Page 43 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ZEVANDER

I n the misty haze of a dream, the ground moved beneath Zevander’s feet, and the air was crisp with the scent of wet leaves. He opened his eyes to find himself walking a well-worn path that was lined by crooked fences at either side, trees interspersed every few steps.

Ahead of him walked a girl. The girl. The one he’d observed many times before.

Except, he hadn’t been invited to Caligorya by Alastor, and as he glanced around, he saw no sign of his mentor there right then.

Only the girl.

Tipping his head, he trailed after her, as she carried a basket in one hand and what looked to be a small amphora of oil in the other.

Three ravens flew overhead, landing in the tree branches ahead of her, their heads tipped, one eye tracking her, and as she neared, they flew to the next tree branch.

Zevander had seen them flocking around the girl before, as if they were drawn to her, for some reason.

Her angelic voice carried through the trees as she hummed an unfamiliar song, her long, black locks dancing around her shoulders as a gentle wind sifted through her hair.

She casually strolled along, glancing around at her surroundings, her black cloak like a ghostly shadow in pursuit.

She was beautiful, even if she wasn’t real, though Zevander toyed with the possibility in his mind.

Imagining such a stunning creature existing in an otherwise dark world gave him a strange sense of comfort.

Something unseen seemed to catch her worn-down boots, and she stumbled forward with a gasp. Fruit tumbled from the basket onto the ground, figs and apricots rolling toward the sloping edge of the path.

“Damn it!” she said, falling to her knees and scrambling to gather the fruit back into her basket.

A streak of movement caught Zevander’s attention, and he tracked a squirrel darting toward one of the fallen figs.

She scampered on her knees toward it, but the squirrel skittered off back toward the adjacent trees with its bounty. “Oh, you wicked little ball of malevolence!” Chucking a fig at the creature, she missed it by a long shot, and Zevander let out a chuckle.

She turned toward him, frowning. “Is someone there?”

Curious, he stepped closer. Lowering to his knees beside her, he blew across her neck, watching as goosebumps scattered over her skin. When she turned, her lips were mere inches from his, and the scent of fresh figs on her breath made his mouth water for a taste.

“I know you’re there, even if I can’t see you.” Soft, winter eyes stared through him, but he imagined her being able to see him there. That the warmth in those eyes was meant for him. “Are you an angel?”

Zevander eased back a bit before answering, “Perhaps.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, falling backward, and kicked herself away from him. Eyes wide, she trailed her gaze back and forth, clearly unable to see him there.

He held his hand over her arm, careful not to touch her, and smiled to see more goosebumps prickling her skin.

Her chest rose and fell with panting breaths, and Zevander focused on the choker that clung to her throat. A cross of some sort.

“You’re an angel talking to me? Me ?”

“Why wouldn’t I talk to you?” What an exquisite peculiarity that she could hear him. That he could communicate with her and she understood him so perfectly.

He couldn’t imagine how such a thing was possible, given she didn’t yet exist, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless.

“Well…it’s just that…you’re an angel. And I’m… the lorn .”

“The lorn?”

“It’s what the villagers call me. It’s what they’ve always called me. Since I was a baby.”

“Abandoned?”

“Yes.”

“You have no family?”

“I do. And I love them very much. But I don’t know my birth mother.

Or father, for that matter.” She let out a sigh.

“Please tell me you’re real and that I’m actually talking to you, because if I’m not, they’ll think I’ve lost my senses, and I don’t wish to be both lorn and senseless at the same time. ”

A smile tugged at the corner of Zevander’s lips. “You are not senseless. I am an angel, and I’ve come with a message for you and only you.”

“For me? Tell me. Please.” She pushed to her knees and pressed her palms together. “Am I to share this message with anyone?”

How badly he wanted to reach out and touch her wild, dark hair. “No. It is for your ears and no one else’s.”

“Please. Tell me. I promise not to say a word.”

“I have chosen you, which makes you exceptionally important to the gods.”

“Gods?” Her brows came together. “Are there more than The Red God?”

“Yes. And they have a task for you.”

“Of course. I am your humble servant.” She lowered her gaze to the ground, fingers so tightly curled into each other her knuckles turned white. “Please, I beg. Whatever it is you ask of me, I am prepared to do.”

Damn those very gods for the way his body hardened at her supplication. Zevander had never endeavored to be a deity himself, but he couldn’t deny the intrigue of her zealous devotion. “Reject their Red God. Reject everything you’ve ever been told about yourself.”

She recoiled, as if stung by the words. “Reject The Red God?” A look of fear claimed her expression, and she shook her head. “The others will brand me a heretic for that. A witch. They’ll banish me, or burn me at the stake, for such a thing.”

Zevander called to mind the glyph he’d learned from before, summoning the flame to his palm. “Do you fear fire?”

Eyes entranced, she stared toward the flickering flame as if she could see it. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“When we were children, my sister leaned over a candle and her hair caught the flame. I was so frightened, I had nightmares about it consuming her.”

“But it didn’t. Why?”

“I quickly patted it out.”

“You saved her from burning alive.”

She winced and nodded. “I suppose.”

Zevander closed his palm, snuffing the fire there. He pressed in close, so close, he wondered if she could feel his breath across her neck. “Then, I suspect if I were the flame, it’s your touch that would make me tremble.”

A smile tugged at her lips—the kind that, even while subtle, lit the entirety of her face.

“From this day forward, you are no longer the lorn . You are worthy. Superior to the others. You are …” So enraptured by her beauty, his breath hitched.

Tears wavered in her eyes, and she quickly swiped at her cheek. “Yes?”

“Perfect.”

The tear trickled down her cheek, and Zevander desperately wanted to thumb it away.

“I am far from perfect, Angel.”

“You call me an angel. But imagine I am something else, suffering in the bowels of Hell.”

Her expression tightened. “A demon?”

“Perhaps.”

Eyes wide, she kicked away from him again. “Is that what you are?”

Zevander didn’t answer, but instead pondered the question himself.

“If you’re a demon, then I would be punished for speaking with you. But…I would grieve the absence of your voice.”

“Then, it’s best if you tell no one.”

“A secret?”

“Yes. A very dark secret. Can you keep secrets?”

“Oh, yes. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“Excellent.” Again, his hands were drawn to touch her, his palms itching to know the softness of her skin. “Tell me your name.”

“Everyone calls me The Lor?—”

“I’m aware of what everyone calls you,” Zevander interrupted. “And I told you that is no longer your name.”

The sharpness in her eyes softened. “It’s Mae?—”

“Who are you talking to, girl?”

So caught up in his fascination, Zevander hadn’t noticed a soldier dressed in armor strolling up to her.

“No one, Sir. I lost my footing and dropped my fruit, is all.” She gathered up the remaining figs and apricots scattered on the ground. “A nasty squirrel stole it from me.”

“Don’t lie to me, girl,” he growled.

“I swear, I’m not lying.” She lifted the basket. “I would not lie.”

The soldier looked toward the basket and back. “Unfasten your dress.”

A thick, venomous wrath slinked through Zevander’s veins.

“Sir, I beg you. I mean no deception. A squirrel ran off with one of my figs, and I was angry. That’s all.”

“Unfasten. Your dress.” Brows raised, the soldier wore an expectant expression and tipped his head. “Immediately.”

“If you heard me speak, I often pray to The Red God on long walks,” she prattled on, but Zevander could sense his intentions. He knew that sadistic gleam all too well.

“Defy me again, and I will carve the order into your flesh with a hot blade.”

A slowly uncoiling fury simmered inside of Zevander, and he forced himself to tamp it down, or risk breaching The Liminal to punish him.

The girl lowered her head, and clearly trying to stave off tears, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Now!”

Her muscles flinched at the command, and the brewing anger from before lashed inside of Zevander like a strike of lightning in his blood.

She unfastened her cloak, letting it fall to the ground behind her, and as if she were familiar with the command, she pushed to her feet, turned away from him, and unclasped the dress at the neck, allowing the back to fall open.

Leaving the expanse of her flesh exposed.

She held her dress to chest, presumably to keep it from falling off her, and closed her eyes.

The guard sneered as he took a step back, unfastening the whip at his hip. “Five lashings for defying my command. Two extra for lying to my face.”

She didn’t say a word in response, as if resigned to her punishment.

He licked his lips, letting the whip unravel to the ground.

Zevander’s muscles tensed at the sight of it, and an image flashed through his mind. Arms bound to wood. The taste of blood on his tongue. Skin cold.

His pulse hastened. The image of what must’ve been a punishment he’d suffered while his mind was lost in Caligorya flickered in his thoughts like a nightmare. He turned away. “No, no, no,” he whispered to himself. “Don’t do this. I don’t want to see it.”