Page 19 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MAEVYTH

I dabbed a cloth over Aleysia’s forehead, sighing when she didn’t so much as twitch from the sensation. Just as she hadn’t the day before, and the day before that.

Nearly five days had passed since we’d pulled her out of that pantry, and she lay as motionless as ever, leaving me to ponder at what point I should accept that she might never wake. At what point would it be considered too long to remain hopeful?

We only had another two days worth of food, if we rationed appropriately. After that, we’d be forced to search for more.

A simmering frustration warmed my blood as I ran the cloth down her temples, twinges of resentment making themselves known in the involuntary snarl of my lip.

“Wake up, Aleysia. Quit being so damn stubborn.” Slumping back on the chair I’d drawn to her bedside, I ground my jaw watching her sleep so soundly.

“The world has gone to absolute hell, and we’re stuck here because you refuse to wake! ”

I snapped my jaw shut and turned away from her, the anger boiling, rippling through me. I clenched my fist around the cloth and closed my eyes, imagining myself smacking her across the face in a desperate attempt to wake her.

In the thick of those vicious thoughts, a heavy guilt pressed down on me.

“I’m sorry. This cottage is suffocating.

” At least if she was awake, we could leave the place.

Perhaps take in the state of things in town, maybe even beyond Foxglove, and decide where to go from there.

Everything felt so stagnant. “I just…really want to get out of this place.” I soaked the cloth in the basin of warmed water and lifted her arm to wash her armpit.

A strange marking caught my eye. Through her worn chemise, a black splotch marred her ribcage beside her breast. Frowning, I tugged at the sleeve just enough to reveal a large bulbous mass, the size of an apple and black as pitch.

From it, protruded black veins, like those on Zevander’s face, but thicker and covered in a strange, rough texture.

Could it have been caused by sablefyre?

Staring at it brought to mind the story Zevander had told me, of when he was a baby thrown into a fire.

Frantic, I tugged harder at the fabric, noticing the way the veins stretched toward her back. When I traced my finger over one of them, the disturbing sensation of a thousand bees humming beneath her skin had me yanking back my hand.

“ Kill her now. ” Morsana’s voice slid through my head like liquid velvet. “It will be easier. You can return through the Umbravale without her.”

No . Eyes clenched, I shook my head. Get out of my thoughts. Get out! I opened them to find my hand was at Aleysia’s throat, my blackened fingertips tingling against her skin.

A quick, jagged breath flew out of me, and I recoiled my hand just as a flash of light glowed across my palm. Every muscle in my body shook at the near-miss.

What are you doing!

Staring down at my trembling hands, I remembered the words Zevander had said only days ago. Will of the wielder.

Had it been my will to kill my own sister?

I inhaled a shuddering breath, still shaken by it.

I’m not killing her. I will not kill her. It is not my will!

“Do you hear me?” I whispered aloud, to myself and whatever was inside of me, perceiving her as my enemy. “I will not kill my own sister!”

“Maevyth.” The sound of my name, barely whispered, broke my attention, and gasping, I leaned in closer, careful not to touch her.

“Aleysia?”

Another soft murmur accompanied the movement of her lips.

My heart leapt to my throat on a surge of excitement. “Aleysia?” Keeping my fingertips off her, I gave her a soft shake. “Aleysia, can you hear me? I’m here.”

Smiling, I watched with guarded hope for any other small movement.

“C’mon. Say something,” I whispered. “I’m here. Please just open your eyes and look at me.” Seconds turned to minutes, and I began to question whether I’d actually heard her speak, or if it was merely the voice inside my head again.

More minutes slipped past, until I’d watched her a half-hour, staring at her face for so much as a twitch.

Had her lips actually moved, or was it an illusion?

The groaning of wood on the other side of the door cast a chill down my spine.

It’s just the wind , I reminded myself, as I’d heard it before, rustling the thick thatching.

Even so, I turned toward the bedroom door. “Zevander?” It must’ve been two hours since he’d left the hovel to chop more wood, given the waning brightness of the sky. I’d gotten so wrapped up in my thoughts, I hadn’t even paid attention to the time.

Palming the back of my neck, where an incessant tingling persisted, I crept toward the door. It croaked as I opened it and peered in on the stillness of the other side.

“Zevander!” I called out, and when he failed to answer, another chill slithered beneath my skin.

Relax , I chided myself.

I searched each of the small rooms with the prickling of my senses goading my every step.

Zevander’s cloak lay draped over a chair, and I swiped it up, startling at the light clang of something tumbling out of the pocket onto the floor.

Frowning, I crept toward it and lifted a deformed object resembling the whistle I’d used to summon Raivox.

Hardly the shape it’d once been, the metal looked as if it’d melted and cooled into an entirely new shape.

It was only the intricate carvings on the surface of it that I managed to recognize.

How had Zevander come into possession of it?

Peeling out of those thoughts, I tucked it into the pocket of my trousers, and after wrapping a blanket around me and slipping on my boots, I headed out into the snow.

“Zevander!” I called out, rounding the dwelling. I kept on, toward the small clearing where he’d chopped wood a few days before. Split planks lay about, but neither he, nor his axe, were anywhere in sight.

“Zevander?” I scanned the edge of the forest, and on spotting what looked to be his discarded shirt at the archway of The Eating Woods, I hurried that way, over the hard snow that crunched beneath my boots.

Lifting the tunic, I caught sight of boot prints on the other side of the archway and frowned.

Going after him would be foolish, but I couldn’t just walk away, either. He could’ve been hurt.

The image of the spider atop him flashed through my head again, and determination urged me past the archway, trudging through the forest in search of him.

The deeper I pressed, what little light had beamed through the overcast sky was dimmed by the looming, gnarled skeletal branches that hung thick with frost. Only a small bit of snow breached the canopy overhead, making the search for footprints a bit more challenging in the rotting patchwork of decayed vegetation and mud.

Mist rose up from the ground, the scent of decomposition even stronger than the last time I’d ventured beyond that unsettling boundary. A buzzing sound reached my ear, and I looked up to see two wickens hovering before my face, their humanoid faces carved in malice.

Infernal creatures.

I held up my hand, my black-tipped fingers one swipe away from grabbing the little beast. “If you so much as attempt to bite me, I will turn your little stick bodies to ash.” The wickens tipped their heads and exchanged a glance between them.

The moment I lurched forward, the two buzzed off, and with a relieved breath, I lowered my hand, watching them flit through the trees.

I pressed on, the crunch of frost and dead vegetation crackling under my boots.

A dark object lying on the forest bed caught my eye, and as I passed, I paused to see the grotesque remains of a half-devoured raven.

From its ribcage, emerged a strange black centipede, whose face reminded me of a skull with deep sunken eye sockets.

Sharp teeth bit down into the macerated flesh clinging to the bird’s rib bone.

The sucking sound that followed cast a shiver down my neck, and I hurried away from the bird, resuming the task of finding Zevander.

Ahead of me, more prints across the muddy forest ground indicated I was on the right path.

“Maevyth!” The voice that called out from the opposite direction sounded too much like Zevander’s. I spun around, gaze sweeping through the trees for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

“Do not answer to your own name,” I reminded myself, though I wasn’t certain what deceived me right then—my eyes, or my ears. I turned back to the footprints.

The voice called out for me again, and screwing my eyes shut, I ignored it, following the prints. Every step took me farther away from the cabin, until I was standing at the trampled thorn bushes that served as a barrier around the archway into Aethyria.

On the other side of them, I found Zevander with his back to me, staring up at the shimmering portal.

I stepped over the prickly brambles, ignoring how they caught on my trousers. “Zevander?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn to acknowledge my clumsy approach, as if he couldn’t hear me, at all.

I moved to close the space between us, approaching cautiously when whispers reached my ear.

“ Te’igniret abysira. Te’igniret abysira. Te’igniret abysira. Te’igniret abysira.” He repeated the phrase in short, frantic bursts of breath, white mist pouring from his mouth.

Quiet, tentative steps brought me even closer. Close enough to see the black flame flickering in his palm. He raised it toward the shimmering barrier in front of him, which flickered and wavered, but failed to burn away.

“Zevander? What are you doing?”

Still, he didn’t answer.

I reached out to grab his arm, but before I could so much as breathe a word, he snapped toward me, an axe I hadn’t noticed drawn back in his other hand. “Zevander!” I lifted my arm to shield my face, as if that would offer any protection against the sharp, gleaming edge of that blade.

Dark and deranged eyes bore into me with a feral intensity.