Page 160 of Eldritch
A terrifying boom bounced off the walls, and the crowd stilled.
Hushed.
Another boom followed, like a crack of thunder, and all eyes turned toward the enormous iron doors at the opposite end of the room.
“The infected!” Sacton Crain pointed his crosier at me. “She has brought them to us!”
The iron door flew off its hinges, landing with an ear-splitting clank that rattled the tomb.
Screams rose above the clamor of bodies running amok.
In the doorway, stood Zevander and his massive scorpion. It shrank just enough to fit through the entryway, then expanded to its usual colossal form.
“Who in God’s name is that?” Corwin asked, his voice shaky.
“The reason she’s not interested in you,” Aleysia answered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ZEVANDER
Zevander’s gaze swept over the scattering crowd, as they hid away into the small alcoves that lined the walls, clearing a path for the few who stood before an altar ahead, with a broken arc of flame alight behind them. His eyes zeroed in on Maevyth, scanning her at a distance for any sign of injury. He studied the platform where they stood, caught a whiff of seared meat that lingered as a faint odor. The intent was clear, and his gaze snapped to the robed man who stood clutching an elaborately decorated crosier. His attention lingered there, the man’s features weaving a hazy memory.
That face.
He knew it.
Holding the cross in front of the girl. Screams. Blood dripping onto the floor.
A sharp and writhing sensation uncoiled in Zevander’s chest, like serpents roused from slumber. Rage was too simple a word for it. Too emotional. What snaked through his blood was cold and predatory. Starving. His pulse didn’t pound. It drummed, as his vision narrowed on the man, with the promise of wrath.
The man’s composure faltered when he seemed to catch sight of it himself. He took a step back. And another.
Zevander’s scorpion slinked back into his skin as he strode forward with purpose, like a violent storm tearing through the tomb. Hand already on the hilt of his sword, he moved before his mind even registered the action, tugging it free from its scabbard.
The arrogant tenacity the old man had worn moments ago dissolved into a look of fear, and he glanced around, undoubtedly searching for a place to hide.
But it was too late.
Before he could dash away, Zevander threw out his palm, sending the older man crashing into the wall at his back. His body barely had time to collapse, before Zevander’s palm was at his throat, the rage in his eyes promising a painful death.
“Please.” The older man shook in his grasp, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. “I don’t know…who you are, but …”
“You know who I am,” Zevander growled. “And I know you,Sacton Crain. You tried to take what’smine.”
The man’s brows furrowed, and he studied his face, perhaps recalling his voice from a distant dream.
“I remember you well,” Zevander continued. “The way you tormented her. Cut away her hair and locked her in a cell like an animal. You called herthe lorn, like some discarded thing. Oh, I remember every moment with the kind of clarity that should make you tremble where you stand.”
Sacton Crain’s lips gaped like a fish as he fought for words. “The…demon…when I…slept!”
Zevander let out a dark chuckle. “No. A demon collects your soul in exchange for a favor. I simply want to hear you scream in pain for what you did. Pricking her skin. Watching her bleed.”
“How …. How do you know this?” It was Maevyth who spoke, and the delicate quiver in her voice, like a stretched butterflywing, dragged his attention away just long enough to see her standing alongside him, her eyes wavering with tears.
How badly he wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her right then, but his anger hardened like steel around his muscles, and he tightened his grip on the man’s throat, taking pleasure in the way his skin reddened.
“I was there,” Zevander said tonelessly, not taking his eyes off Sacton Crain.
