Page 50 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

Z evander had never seen the rotunda room inside General Loyce’s palace, where he and the other gold-painted slaves had been taken, but it was just as opulent as the one where he spent most of his days.

White stone firepits stood about the room, casting a flickering glow over the white walls and their delicate gold details.

A domed ceiling loomed directly above a dark, cavernous pit.

Covered by a steel grate, it reminded him of the one in Bonegrist.

Guests clutching glasses of wine peered down inside, undoubtedly hoping for a glimpse of the beasts caged there.

Polished, golden manacles bit into Zevander’s wrists, as he stood alongside the other painted slaves, on display for the many guests.

Two orgoths flanked either side of the line, watching over them, while the oglers dared to walk past, giggling to themselves as they sipped their drinks.

At least four-dozen highbloods scattered about the room like vultures, silks and jewels glinting in the dim light, while their murmurs and stares dripped with hunger.

Interspersed between them were servants, as well as the Bellatryx, donned in white leather suits, absent of their usual armor and easily identified by their muscular build.

Through the crowd, Zevander spied one of them speaking casually with Theron. The scar across the lower half of her face made Zevander’s own look like nothing more than a minor blemish hidden behind his mask.

Aradia, no doubt.

“I hear only a few of us will be standing by night’s end. Perhaps the only competition where death isn’t entirely a loss.”

Zevander snorted and turned to the slave beside him. His dark green hair was a strange contrast to the gold of his skin. He’d never seen him before, not even in the mines. “You’re one of Loyce’s Gildona?”

“Aradia’s. Name’s Dravien Nockvayne.”

Zevander turned his attention back to the Bellatryx still conversing with Theron, who mingled freely, without his shackles. “And how is Aradia?”

“You’re asking the demeanor of my abuser? Well, she certainly didn’t force me to wear a muzzle.”

“Careful. I might be inclined to strangle you with my chains.”

“What poetry that would be.” He nodded toward Theron. “Is he one of the general’s?”

“Yes.”

“A favorite. How wonderful. Let me guess…he has a small cock, but an important skill.”

Zevander’s lips pulled to a half-smile. “I cannot confirm the size of his cock, but yes. He mends wounds.”

“Watch him,” Dravien warned. “He didn’t get where he is without betrayal. It is the only path to elevation.”

“I’ve kept my eye on him. I trust no one.” Zevander glanced toward his fellow slave. “My sincere apologies to you, by the way.”

“Apologies for what?”

“That you’re going to die tonight.”

Dravien chuckled. “Your humor certainly makes up for your lack of beauty.”

“Too bad yours doesn’t.”

Shaking his head, Dravien smiled, but the amusement on his face soured, as Aradia strode across the room toward them. He rolled his shoulders back, lowering his gaze.

It wasn’t Dravien she approached, though.

She leaned into Zevander’s ear and whispered, “I understand you’ve something to tell me. Make it quick.”

Zevander frowned, his gaze slowly tracking upward and landing on Theron across the room. He cleared his throat and turned toward her. “I’ve a message. From Vaelora Vexmoor.”

Aradia recoiled and in Zevander’s periphery, he could see her glaring at him. “What do you know about her?”

“That she’s alive. A captive of General Loyce.”

“Loyce.” The way she spat the world like a bad taste told Zevander she didn’t much care for the woman. “Say nothing more. I will pass on the message.”

Zevander nodded, and the Bellatryx straightened herself, smoothing her hands over her leather suit.

Theron gave a sharp nod at him. Had he been the one to send her over?

Staring back at the other slave from across the room, Zevander pondered whether, or not, he could trust him. As Dravien had said, one only achieved his level of favor by betrayal.

Zevander’s throat burned with thirst, the heat of the flames from the firepit behind him wringing every drop of sweat from his body. It was a wonder the painted clay remained in place.

A woman dressed in nothing but shimmering gold paint approached, carrying a thin vial that she uncorked with her teeth.

Without asking, she took hold of his jaw, pouring the fluid into his mouth.

The moment the refreshing fruity flavor met his tongue, he couldn’t deny the urge to swallow, but he resisted.

She kissed his cheek, her thumb brushing over his exposed nipple and Zevander clenched his teeth, breathing hard through his nose.

She finally turned away from him, and he spat the fluid over his shoulder.

Another woman, absent of clothes, swept through.

The small meat cakes she carried teased his senses with their delicious savory scent.

She forced one of the cakes into his mouth and kept on, offering the same to Dravien.

He whispered something that seemed to make her smile and she kissed him on the lips before making her way down the line of slaves.

Once again, against the gurgling and hollow ache in his stomach, he spat the food into the firepit at his back.

As the night wore on, servants passed him, offering more food, more drinks, and each time, he expelled them. The other slaves had begun swaying on their feet, including Dravien, all of them falling prey to the effects.

“What d’you call a pale Solassion?” Dravien asked beside him, and without giving Zevander a second to absorb the question, he said, “A corpse.”

Zevander chuckled and forced himself to sway on his feet like the others. He eyed a servant to the left of him, carrying a pitcher of iced water. His mouth watered at the sight of it, but he didn’t dare trust it.

A curvy woman, painted in white, with long, golden horns atop her head, sauntered up to him. With both hands, she gripped either side of his face and whispered, “ Mor samanet ,” as a cloud of thick black smoke seeped from her mouth.

Zevander jerked his head to break her hold, and in doing so, his eyes tracked slower than the movement.

His surroundings widened and shrank and he double-blinked, shaking his head.

Knees and palms struck marble as he fell to the floor.

The ceiling overhead swelled and contracted, as if it breathed, the voices around him slowing to a deep echo.

“Zevander?” a voice asked, and he turned to see Theron staring back at him, his face stretched and distorted.

Zevander awkwardly clambered to his feet and stumbled forward, nearly tumbling to the floor a second time, before Theron managed to catch him.

Theron slapped a palm to Zevander’s face, and the scent of herbs invaded his nose, as Theron whispered something incoherent.

He quickly released him, and Zevander collapsed to his knees, palms to the floor once again.

The blurred designs etched into the white tiles seemed to pulse for a moment, then sharpened into focus.

So sharp, he could make out the tiniest details and cracks.

The cacophony around him shrank into clarity, his attention narrowing on that horrific voice in the crowd.

“My most esteemed guests.” General Loyce, dressed in a white gown with gold accents, sauntered to the center of the room until standing beside the cavernous pit.

The crowd gathered around her, drinks in their hands, voices hushed to whispers.

“I know you’re here for the much-beloved fights, and I promise, there will be a fight.

But first, I thought we might indulge in some pre-game entertainment.

” She waved her hand, and the crowd parted around two guards guiding Vaelora toward the pit.

Loyce’s gaze trailed over the crowd and landed on Zevander.

Again, she waved her hand, and two more guards strode toward him.

Taking hold of his arms, they hauled him toward the center of the crowd until he was beside Vaelora.

Zevander didn’t have to look at the girl to know she was trembling. He could damn near feel her fear thicken the air.

Loyce wore a smile as she sauntered toward Zevander, and when she ran her hands down his chest, his lips twisted with revulsion. “I want you to take her in front of everyone here. Not gently, or lovingly. Violently,” she added, sauntering away.

“No.” Jaw set, he took in the sea of faces that’d gathered around him.

Loyce paused mid-step and turned around. “What did you say to me?”

He tipped his chin in defiance. “I said, no . I will not.”

He felt a hand grip his arm, and Zevander drew back, the chains rattling. Turning, he found Vaelora staring up at him.

“It’s all right.” A shield of tears shimmered in her eyes. “I want you to do this.”

“I will not violate you at the general’s request.”

“It isn’t a violation, if I give you permission.”

Voice edged in steel, he said, “I don’t need your permission for something I’ve no intention of doing.”

“Please. Do this.” Her gaze snapped to the floor, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m begging you.”

It was then Zevander realized, that it wasn’t only he who would be punished, but her, as well.

Lips pressed together, he released an angry exhale and turned back to General Loyce. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Loyce ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass, a cruel amusement in her eyes. “I’m bored of this. Get rid of her.”

“No,” Vaelora whispered beside him, the panic in her voice damned near palpable. “Please! I’m begging you!”

Hands clenched to tight fists, Zevander lurched forward. “I said I’ll do it!”