Page 146 of Eldritch
“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. Theline 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.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
