Page 70 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

ZEVANDER

Present …

“ Y ou look terrible.” With his sword still pointed at him, Theron’s eyes scanned over him. “You’re dying. I won’t fight a dying man.” He shoved his sword back into the scabbard at his back.

“I’m not dying, you arrogant ass. I’m low on vivicantem.” Head still throbbing, Zevander pushed to his feet, staggering backward a step.

“You’ll slip into absolute delirium, if you don’t consume flesh, or blood. Mancer is most potent, as you know, but human blood will provide just enough to keep you from slipping away.”

In times of famine, when supplies of vivicantem were low, the ancients sometimes raided other villages and cities, seizing their strongest men to drain and consume for survival. They were horror stories, tales of caution told alongside those of the Carnificans, who consumed too much out of greed.

Two of Theron shrank to a single form, as Zevander shook his head and focused on his foe. “I’m not interested in consuming human flesh.”

“You’ll hurt her. Your precious mate will die at your hands.”

The truth in his words tore at Zevander’s heart, but he gnashed his teeth at the mention of her. “What do you care? You long to turn her over to a woman who’d revel in her pain.”

He stared at him a moment. “We never made good rivals, you and me. What if I were to help you, instead? Would you free me from General Loyce’s grasp?” His brows lowered. “Would you forgive me?”

“That kind of forgiveness requires trust.”

“Then let us establish trust.” He jerked his head. “Come.” When Zevander didn’t make a move toward him, he sighed. “For her.”

Reluctantly, Zevander followed Theron, his enemy, as he led him through the maze of dark corridors, chiding himself for being so easily swayed.

At last, they arrived before a cell.

Inside, lay an older man, dressed in a tattered red robe that barely clung to the skeletal bow of his spine.

With the man’s back to him, Zevander didn’t immediately notice the long, gray beard, tangled like brambles, until the older man glanced over his shoulder.

Eyes wide with fear, he gasped, turning back to the wall, and whispered to himself.

White-chalked words decorated the walls around the prisoner, nearly every inch, aside from a water-streaked patch, covered in scribbles, as if he’d lived in the cell for ages.

“He’s fated to die in this cell,” Theron said beside him.

“What’s his crime?”

“Does it matter?”

On the floor below him, two names had been scratched into the stone: Maevyth and Aleysia. Zevander crouched low, reaching his hand past the bars to run his finger over their names. “Who is he?”

“As I said, it doesn’t matter. For you, he’s sustenance. Survival.”

Zevander’s brow flickered, his conscience screaming at him.

“Go on, then. Kill him. Consume his flesh to keep your strength,” Theron taunted.

“You’re suggesting that I consume raw human flesh. Are you mad?”

“No, but you will be, if you don’t cast aside your reservations and eat.”

Below Zevander’s bent knee lay a rusted nail, which must’ve fallen out of the wooden chair that was propped against the wall inside the cell.

“Do not think too much on it.” Theron continued to urge him, his sudden concern over him uncoiling Zevander’s suspicions.

Swiping up the rusted nail, Zevander shot to his feet, unsheathing his sword before Theron could so much as reach for his.

He held the blade to Theron’s throat and punched the nail into his enemy’s stomach.

“Rust,” he said. “Dulls the senses.” It would prevent him using any part of his magic—vanishing, or healing.

Only temporarily, but Zevander didn’t require much time to carry out his plan.

Theron grunted and growled. “I’m trying to help you!”

“You’re trying to infect me.”

“Well, that wouldn’t establish much trust, would it?”

“Walk,” Zevander commanded, urging him away from the man’s cell, deeper into the corridor. He seized Theron’s shoulder and wrenched him forward, the blade a hairsbreadth from his delicate throat.

“Say it,” Theron urged. “Say what’s burdening your mind.”

An image scraped through his thoughts, weighted and suffocating. A stone box with intricate etchings carved into its face. Zevander shook his head to banish the visual. “Silence yourself, or I’ll happily oblige.”

“I did what I thought was best. I did it for you.”

Whispered enchantments slipped past his ears, and Zevander winced. “Enough.”

“I never meant to betray your trust. I only wanted to be your friend.”

Rage clouded Zevander’s eyes, but he kept it tamped down.

The sconces on the wall were spaced further apart and offered only waning light, the farther they ventured toward that blackened end, until they finally arrived at a much smaller cell, set apart from the others.

He stared at it, a sharp pain stabbing his chest. Unlike the barred cells, Maevyth’s former confines were enclosed by a thick, wooden door, offering nothing more than a small iron hatch to peer through.

It would’ve been poetic to throw Theron into the same cell, but Zevander turned his head and, to his delight, found something better.

He nudged Theron forward, urging him a short distance down an adjacent hallway, where they came to a stop before a massive iron vault with its door cocked open.

As Zevander shoved Theron into the dark, he stumbled forward, only just catching himself before he fell.

Theron glanced back, and when he turned back around, his eyes were wide with terror.

White, cloudy eyes. Gaping mouth. Blood.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did!” As he lurched forward, Zevander threw out his blade, pressing the tip into his enemy’s chest. “You know I can’t stand the dark.”

Still holding his blade outstretched with one hand, he pressed the heel of his palm to the throbbing ache at his temple. Snarling, he slammed the door of the vault closed, hooking the heavy iron lever to lock it.

“No! No! Please!” Faint pounding on the other side hardly carried through the thick metal, as Theron’s cries summoned memories, like ghosts trapped in a long-abandoned crypt.

A heavy stone box. Enchantments etched into the ancient black rock. His fingers sweeping over the symbols.

“What is it?” Zevander asked, not daring to attempt the puzzle lock on the outside of it.

“A griefcoffer,” Dolion said beside him. “A cursed gift of grief and guilt. Whatever is inside will make for a painful discovery. That much I know.”

King Sagaerin stepped forward, brows lowered. “You do not need to open this.”

A scream yanked him from his thoughts, and Zevander opened his eyes to the vault door ahead of him. The weight in his palm drew his attention to the sword clutched in his hand. How long had he been standing there for it to ache the way it did?

Another scream, that one far too familiar, had him spinning around in the darkness. “Maevyth?” He stumbled in the direction of the sound, toward the distant flickering of light, and rubbed the ache in his arm. Godsblood, he must’ve clutched that sword a good hour or two.

Ahead of him stood an opened door, and Zevander frowned as he approached the cell that’d housed the older man, whose scribbles on the wall told him he hadn’t dreamt it.

The old man was nowhere in sight.

On seeing Maevyth and Aleysia’s name scratched on the floor, an urgent warmth raced through his veins, as if he’d been yanked awake by a white-hot poker. He upped his pace toward where he thought he’d heard those screams, blindly navigating the stony tunnels.

Minutes passed with no more sounds, and Zevander began to wonder if he’d hallucinated it.

Perhaps he’d hallucinated all of it. Damn the gods, he needed to find some vivicantem soon.

The line between reality and thoughts in his head had blurred to such an extent, he could no longer decipher between the two.

He finally came upon another opened door, where a diminishing pile of ash lay at the threshold.

Kneeling low, he frowned as he brushed his finger across it, and looked in to find a pantry full of food.

Broken jars lay strewn about, their contents spilled onto the floor in pools of blood.

Meat? He lifted his gaze to where jars of it lined a shelf, the red blood in which they soaked stirring his hunger.

Saliva pooled on his tongue, and he shot to his feet, swiping one of the jars.

He yanked out the thick cork, the stench confirming what it was inside, and while part of him was repulsed at the thought of consuming it, his stomach wouldn’t relent.

He fished out the chunks of raw meat, quickly chewing and ignoring the godawful flavor that lingered on his tongue.

Once he’d consumed it all, he drank the jar of blood, wincing as it burned his throat.

Wiping the blood that’d dribbled down his chin, he grimaced and eyed a bottle of liquor, tossing away the empty jar for it. After popping the cork, he sucked down half the contents, letting the sweet liquor burn away that fucking animal flavor clogged at the back of his throat.

Screams reached his ears again, and Zevander turned. Frowned.

He threw the bottle of liquor away and stalked toward the sound.