Page 39 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ZEVANDER

Present day …

A feeling of dread palmed the back of Zevander’s neck, bringing him to a halt on route to the village.

He looked back in the direction of the hovel that had shrunk too far in the distance to see.

Maevyth?

Instinct gnawed at him to return to her, as the final moments just before he’d left flickered through his head, and the worry he’d seen in her eyes lingered in his mind like a sliver. Perhaps an omen, if he were more astute.

He glanced back toward the winding, uneven path ahead that was scarcely discernable beneath the freshly fallen snow, which stretched toward the dark silhouette of Foxglove in the distance. “Fuck.”

That kernel of unease expanded in his chest, hardening into a cold realization that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

Abandoning his journey, he turned back for the hovel, trudging over his own tracks in the snow.

“ Mor samanet .”

The same voice he’d heard the day before in the woods reached him, and Zevander scanned his surroundings—the steeply sloping hills that met the remnants of a decayed wooden fence at either side of the road.

Twisted, skeletal limbs of barren trees loomed over the ever-present fog that lingered across the path, but there was no sign of anyone.

No movement.

He kept on toward the cottage, passing a long-abandoned watermill and its visibly rotting footbridge, and again his senses flared. He reached for the sword at his back as he caught a scent on the wind. Oiled leather. A faint whiff of smoke and ash.

A glint of gold from his periphery alerted him to movement, and Zevander spun, unsheathing his blade, just missing the deadly lash of his attacker’s sword that whizzed past his head.

Donned in a hood and mask that obscured their face, they lunged again, and Zevander threw himself sideways to avoid a jab to his guts. Zevander parried with a clang, mentally noting the stance and skill of his opponent. The precision of each movement. A trained killer, no doubt.

They circled each other like mirror images, swords at the ready. The spectral figure pivoted, and their blades clashed, steel against steel, sparks flying as both of them attacked with a series of well-timed strikes.

Zevander could’ve easily believed his opponent had studied his own movements, the way he almost seemed to anticipate them.

The scorpion at his back shifted and skittered across his skin, begging to be cut loose, but Zevander tamped it down, had intended to save whatever blood magic he had left in the event he encountered more of those spider mutations.

A plan he began to reconsider as he stared back at his enemy, searching for a weakness.

Zevander deflected another cunning strike and countered with a jab toward his opponent’s chest, but the stranger managed to side-step in time.

Like fighting his own damned shadow.

“Who are you?” Zevander snarled before lunging forward again. His blade was met with a rattling clang of opposing steel.

The stranger riposted, aiming for his midsection that time, and Zevander lowered his sword in time to block the deadly strike.

He sent a powerful blow to his enemy’s chest, throwing him backward. It was just enough for Zevander to press him back against the nearby tree, pinning him to the trunk of it with his sword at the stranger’s throat.

“Who are you!” When he tore away his opponent’s mask, Zevander’s breath hitched, the grip of his sword loosening with shock.

Blond curls of hair. Blue eyes. The scar at the corner of his mouth.

Theron?

A casket of memories cracked open inside Zevander’s head, in a cacophony of voices that spoke all at once.

No. It couldn’t be. His head swam in memories he’d long locked away. Memories he didn’t dare ponder in the face of a threat.

“Good to see you again, old friend.” The smile on Theron’s face, cruel and mirthless, didn’t match the last image of the young man Zevander remembered. “Centuries haven’t changed you much, have they? Perhaps all those grapes and wine you were fed by high-blooded noblewomen.”

His muscles hardened again, jaw tight. “You’re a long way from Solassios,” he gritted. “What do you want?”

“It isn’t what I want. It’s what she wants. It’s always been about what she wants.”

“Loyce?”

His lips twisted as if the sound of her name was as equally revolting to him. “Who else would’ve sent me to the damned mortal lands?”

“It’s a shame she sent you to your demise.”

“It’s a shame you underestimate me.” Like a whisper, he vanished, and Zevander’s blade bit into the bark of the old tree.

An unnerving cold palmed the back of his neck.

“ Mor samanet ,” the voice whispered again.

Zevander swung out with his blade, spinning around to find nothing there.