising Zevander’s bandages.
“Seems you’re healing quickly.” The predatory sweep of her tongue across her lips had him glancing away to hide his grimace. “Incredible, how resilient the body can be.”
Zevander ground his teeth, ignoring her comments.
“I’ve never seen a man so moored by his stubborn nature. So…iron-hearted. You call to mind the stories of Deimos, the fierce and vicious god of destruction. Tell me, what is it that you continue to live for?”
Zevander would never tell her that it was only the promise of vengeance that kept him breathing. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d likely never see his mother and siblings again, even if his dreams told him otherwise. The general would never set him free.
Hands at her back, she paced behind Theron, who kept his head low, his eyes on the task of cleaning and mending Zevander’s wounds. “I must say, I’m impressed. I did not imagine sweet Vaelora had such vicious bite in her. Such a small and delicate creature, terrified of her own shadow. Yet, she managed to devise a scandalous betrayal.” Pausing her steps, she sighed and shook her head. “In the end, her fears got the best of her.”
A bolt of rage speared through Zevander. “Perhaps you might face off with one of those creatures yourself, and see how you fare.”
“Careful.” Sharp eyes snapped to his like the lash of a serpent’s tongue. “I’m happy to add another scar, or two, for Theron to stitch.” She resumed her steps, the clack of her boots grating on Zevander’s nerves. “Tell me who devised the plan, and I’ll send you back to the mines.”
Theron paused in stitching a gash at his thigh, his usually steady hand trembling.
Zevander stared at him, imagining what she’d opt to do for punishment. Perhaps, toss him into her serpent’s pit, just as she had Vaelora. Maybe she’d shackle him in a cell, starving him as she tormented and abused him, the way she had Zevander. No matter the punishment she opted for, he was certain Theron wouldn’t survive it.
Zevander inwardly sighed. There was a time he would’ve killed for a chance to return to the mines. Would’ve offered up his fellow slave without a thought, or care. The unsettling image of facing his friends after what he’d suffered, however, the shame and humiliation of what’d been done to him, would’ve sickened him. He would’ve retched to hear them lament over their longing to fuck something, as they often did in the hours before sleep.
He couldn’t return to the mines. Not after what he’d become.
Zevander would sooner die as her slave, than wear a mask of normalcy, pretending the abuse and torment had never happened.
“Dravien Nockvayne,” he said.
Theron’s shoulders sagged with relief, and he resumed his stitching.
The general ground to a halt again and tipped her head. “Dravien Nockvayne,” she echoed. “Aradia’s slave. Interesting. You suffered days of torment, and never once mentioned his name.”
“You never once offered my return to the mines.”
She let out a breathy laugh. “And, still, your wry wit remains ever present.” She resumed her pacing. “We are connected, you and me.”
“I share no connection with you,” Zevander asserted.
“Oh, but you do.” She yanked her dagger free from her hip, and the sight of it, the memory of the many times she’d dragged that blade across his flesh, stirred an uneasy feeling in his gut. “My father was a general before me. A fair and dutiful man. I wasn’t his natural-born child, I never knew the orgoth who impregnated my mother, but I was grateful for the man who loved her so dearly, he raised me as his own.” Pressing the tip of the blade into her finger sprouted a drop of blood. “He was put to death, after he failed to track down and hand over the king’s own bastard children--the very children your father hid away all those years ago.”
Again, Theron paused his stitching just long enough to sail a confused frown at him, then busied himself again.
“It was fate that your father would die here,” she added.
“Shouldn’t your enmity be directed at your king?” Zevander spoke through clenched teeth.
“My father failed to carry out his duty. He told me himself, as he lay dying. He’d have done the same in King Jeret’s position.”
Zevander sneered at that. “Then, he’s a fool. So bound by duty, he failed to see the cruelty in the task. Murdering innocent children isn’t honorable.”
