Page 87 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

ZEVANDER

C rooked trees peered down from above, as Zevander glanced around at his unfamiliar surroundings. A forest, but not one he recognized. He carefully stepped forward, but at crunching beneath his boot, he stilled.

Through the thick mist, what appeared to be bones, hundreds of them, lay scattered and broken over the forest floor. The empty sockets of a human skull stared back at him.

Ignoring them, he trudged forward in search of his mother and sister.

Nearly a furlong ahead of him hunched a shadowy beast, the warped curve of its spine and twisted horns leaving him to wonder what kind of animal, or monster, he’d happened upon.

As Zevander trod cautiously toward it, studying the bark-like texture of its flesh, he was reminded of his brother’s ruined skin.

Face buried in the broken ribcage of a carcass, it tore at the meat with its teeth, and yet, it clutched and chewed like a man.

At another crunch beneath his boot, Zevander paused mid-step, but not before the creature snapped straight. Threads of bloody sinew strung from its mouth when it turned around, revealing the ruined face of a man.

“How did you find me here?” the creature man asked, slowly rising to its full height. His voice held a familiarity that left Zevander frowning.

“Alastor?”

He snarled and lurched forward, unveiling the upper half of the carcass on the ground, a body skinned to nothing but glistening tissue and fat.

“What is this?” Zevander asked, confused by his appearance.

“How did you find your way into my head?” His voice held a tremble of consternation. “How did you find me here?”

“I didn’t intentionally seek you out.”

“You’ve not come when summoned. Years, I’ve attempted to call you to Caligorya, and you disregard me,” he spat, as if Zevander had done so defiantly.

“I was not aware that you’d summoned me. I no longer felt the pull to return.”

His monstrous face crumpled to a frown. “Then, what brought you here?”

“My family. It’s imperative that I see them.”

“Why?”

“Mercenaries arrived to …” The words caught at the back of his throat like a viscous poison he could neither spit, nor swallow. “I need to see them.”

Alastor stared at him for a moment through frightening, silvery eyes, and the scene around them shifted in a blur. The surrounding trees faded, replaced by the Eidolon foyer. Dark and cold, absent of life.

Zevander darted toward the staircase ahead.

“Wait,” Alastor warned from behind. “No matter what you see, you must not let it destroy you.”

Zevander didn’t spare him another second, but took two stairs at a time, until he reached the top of the staircase where a wall of webs hindered his passage.

He clawed through sticky strands, entangling himself in the thick weaves.

The silky threads clung greedily to his body, while the stench of decay burned in his nose.

Clumps of dense fibers resisted his tearing and scratching, and Zevander felt like a trapped fly, desperate for freedom. He could feel thousands of eyes upon him, starving and watchful, waiting.

When he finally came upon his mother’s chamber door, he pushed through to find the webs weren’t as thick on the other side. Within, only a few strung about the room, glistening in the small bit of light filtering in through the drapes.

He plucked the remnants of webbing from his body and froze as his eyes swept over the pools of blood around pieces of golden armor and clumps of yellow that reminded him of animal fat.

Bones lay piled in a heap, the remnants of pink flesh telling him they’d been freshly stripped.

On his mother’s bed lay a mound of blankets, swaddled like a cocoon around a body.

The silvery hair spilling out of it, tinged in matted tendrils of gray, all but confirmed it to be his mother.

Zevander rounded the bed, where an obscure shape at the edge of his vision snapped his attention toward where Rykaia lay curled into herself. Nuzzled against her was Branimir, his face buried in her hair.

Tears blurred Zevander’s eyes as he stepped closer, gaze desperately searching for any sign of injury. While he found bruises and cuts, unmistakable signs of violence inflicted upon her, she breathed.

“She lives,” he murmured, and sank to his knees.

Branimir lifted his head, eyes searching the room, and Zevander could feel his spiders stirring somewhere in the shadows.

“He senses you here,” Alastor said from the doorway. “You’ve seen what you needed to see. Now, let us return. Quickly.”

Through a blur of tears, Zevander stared at his siblings. How much they’d changed since he’d seen them last. He wondered if he’d ever see them again. If he’d ever feel Rykaia’s arms wrapped around him, would ever see the sweet smile she’d worn for him. “Is it real?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Is it real!” he bellowed, jumping to his feet.

“You have somehow found your way into my thoughts,” Alastor said tonelessly. “I suspect it’s real, as I’m not privy to what happened here.”

“How is it possible? Me invading your thoughts?”

Alastor stared back at him and tipped his horned head. “We are connected, you and I.”

“Connected in what way?”

He looked around the room. “Come. I’ve shown you what you’ve asked to see. You will return when I summon you.”

“No. I will not. Why are we connected? Who are you, and why do your afflictions look like my brother’s?”

Like a rabid animal, his demeanor snapped to something vicious. “I am the one who watched as you were violated. Tormented. Beaten and burned. I’m the one who commanded your hands to touch them when you couldn’t bear to look upon them yourself! I brought you here to spare you of such sights!”

“For what purpose? Why would you feel compelled …” A deep, cramping ache spread across Zevander’s stomach, and he pressed his palm there.

Doubling over, he exhaled a shuddering breath.

“Why would you …” The ache sharpened like the point of a blade tearing across his stomach, and Zevander let out a grunt, wincing as it ravaged his insides. “Want to…control …”

Across from him, Alastor also clutched his stomach, grunting as both of them fell to the floor at the same time.

Zevander clawed at his throat, the scalding burn beneath his skin gnawing its way to his chest.

“What have you…done, boy?” Alastor gritted out, across from him.

Pressure at his chest expanded behind his ribs, and he wheezed. As if he felt it, too, Alastor clutched his chest, gasping and wheezing.

“I…did…nothing.” The stone floor smacked against his cheek, as Zevander collapsed forward, desperately sucking in gulps of air that failed to fill his lungs.

Lying across from him, Alastor reached out a rough, tessellated hand. “If you die…I die,” he rasped.

It was in that moment, a dreadful realization settled over him and he was reminded of the stories his parents had told him.

Stories of the mage who’d cursed him all those years ago and the pain he’d suffered from throwing Zevander into those flames as a baby.

As he stared at the beastly man across from him, Zevander gnashed his teeth, furious of the trickery.

The lies Alastor had told to conceal what rotting soul lived beneath his skin.

“Cadavros!” Zevander called out, before he was yanked into the blackness.

Z evander’s eyes shot open on a gasp of air.

Panic crinkled Theron’s face, as he stood over him, his voice a distant echo to the clamor of blood hammering inside Zevander’s ear. Only the occasional word filtered through.

“ How did you…poison…for General Loyce…who gave…you weren’t supposed…you were dead. Dead!”

He focused on the last word as he stared up at the dark ceiling above him—nothing but a blur through the tears in his eyes.

In the silence of his mind, he heard the soft pounding of his heart.

Felt the sting of his palms, where he’d clenched his fists earlier.

The phantom ache of death lingering in his stomach.

The burn of the poison he wasn’t meant to consume in his throat.

Shards of images cut through his thoughts—Cadavros, the imposter who’d claimed to be a friend, dying as he lay dying, his sister lying curled into his brother, his mother’s lifeless body cocooned, peaceful and protected from further horrors—and for the first time, he felt everything .

Tears broke down his temples as he lay trapped in the fragile grasp of life.

He’d always imagined death to be the most painful experience of all, but it wasn’t.

Living was far more painful than dying.