Page 64 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ZEVANDER

Z evander glanced around as the surrounding mist parted for a dark corridor, lit only by flickering sconces.

Quiet whispers reached his ear, and Zevander strode toward them, passing one of the many cells that lined each side of the passage, in which a graying woman stared up at the ceiling.

Hard to tell if she was alive, or dead, but the marks that covered her arms showed she’d suffered.

Other cells held younger women, some children, all of whom showed some sign of neglect, or abuse.

The light faded, the further he ventured, the sconces spaced farther apart.

Until he reached the last cell, where only a sliver of light found the girl through the iron hatch of the door, showing her curled in the corner.

The sound of her quiet sobbing chewed at his ribs, as Zevander slipped through the cell door as if it wasn’t there at all and knelt beside her.

The dress she’d worn the day she’d been pricked and prodded lay tattered against her bruised and marred skin.

The long locks of hair that’d been shorn had begun to grow back, indicating she’d been imprisoned for some time.

Kept in darkness, just like him.

The damp stone walls around her wept with trickles of water, perhaps from a pouring rain outside of the temple.

She sat with her head tucked into folded arms that rested upon her bent knees, and her body trembled as she quietly whispered prayers that faded into white mist from her lips.

Beside her lay nothing more than a scrap of tattered fabric for warmth.

No bed. No pillow. Nothing but the cold, stone floor.

Zevander quietly cursed the gods for ignoring her and summoned the flame to his palm. Careful not to touch her, he hovered his hand over her arm and slowly ran the flame upward, toward her shoulder.

Her flesh prickled with the heat, and she lifted her head, staring down at the gooseflesh across her arms. “Angel?” she asked, frantically glancing around. “Are you there?”

So badly, he wanted to answer her.

“Please. I don’t want to be in the dark alone.”

“Why?” The question left his mouth before he could bite it back. “Why do you fear the dark?”

“I can’t see. It’s cold. And terrifying.”

Again, he sent a surge of warmth over her, the violet light dancing across a canvas of cuts and bruises that painted her skin.

The sight of them brought his own flaring to mind, and he winced at the thought of her suffering that way.

“It’s best not to see,” he said, more for himself.

Knowing the malice behind those marks, the ignorance and cruelty, stirred rage in his heart.

“Light illuminates the horrors that the darkness shields from us.”

“But you’re an angel. Don’t you prefer light over darkness?” She stared off, her gaze unfocused. “Sacton Crain says only the evilest creatures find comfort in the dark.”

Perhaps he was evil, then. He didn’t bother to answer, instead silently admiring the way that sliver of light from the corridor shined across her misty-gray eyes.

“I want to see your face,” she whispered.

“Why?”

Tears wavered in her eyes. “I’m to burn for what I’ve done. I’d very much like to see the face of an angel before I meet that fate.”

The mere suggestion of them burning her enraged him. “I will not allow it.” If he was the reason she’d been punished, he could change her fate. He could be the reason they’d fear laying their hands on her. The thought took root inside his mind.

“I’m scared, Angel. I’ve heard the screams of women before me who’ve burned. I could almost feel their pain.”

“You will be spared. Their fire will be useless against you. And anyone who dares to harm you will burn themselves.”

“I am cursed. They will not spare me.”

“Yes, you are cursed. But not by their god.”

She stared up toward him, her eyes gleaming with warmth, in spite of the cold, their sparkle shadowed by the bruise across her cheekbone.

“I am your ruin. The shadow that consumes your light. The curse that has damned your soul.” A tendril of her hair taunted him, the way it cascaded over the delicate curve of her shoulder.

How silky and soft it might’ve felt between his calloused fingertips.

“I’m told you’ve yet to be born. That the gods will choose your fate.

But I will not let you burn. I will shield you from their flame. ”

She glanced over her shoulder as if she could sense his presence. “But you’re an angel. Surely, you trust the gods’ will?”

He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing her cheek. “If their will is your death, then I defy the gods,” he whispered.

She turned to face him, her lips perilously close.

As if the moon itself had bent toward the earth, he fell into her, breaching that forbidden boundary he’d been warned not to cross. He gripped her shoulder and, pulled by some unseen force, he pressed his lips to hers.

The cold of her flesh dissipated in the heat that surged through him. He felt weightless, drifting upward into the darkness of night where the stars loomed. Whispers echoed around him, sweet feminine sounds that spoke in unison, though he couldn’t understand the words.

An unbridled hunger stirred in his loins, tempered only by his reverence. He pulled away, and like the yearning of tides, he felt a shift inside of him.

The ancient and fragile threads which tethered him to the other world snapped.

Wide, gray eyes stared back at him, and she pressed a finger to her lips. From her pupils, bloomed a startling silver that spread across her irises.

Zevander stumbled backward.

Gods, what have I done?

A thousand years passed in mere seconds as he contemplated his mistake, and yet, he couldn’t summon the remorse he knew would follow.

A soft, silvery glow radiated from her shoulder where he’d touched her, and Zevander tilted his head just enough to see the marking left behind. A strange symbol that reminded him of an inverted bird’s eyes. Or scythes.

“A mark of death?” he whispered to himself.

“The mark of the witch.” The voice from behind urged him to turn around, where he found a woman, robed in red, staring in on them.

He hadn’t noticed her before, so caught up in that kiss he failed to sense her approach.

“Please,” the girl begged, the glow at her back quickly fading. “Take me with you, Angel. Take me away from this place.”

“I must inform Sacton Crain at once!” The robed woman spun away from the cell, her red cape flowing behind her.

Goaded by urgency, Zevander jumped to his feet after her.

Ice cold water splashed against his chest like a punch to his heart, and he gasped.

When he opened his eyes, Theron was staring back at him, the bucket that’d sat outside his cell clutched in his hands. “No. No, send me back! I have to go back!”

A shine wavered in Theron’s eyes. “I thought you were dead. You weren’t breathing.”

Zevander surged forward, the chains rattling with his abruptness. “I have to go back! Send me back!”

Slowly, Theron shook his head. “I will never send you back there again. Never.”