Page 57 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ZEVANDER

“ I invited you back,” Alastor said, as Zevander opened his eyes to find himself standing in the center of the village where he’d last watched a girl get trampled by horses. “I need to show you the consequences of your actions.”

A cold sensation twisted in Zevander’s stomach, as he followed his cloaked mentor toward the enormous cathedral with the red doors. Once inside, he led him through a maze of corridors, to a dark stairwell that descended into shadows.

It was when they reached the bottom of the staircase that he could hear her screams.

Zevander’s muscles tensed, his heart hammering in his chest as they approached a door with a small iron hatch at its center, which Alastor opened.

With a wave of his hand, Alastor urged him to peer in, and Zevander stepped toward the door, looking in on a small cell, much like the one he’d been locked inside.

In the corner, burned a brazier that illuminated every face, including the girl’s beautiful profile.

She sat on a stool, holding the front of her dress to her chest, her long, raven locks freshly shorn to black stubble, her flesh marred with glistening wounds.

“Sacton Crain.” A woman garbed in red gestured to a tall, slim man with a gaunt face. “This is Lord Eldric Holloway. He is known all over Mortasia for his witch pricking skills. If the girl possesses the Devil’s mark, he will find it.”

“Excellent.” The portly man he’d remembered from his first visit in Caligorya, in the temple, when he’d first felt the man’s animosity toward the girl, stared back at her without a sliver of empathy.

“I look forward to laying this to rest. Lilleven’s brother claims he heard the girl wish for his sister’s death by trampling.

If that isn’t bad enough, there were three ravens spotted flying overhead when it happened.

In my mind there is no greater proof, but some in the village have insisted on it.

Therefore, you have my full confidence, Lord Holloway. ”

“Thank you, Your Excellency.” The man’s voice, like metal on whetstone, grated on Zevander’s nerves. “I’d like to begin.”

“Of course.”

From the table beside him, where a number of sharp tools sat out on display, he lifted a long, slender, needle-like tool with a black iron shaft and unusual symbols carved into the hilt of it. The strange man’s slow, deliberate movement set Zevander’s teeth on edge.

Positioning himself in front of her, the one named Sacton Crain stretched his fist toward the girl, and from it, dangled a chain bearing the same unusual cross she wore at her throat.

One whose crosspiece looked like the bony wings of a fierce creature.

He whispered hasty words of prayer, forcing the cross in her face every time she looked away from it.

The girl shook where she sat and let out a quiet whimper, as the gaunt man approached her from behind. He twisted the tool in his hand, then jabbed it into her back.

A scream ricocheted off the walls, and Zevander’s muscles jerked and trembled with a rush of adrenaline, watching her break into a sob.

He’d heard many screams in his life, from the sound of his mother wailing, as he was dragged away on the day he’d been sent to the prison, to cries of grown men suffering in the mines, and the dying gasps of men whose lives he’d ended abruptly.

But her scream was different. It burrowed in his chest like a jagged knife, cutting him deep and cruelly. The man withdrew the tool and jabbed her again in another spot, and again she screamed, blood trickling down her skin and dripping onto the floor.

He made three, quick consecutive jabs, and she twitched, sobbing into her dress.

“Please,” she cried.

Crystals of ice moved through Zevander’s veins, his body locked, as her scream merged with the memory of his own. “Stop this.” Zevander flattened his palms against the door, his muscles tense and wired, eyes burning with pure rage.

“When you take a life in Caligorya, balance must be restored. You did this. And she will suffer for it.”

Another rough jab of the pricking tool, and she cried out at a higher pitch than the last.

Zevander crushed his eyes shut and inhaled through his nose to steady his breaths.

She screamed again.

Again.

Each scream marked a new wound in her flesh and tore at the old scars that covered his own body, where the unbearable pain flared once again. Every plea echoed one of his own. “Enough of this. If it’s a lesson you wish to teach, you’ve made your point.”

“They will not stop until she bleeds to death. They will prove that she is a witch.”

Another gut-wrenching outcry filled his head, and he opened his eyes to see two men holding her arms outstretched, her dress fallen to reveal her bare breasts, while the witch pricker made his way down one of her arms.

Stabbing.

Stabbing.

Stabbing.

Zevander’s body shook, his mind spiraling into the moments during his own abuses when he’d felt helpless. Weak. He gnashed his teeth as the fury gurgled inside of him. He could save her. In this world, he possessed an unmatched power.

Make it stop.

“Enough!” Zevander pounded his fist against the door, and all eyes in the room turned to him.

“Angel?” he heard Maevyth ask through tears. “Is that you, Angel?”

“Do not answer her. You will only make it worse,” Alastor warned.

And Zevander wanted to make it worse. So much worse, but not for her. Her pain was his own. He yearned for fury and chaos, to flay the skin of every man in that room who’d laid hands on her.

His pulse roared in his ears, his hands burning with wrath and violence.

“If you take another life, the gods will punish you.”

“Let them,” he growled. “I will burn them all. I will set fire to every one of them!”

“And your mother? Your sister? Would you have them punished for your foolishness?”

Zevander let out a shaky exhale and pressed his forehead to the door. “How can one man contain so much rage? I am brimming with it.”

“Use it. Channel that rage into your power. Make it stronger. Give it teeth. And I promise you, one day you will have your vengeance. Your wrath will know no bounds. And every soul who has ever harmed you will suffer.”

“Keep on.” Sacton Crain waved his hand, urging the witch pricker to resume his torture. “She bears the mark somewhere. I want it found. The girl speaks with demons, claiming they’re angels!”

Zevander focused on his face in particular. Every detail of it, every line and wrinkle committed to memory. Should the gods decide, and the visions he’d seen come to pass, he would find Sacton Crain.

And he would make the man pay for her suffering.

“Shall we resume our training?”

Alastor’s voice was nothing more than a distant sound beneath the violent dreams dancing through his head. Zevander gnashed his teeth and placed his hand against the door. As the heat warmed his palm, threatening his vicious flame, a firm grip on his shoulder broke his concentration.

“Nothing would be more damning to her than a door bursting into flames of its own will. Be reminded, none of this has yet come to pass. The gods will decide how she suffers.”