Page 105 of Eldritch
“Too bad yours doesn’t.”
Shaking his head, Dravien smiled, but the amusement on his face soured, as Aradia strode across the room toward them. He rolled his shoulders back, lowering his gaze.
It wasn’t Dravien she approached, though.
She leaned into Zevander’s ear and whispered, “I understand you’ve something to tell me. Make it quick.”
Zevander frowned, his gaze slowly tracking upward and landing on Theron across the room. He cleared his throat and turned toward her. “I’ve a message. From Vaelora Vexmoor.”
Aradia recoiled and in Zevander’s periphery, he could see her glaring at him. “What do you know about her?”
“That she’s alive. A captive of General Loyce.”
“Loyce.” The way she spat the world like a bad taste told Zevander she didn’t much care for the woman. “Say nothing more. I will pass on the message.”
Zevander nodded, and the Bellatryx straightened herself, smoothing her hands over her leather suit.
Theron gave a sharp nod at him. Had he been the one to send her over?
Staring back at the other slave from across the room, Zevander pondered whether, or not, he could trust him. As Dravien had said, one only achieved his level of favor by betrayal.
Zevander’s throat burned with thirst, the heat of the flames from the firepit behind him wringing every drop of sweat from his body. It was a wonder the painted clay remained in place.
A woman dressed in nothing but shimmering gold paint approached, carrying a thin vial that she uncorked with her teeth. Without asking, she took hold of his jaw, pouring the fluid into his mouth. The moment the refreshing fruity flavor met histongue, he couldn’t deny the urge to swallow, but he resisted. She kissed his cheek, her thumb brushing over his exposed nipple and Zevander clenched his teeth, breathing hard through his nose. She finally turned away from him, and he spat the fluid over his shoulder.
Another woman, absent of clothes, swept through. The small meat cakes she carried teased his senses with their delicious savory scent. She forced one of the cakes into his mouth and kept on, offering the same to Dravien. He whispered something that seemed to make her smile and she kissed him on the lips before making her way down the line of slaves. Once again, against the gurgling and hollow ache in his stomach, he spat the food into the firepit at his back.
As the night wore on, servants passed him, offering more food, more drinks, and each time, he expelled them. The other slaves had begun swaying on their feet, including Dravien, all of them falling prey to the effects.
“What d’you call a pale Solassion?” Dravien asked beside him, and without giving Zevander a second to absorb the question, he said, “A corpse.”
Zevander chuckled and forced himself to sway on his feet like the others. He eyed a servant to the left of him, carrying a pitcher of iced water. His mouth watered at the sight of it, but he didn’t dare trust it.
A curvy woman, painted in white, with long, golden horns atop her head, sauntered up to him. With both hands, she gripped either side of his face and whispered, “Mor samanet,” as a cloud of thick black smoke seeped from her mouth.
Zevander jerked his head to break her hold, and in doing so, his eyes tracked slower than the movement. His surroundings widened and shrank and he double-blinked, shaking his head. Knees and palms struck marble as he fell to the floor. The ceilingoverhead swelled and contracted, as if it breathed, the voices around him slowing to a deep echo.
“Zevander?” a voice asked, and he turned to see Theron staring back at him, his face stretched and distorted.
Zevander awkwardly clambered to his feet and stumbled forward, nearly tumbling to the floor a second time, before Theron managed to catch him.
Theron slapped a palm to Zevander’s face, and the scent of herbs invaded his nose, as Theron whispered something incoherent. He quickly released him, and Zevander collapsed to his knees, palms to the floor once again. The blurred designs etched into the white tiles seemed to pulse for a moment, then sharpened into focus. So sharp, he could make out the tiniest details and cracks. The cacophony around him shrank into clarity, his attention narrowing on that horrific voice in the crowd.
“My most esteemed guests.” General Loyce, dressed in a white gown with gold accents, sauntered to the center of the room until standing beside the cavernous pit.
The crowd gathered around her, drinks in their hands, voices hushed to whispers.
“I know you’re here for the much-beloved fights, and I promise, there will be a fight. But first, I thought we might indulge in some pre-game entertainment.” She waved her hand, and the crowd parted around two guards guiding Vaelora toward the pit. Loyce’s gaze trailed over the crowd and landed on Zevander. Again, she waved her hand, and two more guards strode toward him.
Taking hold of his arms, they hauled him toward the center of the crowd until he was beside Vaelora.
Zevander didn’t have to look at the girl to know she was trembling. He could damn near feel her fear thicken the air.
Loyce wore a smile as she sauntered toward Zevander, and when she ran her hands down his chest, his lips twisted with revulsion. “I want you to take her in front of everyone here. Not gently, or lovingly. Violently,” she added, sauntering away.
“No.” Jaw set, he took in the sea of faces that’d gathered around him.
Loyce paused mid-step and turned around. “What did you say to me?”
