Page 35 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

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.

“And what lesson will you teach?” Zevander asked, not bothering to look at Alastor.

“The most powerful weapon you possess. The ability to destroy.”

The words intrigued him, and he abandoned his amusements for what Alastor could’ve possibly meant by that.

The church faded for a field of black roses. Alone, they could not be considered remarkable, if not for the silver along the edge of their petals casting a soft glow in the moonlight—the same flowers said to grow only in Nethyria.

“Every rose you see represents those who will harm, or fail, you. Every flower is a soul that has plotted against you.” He held out his hand, and a flame flickered across his palm.

An orange glow trailed his fingers as he drew a strange symbol, which hung in the air before Zevander’s eyes.

“ Exitiusz . Remember every line and point. Where they begin and, particularly, where they end. Let it sear itself into your mind and commit it to memory.”

Fascinated by the way it continued burning before his eyes, he couldn’t help but study it. When he closed his eyes, it remained there in the forefront, blazing across his mind. Every line. Every detail. A perfect image in the darkness of his thoughts.

“Raise your hand,” he heard Alastor say in the blackness of the void.

A blistering flame sizzled across his palm when Zevander raised it.

“Do you see exitiusz as clearly as it was before your eyes moments ago?”

“Yes. I see nothing else.”

“Now kill them all.”

The heat at his palm intensified, and Zevander opened his eyes to see the roses had wilted, their petals browned, the buds slumped over.

He glanced down to the glowing blue across his palm, the same symbol he’d seen in flames only moments before. “What is this? This is not my blood magic.”

“No. Your blood magic is incapable of something so impressive. Outside of Caligorya, you will struggle with this glyph. It is not an easy one to learn. But your mind is focused here. There are no distractions.”

“It’s real, then. Not just a god’s vision.”

“Of course it’s real. Do you not feel the burn upon your flesh? The power vibrating across your bones?”

“Yes, but this is a dream.”

“It is a dream. And now you must wake.”

“And if I want to stay?”

“Too long in Caligorya would kill you. Go. And you will return.”

Zevander opened his eyes to the dim light of the room where he’d been brought earlier.

He glanced toward others who lay across the many pillows set about the room.

Pain at his thigh urged him upright, and he looked down at blood seeping through a cloth wrapped there.

The flesh between his thighs throbbed with the kind of ache he’d never felt before, and he didn’t dare lift the cloth covering his manhood, for fear of what he’d remember.

Instead, he lay back on the pillows, his muscles shaking with rage.

Be a man , his head chided. What man wouldn’t enjoy a woman’s hands on him?

Except, he hadn’t asked for those hands to touch him.

They’d touched him without permission—against his will.

Then they’d laid him across silk and fine fabrics, as if that would erase what they’d done.

That was what troubled him most. No matter how he tried to justify what’d happened, the truth lingered like a thick, black sludge at the back of his throat.

He was glad it was dark when he’d finally woken. That everyone had fallen asleep. Darkness was easier. Safer.

He forced himself to breathe, even if every breath was wrought with the lingering pain of what he refused to face.

I’m not a victim , he assured himself. Almost believing that. “I wanted this,” he said into the universe, the tears in his eyes betraying his words. “I deserve this.”

I deserve this .

He covered his eyes with his palm, forcing himself to remain silent when a sob punched at his chest to be set free.

Be a man.

Don’t break.

He clenched his jaw, choking back the urge to do just that.

It was in that silence that he felt the warmth across his palm, and when he pulled it away from his face, a scar remained, outlined in faint, almost imperceptible lines across his calloused skin.

Nothing he would’ve noticed himself, until he ran his thumb over them and felt the fine ridges of the glyph he’d memorized in Caligorya.

It was real.