Page 54 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
KAZHIMYR
“ Y ou want to tell me where you cunts skipped off to after The Becoming Ceremony?” Torryn poured wine into Kazhimyr’s glass, and as Morwenna passed behind him, she knocked the back of his head with her hand, sending the fluid splashing over the edge.
“Watch your mouth in my home, eh?”
Torryn rolled his shoulders back and frowned. “Apologies, Aunt Morwenna.”
Kazhimyr snorted, as the older, curvy woman took a seat at the end of the table, having cleared the last of supper, and kicked her boots up onto the table.
While she wasn’t known for being demure and gracious, Kazhimyr had always appreciated and even admired her crude mannerisms—traits that’d earned her the reputation of a cranky beldame who boiled the bones of men.
Or so the rumors went.
Her husband, Grendel, was rumored to have died of questionable causes, which might’ve been believable if Kazhimyr hadn’t been privy to his abusive nature.
He’d once seen Zevander step in front of the much bigger man, when he’d attempted to strike her.
The older man had walked away with four broken fingers and a bruised ego.
Torryn cleared his throat and when Kazhimyr swung his attention that way again, his brow quirked expectantly. “You were about to tell me where you were.”
“Sat in a cell getting beaten and bloodied by Captain Zivant, while you were getting your beauty rest.”
Torryn’s brows lowered, his gaze shifting toward the plum of a bruise healing on Kazhimyr’s cheekbone. “Zivant did that?”
“Yeah. Looking for Dolion and Zevander. S’pose he’s occupied now that the king’s son has gone missing.”
“Missing, you say?” Morwenna sat forward, lighting a pipe.
“Oh, that is a bad omen. Best we all have a bit of catallys claw to ward off any stewing of spirits.” Exceptionally superstitious, the old woman was known to dabble in darker magic on occasion, relying on spells and hexes, much like the Nilivir were forced to do without their blood magic.
She didn’t shun the archaic practices, like most mancers.
Didn’t shun the Nilivir, either. “Be right back.” Quickly shuffling out of the dining room, she nearly ran into Rykaia and Allura, the latter almost stealing Kazhimyr’s breath when he caught sight of her.
“Two of you missed supper,” Torryn said, his eyes always on Rykaia.
“I wasn’t hungry.” Rykaia plopped down two chairs away from Kazhimyr, and to his delight, Allura sat next to him.
“Neither was I,” the beautiful Elvyniran added. “Has anyone checked on Dolion?”
“Earlier. Seems he had another vision.” Kazhimyr sighed and sipped his wine. “Looks like we’ll be heading to Mortasia.”
Allura’s gaze shot to his, a troubled expression crinkling her brow. “The mortal lands?”
“Yes. My brother managed to rope himself into trouble again. And Maevyth.” Rykaia poured her own glass of wine, filling it to the brim. “The two of you return without her, and I’ll personally gut you open myself.” She leaned over the cup and slurped at the wine.
In spite of the smile on his face, Ravezio shook his head. “Why must you be so violent?”
“Because men have a tendency to forget important details. Such as, where they placed their swords. How to properly clean their bowls after supper.” She gestured with the glass of wine held loosely in her hand, not spilling a drop of it, to Kazhimyr’s surprise.
“Where a woman’s most sensitive spots are during intimacy. ”
“Ah, that’s low. I know all the sensitive spots. Even the ones you can’t reach by yourself, shaszha.” Ravezio winked and swept his tongue across his lips.
Beside him, Torryn issued a rough punch to his shoulder, and Ravezio grimaced, rubbing where he’d been hit.
“Was only playing.”
“Alright, who’s up for some catallys claw.” Aunt Morwenna carried a tray into the room, one of said claws caught between her teeth, as she placed the mugs down in front of each person at the table.
“Not in the mood for tea, thanks.” Torryn pushed it forward, lips crinkled.
“It isn’t tea, love. What’s in there will leave you ass up in the snow, if you drink too much.”
“Well, then.” Torryn raised his mug and tipped it back. “Catallys claw it is.”
“Now, wait a minute— how come you’re allowed to curse but we can’t?”
Morwenna slapped Ravezio upside the head. “Because I’m older, and I’ve earned the privilege. Now drink up.”
Lifting the mug for a sip himself, Kazhimyr paused when a dark figure flashed in his periphery. When he turned that way, it slipped into the wall of the adjacent room. Deimosi. A fear in the form of a shadow, left behind after death.
Aunt Morwenna slowly turned back around, the corner of her lips pulled into a smirk. “Looks like Uncle Grendel is active tonight.”
“How’d he die?” Ravezio asked.
“Accident. Damn shame,” Aunt Morwenna said and tipped back her mug for a drink.
“Was it, though, dear Auntie?” Amusement colored Rykaia’s tone as she stared back at her aunt. “Because I heard it was an ombrevor that did the job.”
Aunt Morwenna’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I forgot? A bit of flowerbark. Catallys claw always tastes better with flowerbark. Excuse me, will you?” She pushed up from the table and shuffled into the kitchen without another word.
A knowing smile lingered on Rykaia’s face.
“Ombrevor? What’s that?” Ravezio sniffed the tea and tipped it back, his face quickly souring at the awful flavor.
“In the old days, when someone sought to harm you, you could call upon a seer to summon the death spirit of the abuser’s future self,” Rykaia explained. “Their ombrevor. So, Aunt Morwenna may, or may not, have called upon the future death spirit of Uncle Grendel.”
As if emphasizing the point, the Deimosi darted overhead, slipping in and out of the walls.
“That makes no sense. Why would his death spirit be inclined to kill him?”
Rykaia shrugged and finished off the rest of her wine. “Vengeance for stupidity. Can’t change his fate, and as I understand, we’re all a bit regretful when we die. Particularly restless spirits that stay behind.”
“So, you call upon this future spirit, and…what?” In spite of his obvious distaste for the last sip he’d taken, Ravezio took another.
“He devours you. I’ve been told it’s the most traumatic and painful way to die.” Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling. “But Uncle Grendel was an awful man to her. So, as far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved.” The Deimosi slipped into the adjacent wall and didn’t bother to appear again.
“I’ll not lie …” Everyone turned to where Morwenna stood in the doorway holding a jar of flowerbark.
“This place gets lonely sometimes here by myself. Grendel was a mean codger, and I wouldn’t take him back for all the coin in Aethyria.
But I do miss the sound of voices in this house. It’s nice having all this company.”
K azhimyr sat on the ledge of the opened window in his room, staring across the courtyard at Allura, who stood admiring the stars from her balcony.
Personally, he couldn’t have cared less about the stars in the sky.
They paled in comparison to her beauty. Unfortunately, academics fell into a much higher social class, revered by highbloods.
Well out of his realm, but he enjoyed the view, at least.
When her gaze lowered to his and she smiled, Kazhimyr quickly looked away.
And in doing so, he noticed a dark figure lurking through the window in Dolion’s room, below hers. Kazhimyr leaned forward. Eyes focused. In his periphery, he saw Allura shift where she stood, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the figure.
At the sound of breaking glass, Kazhimyr seized his blade as he raced from his room and around the curved corridor to the other side.
Pounding and clattering erupted through the door there, and he jiggled the lever. Locked. “Dolion!”
“What is this nonsense?” Aunt Morwenna approached, wearing a faded moon-patterned nightgown and a nightcap that failed to contain the nettled strands of hair haphazardly shoved into it. “Can’t get a damn bit of sleep!”
Shouts and more shattering glass upped Kazhimyr’s nerves. He wriggled the lever again and pounded on the door.
“You may need to take that door down, love.” Aunt Morwenna shook her head. “These old locks are like a well-seasoned woman. They aren’t made for gentle jiggling.”
A blood curdling scream from the other side sent Kazhimyr into a frenzy, and he slammed his shoulder into the wooden panel. “Dolion, open the door!” He slammed again, harder than before, but the damned thing wouldn’t budge.
“What in seven hells is going on?” Torryn asked, approaching the two from behind.
“You.” Aunt Morwenna pointed at him and gave a sharp nod. “Put some muscle into it. Break it, if you have to.”
The bigger Letalisz lifted his boot and hammered it into the door. Once. Twice. On the third kick, it swung wide, and as both of them stepped inside, Kazhimyr frantically scanned over the room.
Dolion stood pressed against the wall, his eyes fixated to the left, where a cloaked figure scrambled across the floor toward him.
Behind the stranger, prowled a figure woven from gnarled branches and roots, each wrapped around a rotted skeletal form draped in moss.
The sound of creaking wood marked its every move, followed by a scrape and thunk of its limbs.
Creak, scrape, thunk . Creak, scrape, thunk .
Its glowing eye sockets anchored on the stranger, and a roar crackled from its chest like trees riven by lightning.
The beast swiped out a clawed hand, tearing the cloak of the stranger to shreds in one stroke, before yanking him backward.
Smoke curled around the captured stranger, as if he’d tried to conceal himself, but it quickly dissipated.
“You cannot kill him, your magic is useless!” Dolion warned. “The victim cannot kill his own curse.”
“This isn’t my fucking curse!”