Page 9 of Eldritch (The Eating Woods #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

ZEVANDER

Present …

Z evander sat at the window, watching the pale creatures slink around the cabin outside.

The quiet ticking of chitinous legs scampered over the roof and down the walls, their grotesque forms casting monstrous shadows across the snow.

Nothing more than a small distraction to the maelstrom of thoughts pounding through his head.

He mindlessly stroked his hand over his skull, as if the act might offer some small measure of clarity in the haze of confusion.

He was certain he’d heard those words pass her lips. Even then, the clarity in them struck his nerves. But how could she have possibly known their meaning? Not only with regard to the language, but the revulsion behind them?

She couldn’t. Which meant he must’ve imagined it.

He ran a hand down his face, screwing his eyes shut as a frustrating realization settled over him.

He knew all too well a lack of vivicantem was known to cause delirium, violence, and depending on the length of deprivation—death.

He’d seen images in books of those who’d suffered from absolute malvicantem.

The pain. Hunger. An unsettling craving for flesh.

He’d minimized his concerns to Maevyth, but his difficulty calling forth the flame when he’d tried to warm Aleysia was a clear indication.

His descent had already begun.

Unfortunately, whatever glimmer of hope there may have been for returning to Aethyria with Maevyth was quickly snuffed the moment they’d opened that pantry door and found Aleysia.

He couldn’t summon a single reason why Maevyth would leave the mortal lands knowing her sister was forbidden to cross.

While part of him could sympathize, the cold and selfish bastard inside of him wished they hadn’t made the discovery.

Call it centuries of instinct, but something didn’t sit right with him.

Through a plague of thoughts, one nagging certainty scratched at his mind—that the old woman had put her down there for a reason.

She’d lied to Maevyth’s face. And even through all of that deception, Zevander couldn’t shake the suspicion that she’d done it for Maevyth’s sake.

Of course, he’d keep those suspicions to himself, for now.

The last thing he wanted was to create more division between himself and Maevyth.

He could already sense the rift—her hesitation to be intimate.

Pushing him away as her mind cemented itself.

It didn’t matter, though. His words to her had been true regardless—he had no intention of returning to Aethyria, if she chose to stay in Mortasia.

She was his mate. His destiny. The more time he spent with her, the stronger the pull in his blood, like gravity shifting the tides. An unbreakable thread tied to his chest.

And the fiercer his need to protect her.

Leaving her to fend for herself against this world would be no less painful than cracking open his own ribs and tossing half his heart away.

He longed to tell her the truth of their bond, but he was selfish enough not to risk her rejecting it out of resentment.

Swiping up the lantern from the table beside him, he pushed up from his chair and strode back toward the door in the floor.

A long creak of the old wood had him clenching his teeth, and he glanced back to make sure the sound hadn’t awakened Maevyth where she lay beside the hearth.

Aside from some minor stirring, she appeared to remain sleeping, and he stepped down into the crawl space that stood about two meters in height, ducking low to avoid the ceiling of it.

The air below was significantly colder, far too cold for a human. While Aleysia didn’t appear to be infected, at least not in the same sense as the creatures outside the window, that cold should’ve killed her, for as long as she’d been down there.

He positioned the lantern over something he’d noticed earlier in the afternoon. Long, deep grooves scored in the wood, as if something had tried to claw its way out. He placed his fingers against them, trying to imagine how hard he’d have to dig his nails into the wood to leave such a mark.

Twisting around brought into view a weathered wooden chest without a lock.

He crouched and opened it on a quiet creak, but found nothing but clothes and worn boots inside.

Beyond the chest stood a rickety old shelf that reached the top of the crawl space and held a few scattered jars of canned food, some broken and empty on the floor.

He strode closer, the crunch of glass under his boots bringing him to a halt, and he knelt beside a strange black substance that’d dried into the wood.

When Zevander angled the light closer, the stain left behind absorbed into the flooring.

Disappeared before his eyes.

Frowning, he stared down at it, wondering if he’d imagined it there. Maybe a shadow?

“Everything okay?” Maevyth asked from behind, and Zevander swung around to find her peering down on him.

“Found a treasure chest of clothes and a small trove of food. Might get us through the next few days.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” She lowered herself to the floor and dangled her legs over the edge of the crawlspace. “I couldn’t bear the thought of her leftover stew for days on end.”

Abandoning his examination of the markings on the floor for now, he eyed an interesting discovery on the second shelf and grabbed two bottles of wine from there. He handed one of the bottles to her, smirking as her brows lifted in surprise.

“That sneaky old witch…she swiped these from grandfather’s cellar.”

Zevander noticed the dark circles forming beneath her eyes, exhaustion weighing on her. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m finding it difficult to sleep. Are you still angry with me?” She kicked her feet and lowered her gaze.

“I was never angry with you.” Zevander pushed out of the crawlspace and sat on the floor beside her. Even if he had been angry in the moment, she made it impossible to stay that way. “You’re going to be exhausted by the time she wakes. Then it’ll be you sleeping for the days that follow.”

“So, you do think she’ll wake.”

“Eventually.”

“And if she’s bound by a blood spell?”

“These are the mortal lands. If she’s tied to another life, the chances of that person surviving are slim. I suspect she’ll wake soon enough.”

Maevyth sighed, and he couldn’t help but stare at her profile. Even weighed down by little sleep and worry, she was unbearably beautiful. “I don’t wish death on anything, but I certainly wish things would hurry along.”

Zevander chuckled. “I see my selfish apathy toward others is rubbing off on you.”

“I only wish that it would hurry along to its demise. I never said I’d burn down an entire world for one person.” She gave a shy glance toward him, a coy smile playing on her lips. “That would mean you’d perish, as well.” The smile faded and she lowered her gaze.

“What is it?”

“The thought of such a thing terrifies me.”

He reached out and pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“To be fair, your chivalry, however dark and morbid and brimming with lunacy it may have been, warmed my heart. No one has ever offered to destroy the world for me.”

“I’m nothing if not fiendishly and soullessly chivalrous.”

She chuckled, and Zevander’s own heart gnawed at his ribs to kiss her. To let her scratch and push and try to resist him. Gods, he could practically taste her lips.

Brows lowered, she glanced back at the pile of blankets beside the hearth. “I can sleep on the floor, if you’d prefer the bed.”

The words bit into his heart with sharp fangs.

The idea of them sleeping apart left him fighting the urge to sweep her up into his arms. Part of him wanted to tell her she was sleeping with him whether she wanted to, or not, but he knew she was too damned stubborn to simply follow his demands.

Forcing her close would only push her away.

“I insist that you have the bed. I’ll likely sleep out here, where I have a better watch of things. ”

“You are forever the vigilant guard, always keeping watch. When do you manage to rest?”

“When I’m not being stalked like I’m a mischievous hare in the woods.”

A burst of laughter flew past her lips, and as if it’d startled her, she slapped a hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I must be deliriously exhausted, but…

a hare is hardly the proper depiction of you.

” She laughed again, the sight of her making Zevander chuckle.

Still wearing a grin, she turned to look at him. “What is it?”

“Your laughter. It’s pleasing to hear.”

“There’s no reason to be grim. I found her. She’s alive and doesn’t appear to have been swallowed by the wrathavore.”

“What makes you certain of that?”

Her brows came together in a more serious expression. “When I watched it consume Moros, he didn’t quite look the same. He was…somewhat grotesque. Put back together wrong.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I don’t know what will happen with Aleysia, but at the moment, I feel relieved. I feel whole.”

“As you should.”

She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand again. “I’m sorry, seems I’m tired, after all. I’ll let you get back to your vigilant watch.” A glance toward the bedroom and her brows tightened. “Although … perhaps it might be best if we sleep in the same room, at least. Just for tonight.”

“Is something else troubling you?”

Lips pressed together, she shook her head. “A bad dream is all.”

Zevander nodded toward the piled blankets. “It’ll be warm by the hearth. I won’t sleep much tonight, anyway.”

“Is something troubling you ?”

He shook his head, not bothering to mention his gnawing compulsion to kidnap her and return to Aethyria without Aleysia. “Not tired.”

“Well, thank you. For being here. For everything.” She leaned toward him, hesitating, then pressed her lips to his.

Fire burned in his muscles. Everything inside of him compelled him to wrap his arms around her and kiss her until she was fucking breathless and clawing at his chest. When she broke away, his hands twitched to act on his desires, but against his own instincts, his own urges, he released her.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Goodnight.” Lunamiszka.

An ache stabbed his chest, and a cold hollow expanded behind his ribs, as he watched her settle back into his makeshift bed of blankets on the floor.

A creeping pain burned his chest, not like the sharp lance of a blade, but a slow, viscous poison crawling over his rib bones.

Zevander pressed his hand to his heart, silently searching for the source of whatever writhed inside of him.

An acidic taste lingered at the back of his throat, the acrid scent of rot and decay filling his nose.

What in seven hells is this?

He strode into the other room, so as not to arouse concern from Maevyth, and once there, he gripped the back of the chair near the window, knuckles white.

Jaw clenched, he let out a grunt, panting as the ache deepened, squeezing that wretched, beating organ he swore could never be touched.

It pounded furiously inside of him, a fist against a cage, warning him that it might just hammer through his chest.

Through unfocused eyes, he stared down at the scorpion necklace laid across the table, the one Maevyth had worn the night of The Becoming Ceremony.

Zevander narrowed his vision on that single object, inhaling deep breaths, while the memory of Maevyth that night distracted him from the tension of his muscles bracing for the next wave of agony.

His chest tightened. The blackness hanging on the fringes of his vision closed in. Like molten steel in his veins, it burned, pulsing through him in sharp swells of misery.

Gods, what is this?

A sensation so foreign and unsettling, he damned near called out for Maevyth.

Yes, Maevyth. Think of her. Moon witch.

With a trembling hand, he reached out for the jewelry, clutching it in his palm.

As the image of her beautiful face came to mind, the agony dissolved, little by little. The fist around his chest loosened just enough that he could take a deep breath, and the peripheral blackness slinked back to the fringes.

Zevander breathed hard through his nose, squeezing that damned necklace as if it were a talisman. He opened his eyes to it, while the last of whatever had attacked him withered away, and bending forward, he ran his thumb over the scorpion, remembering how it’d lain against her silky skin.

He tucked the necklace into his pocket.