Page 58 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

MAEVYTH

Present …

T he ominous red doors of the temple stood just a short distance off, as Aleysia and I made our way through the vine-covered galilee porch, shivering from the frigid rain that soaked our dresses.

Dread curled in my stomach. Visits to the temple had never been pleasant, and I’d associated those red doors with hostility.

Exclusion. Rejection. Pain.

I couldn’t think about that, though, not when we so desperately needed shelter.

One hard push against the doors failed to open them, and frowning, I rattled it harder.

Aleysia groaned and fished one of the pins from her hair, before kneeling at the level of the lock.

Awestruck, I watched her slip the pin inside and stare off, while she wriggled it around.

Scowling, she shifted and jerked her hand. “You stubborn thing!”

“What, exactly, are you doing?” I asked.

“Almost…got it.” The lock clicked, and she smiled. “There we go.”

Mouth hung wide, I frowned. “How did you learn to do that?”

“Uncle Riftyn showed me.”

“I won’t ask why.”

“Probably a good idea,” she said, pushing the doors open on the vast belly of the temple—the nave that stretched toward the altar, where the ghostly silhouette of The Red God loomed like a terrifying spectral in the dark. “Unnerving, isn’t it?”

“Definitely isn’t my idea of comfort, that’s for sure.”

“Well, go on, then. I’m certainly not going first.”

“Of course not.” Rolling my eyes, I stepped ahead of her, and a rush of cold intensified the chill dancing across my bones, as I trailed my gaze over the dark, empty space that once held an entire village. “We need to do a sweep, and then light a fire.”

“I can’t see a thing. How are we expected to search for anything?”

I knew there were a few oil lamps tucked in the cupboard of the altar, ones Sacton Crain had often used in his services.

“Stay here,” I whispered and tiptoed my way down the aisle, past the dark pews—perfect little hiding places for anything that wished to attack.

Every muscle in my body had gone rigid, my breaths shallow as I navigated through the dark, silently praying that those locked doors had kept out everything—including mice.

I hadn’t realized how utterly terrifying The Red God appeared, with his glowing red gaze, until right then, as he stared down at me, and I glanced away at the first thought that those menacing eyes were watching me.

Once past the pews, I shuffled quickly around the stone altar to the cupboards on the other side of it.

With only the moon’s light, I patted around for the red oil lamps, and grabbed two of them by their long, skinny chains, along with the oil that Sacton Crain had always claimed was made from the sacred vespervine berry that The Red God had survived on during the ancient blight.

All those silly anecdotes, now meaningless and nearly forgotten. Nothing more than vaporous words of the past.

After filling the red vessels with oil, and lighting the wicks with a flint striker that’d been left on the altar, I carried both lamps back toward Aleysia, pausing only a moment to observe where someone had painted The Decimation is upon us on the walls.

Aleysia and I searched through all of the pews, the altar, the sacristy.

There was no sign of the creatures anywhere.

We made our way up the winding staircase to the dormitories on the upper level.

Far from simple, each of the first few rooms were decorated in the finest furniture and tapestries, but one room, in particular, stood out for its excessive and grotesquely rich decor that I imagined would’ve been fit for a king.

A fireplace stood off to one side of the room, with a cast-iron pot that reminded me of a cauldron. Likely used to warm the water for the black iron tub sitting in front of it, perhaps the largest tub I’d ever seen. Undoubtedly, I’d found Sacton Crain’s sleeping quarters.

And I wouldn’t have been half as troubled, had he not bellyached so often about how little the village paid in tithes.

“So much for caring for the poor,” I grumbled, kneeling to look under the four-post bed. Nothing there. I searched the armoire, the dresser, the small, enclosed toilet that reminded me of a fancy indoor outhouse. No sign of humans, or spiders.

A door on the other side of the armoire caught my attention.

I slowly turned the gold knob, which opened on a narrow closet, where manacles hung from the ceiling and two braided whips decorated the wall.

Horror curled through my blood, as I imagined their purpose, and I quickly closed the door, squeezing my eyes shut to banish those visuals from my thoughts.

Hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I sensed a presence in the room. I turned, raising the lamp, only to find Zevander standing in the doorway, completely soaked. His damp hair shielded his eyes and face, as he stood leaning against the doorframe.

“Zevander?”

The moment I said his name, he stumbled forward, catching himself on a nearby chair.

I dashed across the room toward him, helping him settle into the seat. Having placed the lamp on the floor, I removed his sopping wet cloak and noticed blood trickling out of wounds on both his arm and his abdomen. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer me, his silence prompting me to look up, and when I brushed the wet strands back from his face, I gasped. The tiny black veins branching out from his scar had widened their stretch upward, toward his eye and across his temple, disappearing into his hairline.

He angled his face toward the shadows, hiding it from me.

“All bedrooms have been properly swept with no sign of excessive spiders,” Aleysia interrupted, her voice an annoyance to the worry stirring in my gut.

“Good. Choose a room for yourself,” I answered, dismissively.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. It’s fine.”

“Right. I’m going to see if I can scrounge some food from the kitchen. I’m starving.”

“Wonderful.” Once she’d shuffled off, I turned my attention back to Zevander, who continued to shield his face. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

As if snapped from his trance, he sighed and sat back in the chair. “Theron.”

“He’s following us?”

“ Was following us. He’s no longer present tense. However, I am a little frustrated about that.”

I was relieved to hear him speaking in his normal tone. “Why?”

“Because, at the very least, he might’ve been an option for Aleysia.”

“You’re talking about a blood bond to cross?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t bother to respond to that. My mind was still in chaos where Aleysia was concerned, but less so than his injuries and the worrisome spread of those black veins. “May I look at your wound?”

Sighing, he nodded and hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his tunic, the two of us lifting it over his head. While the cut to his stomach appeared to be more superficial, the gouge in his arm had me a bit more concerned. “This is going to have to be cleaned. And sewn.”

“You have experience with sewing wounds?”

“Not wounds, but I do have experience hemming dresses that needed to last more than a year. I know how to use a needle and thread. Thicker fabric, is all.” Careful not to get my fingers too close to the edges, I pinched the wound together, and more blood oozed out of it.

When I let go, I realized the depth of it once the blood had cleared away.

“And a lot of blood.” My voice faltered on the last word, and I swallowed back the rising acids in my throat.

“I’m going to make this easy on you, then.

” Zevander raised his palm toward the fireplace, and at first, his face twisted, as if he was in pain, his arm shaking as he held it outstretched.

He lowered it, slowly exhaled, and raised his palm again.

A narrow beam of black flame shot out from his palm, striking the logs stacked inside the fireplace, which blazed into a roaring flame. “Grab the iron, get it hot.”

My throat tightened. “Are you asking me to burn your wound?”

“I am.”

Glancing at the gaping crevice again, I cleared my throat of the nausea that toyed with my tonsils. “I don’t know if I can do that. The very thought …”

“Then, I’ll do it. If you wouldn’t mind getting the iron hot.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, I pushed to my feet and grabbed the fire iron from the rack beside the fireplace.

I set it down in the flame, feeling all the more sick as the point gave off a bright violet glow.

While it heated, I rifled through one of the drawers of the armoire in search of a rag that I could use to lift it out of the flame without scalding my hand.

A loud sizzling sound brought my attention snapping back toward the fireplace, where Zevander stood, holding the iron to his stomach. Jaw tight, he let out a grunt and groan that strangely sounded more pleasured than pained, as the metal scorched his flesh.

“Oh, my god, why would you attempt to do that yourself?” I stepped cautiously toward him, wanting him to stop, but not wanting to get too close, at the same time.

He pulled the metal from his stomach and placed it on his shoulder, inciting another crackle of flesh. Eyes on mine, his lips pulled to a smirk as he seared his gash, before tossing the iron back into the fireplace. “Cleaned and sealed,” he said.

I examined the wounds that had already come together in a line of raw, angry flesh that glistened. “Is it a mancer ability to heal so quickly?”

“Ordinarily, I’d heal much quicker, but the lack of vivicantem slows everything down. Weakens it.”

I gripped his arm to look at the wound on his shoulder, and the unnatural chill of his skin tightened my brows. “You’re cold.”

“I just walked in the rain in the middle of winter.”

“Of course.” Except, I had witnessed him, a time, or two, standing at the forest without a shirt, and his skin had been nowhere near as cold. “Let me draw you a bath. You’re covered in blood.”

“I have to keep watch.”