Eldritch, p.7
Eldritch, page 7
“The markings on my arms. What are they?”
“A spell. To keep you from using your magic.”
“I have no magic. I was born a spindling.”
The stranger let out a dark chuckle. “Is that what they told you? Your good and loving parents have denied you the power that slumbers inside of you, have they?”
“I have no power.”
“If that were true, you’d have perished to your brother’s spiders that day when he attacked you.”
An unsettling curiosity palmed the back of Zevander’s neck. How could he have known about that?
Still, it was true. Prodozja was a protective form of magic. He couldn’t have summoned his scorpions had he been born a spindling. Spindlings possessed no magic, but if truth be told, Zevander had always questioned what he’d been taught. “How do you know so much about me?”
“I know many things. I know that you possess the most ancient and destructive power there is. An extraordinary gift of the gods.”
Zevander frowned. His father’s bloodline magic was forging metal. A long line of blacksmiths and farriers. His mother was an empath, a grief eater who also possessed the gift of reading minds. “There is nothing ancient, nor extraordinary, about my bloodline.”
“Yours is not derived from the sun or moon. It lives in the heart of Aethyria. It is the molten blackness that pumps through the veins of our world. Few gods take physical form, but this one lives within you.”
Zevander puzzled his words. “Who?”
“Deimos. The god of sablefyre and destruction.”
Zevander’s laugh began as a slow and dissonant chuckle, but the more he thought about the old man’s words, the more ridiculous it sounded in his head.
“You don’t have to believe what is truth. It does not change your fate,” the stranger snarled.
Harder, the boy laughed, his skin prickling. He howled and wheezed, until his throat was raw and his eyes wavered with tears.
The surrounding darkness flickered in his periphery, with images slipping in and out of focus.
Ropes. Blood. Tools precariously hanging on the wall. Trembling limbs and sharp breaths.
“You must stop! You mustn’t leave this place!”
The stranger lurched forward, and Zevander closed his eyes over the watery shield that shimmered in them. When he opened them again, a scorching heat tore across his back on a crackling sound. Zevander peered down at a gritty floor only a meter or so below him. Hard to tell with the slight blur in his eyes. Trembling, he managed to turn his head just enough to see that he was suspended by ropes, attached to iron posts, which held him up off the ground. Same must’ve been true for his legs, though he couldn’t move to confirm.
“Let’s see you run now, boy!” A loud crack rang in his ear, and pain slashed across his spine.
Zevander shook, his limbs stretched so tight, even the small trembles sent pulses of agony through him. The pain lulled him into a strange delirium, the objects before his eyes becoming echoes of themselves. The laughter and mocking grew distant, while his mind wound back to moments before—what must’ve been a dream. The stranger’s words reverberated through his thoughts. “He lives in you.” A god. How ridiculous!
A string of bloody saliva spilled from his swollen lip, and he let out a strained burst of laughter. His laughter turned hysterical as he imagined how fucking sorry a god must’ve felt, trapping itself inside the body of a helpless spindling.
The thought made him laugh harder.
“Laughing at me, are you?” Another thunderous crack sent a streak of flames across his skin. Flames. Like sablefyre.
Zevander let out another hoarse wheeze of laughter that ached in his battered ribs where he must’ve been kicked at some point. The clank of metal was only a minor distraction from the maddening hilarity that had taken over him, and he turned when a flash of gold struck his periphery.
The figure at his side knelt to eye level, and through a mist of tears, he could make out the face of the Bellatryx who’d skewered the boy earlier.
“Aren’t you a fascinating creature,” she said, her voice tinged with intrigue. With gentle fingers, she pushed a strand of hair from his face, her touch reminding him of his mother’s.
Zevander ground his teeth, holding back tears as thoughts of his mother arrived with another punishing blow.
“Enough of this. I long to see how this one fares in the mines.” She ran her calloused fingers across his arms, giving a small squeeze when she reached his biceps. “A bit of muscle ought to make him delicious. And once he’s strong enough, you will send him to me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MAEVYTH
After a quick breakfast of canned apples, I checked on Aleysia, who remained sleeping, and followed Zevander out into the snowy morning. Reluctant as I was to leave her alone, I couldn’t stomach the hours that would waste away waiting for her to wake. Having found her, it was imperative that I learned to defend her.
Between the trousers I’d borrowed from Elowen, along with a tattered tunic she’d had stored in the dresser, and Zevander’s cloak, I hardly felt clothed enough to take on the cold that rippled across the yard.
Zevander came to a stop in an open expanse of snow and, rubbing his hands together, scanned the surroundings as he turned to face me. “Seems a good place.”
“You’re certain the creatures are mostly nocturnal?” I’d seen an occasional few during the day, but I hadn’t observed them anywhere near as closely as Zevander, to know their behaviors.
Nodding, he swept his gaze over the surroundings once again. “Like hunting spiders. Most try to avoid being prey during the day.”
“What could those things possibly consider to be predators?”
He shrugged and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic, exposing a map of veins across his forearms. “Maybe it’s you they fear.”
“I very much doubt that.” I bit back a smile and glanced away, doing my best to ignore the way his untied tunic offered a peek of his broad chest beneath. Or that his casual stance made training appear absolutely effortless, a mere pastime for a man so skilled in fighting and killing. Powerful, like the world bent to him. In an effort to avoid staring at that damned tunic, I looked back to the cottage we’d left behind. “Can we make this a fairly quick lesson? I don’t like the thought of leaving Aleysia too long.”
“Where are you struggling?”
“The whip.”
“You’re grasping at a more advanced glyph.”
“I saw what it can do.” I traced the scar on my palm. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t me controlling it.”
“Who controlled it?”
I hesitated to say at first, for fear he’d think I was losing my senses. “Morsana. The one who’s come to me each time I’ve fallen into Caligorya.”
“While you were conscious?” A troubled expression crawled across his face when I nodded. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
“What does this mean?”
“That your whip is connected to a darker form of magic. One I suspect you’re hesitant to tap into. And rightly so, because it’s proven to be powerful, but it’s the only way to effectively defend yourself against these creatures.”
“I would not be standing out here in the cold, if I were hesitant.”
Hands braced at his hips, he sighed. “Dolion made the mistake of telling you what the whip is capable of doing. You fear hurting others. That is your hesitation. You have to want to hurt. To kill. You have to want to inflict death, but you grapple with your conscience.”
“So, I have to become a heartless killing machine in order to effectively utilize the glyphs specific to me?”
“Death is in your blood. But you have a tendency to overthink. You search for the good in your opponent. And that is your weakness.”
“A weakness? Compassion is a weakness now?”
“Where utilizing your most deadly weapons to survive is concerned? Yes.”
What irritated me was that I couldn’t deny his argument. Even after Uncle Felix had attempted to violate me, there was still the split-second of hesitation on my part, for reasons I couldn’t explain. Remorse, even. That I could possibly feel anything, given what he’d tried to do, left me questioning the state of my mind. “And how do you tackle this…weakness.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, and once again, I found myself annoyed by the distraction of his exquisitely carved form. “I don’t think. I rely on instinct. Everything that moves toward me with purpose and intention is a threat. I react accordingly.”
My face tightened with a frown. “That’s terrifying. Imagine if I were angry at you.”
“Imagine if you were. In fact, I insist you try.”
“And risk getting burned to cinder? No thank you.”
“With instinct comes intuition. Your body language tells me everything I need to know. Whether you’re a true threat, or simply seeking my attention.” The arrogant smirk on his face left me wanting to taunt his instincts by smacking it right off him. He lifted his chin, and his nose twitched. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“Lavender oil. It’s good for the skin, and the scent calms me.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
I wanted to tell him yes. That I didn’t trust myself around him. That, from the moment I’d proposed it, I’d wanted to abandon the suggestion to keep our distance and revisit that smoldering ember of desire he’d stoked when we’d last shared a bed. Or that the only thing standing in the way of me acting on those desires was the uncertainty of everything—my sister and whether, or not, we’d get back to Aethyria. Looking at him, deliciously lethal and ironclad, stirred an unbearable ache low in my stomach. Had me feeling warm and cold at the same time, as if my body couldn’t decide between frustrated and aroused. And yes, I wore the damned lavender oil hoping he’d notice.
I hardened my jaw. “I suppose it might be the oversized spider humanoids that like to eat people making me nervous.”
Hands still resting on his hips, he shook his head and whistled. “The sarcasm is thick this morning, isn’t it?”
“Or perhaps you woke up in a mood to torment.”
“I woke up in a mood for something, but it surely wasn’t to torment,” he said casually, the insinuation sending a twitch to my thighs. “So, you wore perfume for the spiders?”
“It isn’t perfume!” The words snapped out of me like a whip, and I quickly slammed my mouth shut, exhaling a long breath through my nose to settle my nerves. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little tense with everything.”
He quirked a brow. “Perhaps you need something to relax.” He jerked his head. “Come.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Why? What do you intend to do?”
“Loosen you a bit.” The wolfish grin he wore set me on edge when he sauntered toward me, coming to a stand at my back. Hands gripped my shoulder, firm and warm, the heat sinking into my bones. “You are tense, aren’t you?” Strong fingers pressed into the knot at the base of my neck and my eyes nearly rolled back as he worked it loose, as if he knew the exact spot. He added more pressure, and I clamped my mouth over a quiet moan that nearly escaped.
He gathered my wrists at my back. “Bend forward,” he commanded, and I whipped my head to the side.
“What for?”
“A stretch?”
Reluctantly, I leaned forward as he held my arms, sliding a gentle hand down my spine to adjust my form.
“Stop when it hurts,” he said, but it didn’t hurt. It pulled my muscles in the most exquisite way. He lifted my arms just enough that I could feel the stretch across my chest, my breasts straining against the threadbare tunic.
It’s just a stretch, I told myself, but gods, it felt good.
I lowered into it and a stiff bulge pressed against my bottom. My back snapped ramrod against his chest.
Still holding my wrists captive, he slid his palm across my stomach, just skimming the waistband of my trousers. “This one is my favorite,” he said at my ear, his voice like warm velvet.
“This doesn’t feel like a stretch at all.”
“Never said it was.”
Clearing my throat, I wriggled out of his grasp, for fear of what his hands might easily compel me to do, and took a step forward, the echo of his firm grip still burning across my skin. “Going back to our previous conversation…in a nutshell, you’re telling me I need to ignore my empathy. The very emotions that have given me pause.”
A lingering smile played on his lips. “Yes. You struggled to kill your uncle because you couldn’t perceive him as an enemy. Remember, I told you, magic is the will of the wielder. You gave your power over to the dark side of you. There’s a danger in that. You have to learn to embrace it yourself.”
I sighed and crossed my arms, catching the prolonged dip of his gaze where my nipples had undoubtedly made themselves known, as cold as it was. Not even tipping my head managed to pull his attention away from my chest.
“Let go of the empathy. It can be incredibly distracting.” His brow lifted, eyes still riveted on my thin tunic.
“Is it me you’re talking to?” I glanced down at my breasts. “Or them?”
The dimple in his cheek bloomed with a smirk. “Was it your intention to look irresistible for a training session?”
“Did you intentionally untie your tunic in the middle of winter for a training session?” I countered. “At least I wore a cloak.” I wrapped the thicker fabric around me, shutting out the view of my breasts.
“Yes,” he said, unabashedly. “It was intentional. It’s been rather hot and constricting the last few days.” He ran his finger over the collar of his shirt, widening it for more of the muscle beneath. “I’d take it off entirely, but I wouldn’t want to suggest anything.”
I had to physically turn away to keep from visualizing his sweat-slicked muscles, hard and gleaming. “Nor would I want to give you the impression that seeing you without a shirt had any effect on my ability to focus on training.”
“Glad to hear it.” He crisscrossed his arms, hooking the hem of his tunic as if to pull it off.
“But …” I lurched forward, holding my hand up to stop him. “I think it’s a bit cold. I wouldn’t want you to get frostbite.”
A grin crept across his face as he lowered his arms.
Annoying. “You are insufferable. Must you always smile at me that way?” In truth, he smiled so rarely, his face usually tight with a scowl, it was a welcomed sight.
But still annoying.
He lifted a shoulder, that infuriating grin never fading. “You’re always welcome to avert your gaze.”
“And give you the upper hand? Is that how you defeat your opponents? Charm them with smiles?”
“Depends on the opponent.” His gaze trailed over me again. “And how badly I want to see what’s beneath her cloak.”
His words cast a flicker of heat between my thighs, drawing to mind the night he’d put his mouth on my breasts, suckling and flicking his tongue over them.
Stop it right now!
Squinting, I shook my head of the mental image. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to keep my eyes on you, then.” I waved my hand toward him. “Might we return to the lesson now? How do you suggest I learn to cast aside my empathy, seeing as I’ve had it since birth?”
A clicking, hissing sound echoed through the treetops of the adjacent forest, and as I whirled that way, a flock of birds darted toward the sky. Breath shot out of me, and I snapped my attention back to Zevander. “The spiders?”
He rolled his shoulders back and groaned. “And so the lesson begins. I’ll be right back.” Drawing the sword from his back, he strode toward the archway of The Eating Woods in the distance.
Frowning, I stepped forward, watching him cross the field with determined steps. “You’re walking toward them? Shouldn’t we be going in the other direction? Back to the cabin?” I called, but he ignored me, keeping on toward the woods until he breached the archway.
Minutes passed. Cold slithered over my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself, glancing around at the empty, open field. I took small steps in the cabin’s direction, but paused, conflicted and frustrated. “Why would you go into the woods?” I muttered angrily and trudged three more steps, pausing again.
Icy fingers palmed the back of my neck, drawing focus to the vulnerability I felt right then and casting a shiver through me.
Another minute passed.
Another.
Finally, he emerged from the forest.
On a dead run toward me.
It didn’t occur to me what had him running so fast, at first. Not until, moments later, two pale creatures emerged after him, their bodies suspended between the sixteen long legs that carried them quickly in my direction.
Fear gripped my throat.
“Zevander!” I rasped.
“Ready yourself!” He rounded my body until standing at my back, as the spider humanoids scampered toward us. “Call on your whip.”
My whip. The glyph. What was the damned glyph?
“I don’t remember it!”
“Yes, you do. You’re letting fear control your thoughts. Slow your mind and think.”
“If I slow any part of me, those things are going to devour me!”
With quick hands, he held my hip and steadied my elbow, raising my arm a notch. “You’re tensing too much. Relax your muscles, you’re too stiff.”
If my heart hadn’t been pounding in my throat, I’d have told him that was a compliment, coming from him. “I can’t relax when they’re bounding toward us!”
They were closer than before.
Closer.
One ambitious leap away from pouncing on us.
My instincts told me to run. My whole body shook with the urge to spin on my heel, training be damned! “I can’t do this!”
They pounced.
Zevander threw out his hand, and the creatures shot up into the air, their legs still scrambling as if closing the last few inches between us.
“Call on your glyph! Now!”
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. In the quiet of my thoughts, an image slipped through my head. The spine. “I see it.”
