Page 184 of Eldritch
Closer, Zevander strode toward the doorway he’d busted off its hinges earlier, a smirk pulling at his lips when the villagers backed away. Zevander threw the body across the space that separated them, and as it skidded to a stop just inside the tomb, screams echoed through the corridor.
One of the women darted forward, and he threw out his hand when she tried to skirt around him, his movements sharp and cold. Aeryz hurled her backward into the tomb, where her body crashed onto the floor, knocking her unconscious. Once inside, he scanned over the faces cowering from him. Not a single child among them. If there had been, Zevander might’ve spared them from what was to come.
“From this night on, you will never harm her again.” The large scorpion at his back stirred and stepped from his flesh into a living creature. A towering beast that sent them scattering for the alcoves in the wall. Zevander raised both palms,and hundreds of scorpions materialized out of black smoke, scampering across the floor after them.
Horrific screams of pain echoed around him as he lifted one of the heavy iron doors, setting it back on its hinge. While the large scorpion warded off anyone who tried to escape and the smaller ones carried out his killings, Zevander sent a flame over the hinges, soldering them to the door. Bellows of pain and suffering filled the tomb, as he casually retrieved the other door and stepped outside of the tomb, shutting their cries for mercy on the other side. After sealing it shut, he called his pets back to his palm and a black curling smoke seeped beneath the tiny crack at the bottom of the barrier he’d erected. It crawled up the length of his arm and burrowed beneath his skin.
He made his way back toward the upper level but paused when he reached the corridor that housed the prison cells. Fingers of dread tickled his spine, and he strode toward that vault at the end of the adjacent passageway. Ear pressed to the massive iron door, he listened for any sound.
All was silent.
Zevander knocked, and the tolling echo was smothered by the frantic pounding on the other side of it.
“Let me out! Please! Zevander! If you’re there, let me out!”
The sound of Theron’s screams from inside the vault roused unbidden images that slipped in and out of his mind like the ghosts of the dead.
A heavy stone box. Enchantments etched into the ancient, black rock. His fingers sweeping over the symbols.
“Mor samanet.”
Stumbling backward, Zevander blew out a breath and shook his mind free of the visuals. He strode away, turning his thoughts back to Maevyth.
Maevyth.
The memory of the intruder, holding that knife stirred visuals of what he might’ve done with it. The image of him cutting her throat while she slept chewed at his thoughts. Eyes screwed shut, Zevander drowned them in a red haze of blood, recalling the sputtering cough of the man choking on his own organs. He wanted to kill him all over again.
His clenched fists sought more blood, more wrath, more screams.
Hands trembling, he reached into his pocket, tugging out the scorpion necklace, clutching it like a rope in a dark abyss. He needed her. In his veins and in his blood. Needed the calmness of her to settle the brutal appetite that roused his cursed flame. Those softly spoken words that tempered him when he longed for a blade.
He took the stairs back to the temple’s upper level, where he entered the room to find Maevyth still peacefully sleeping. Through the window, Raivox peered in on him, and for the first time, he didn’t sense a threat in the corvugon’s gaze as Zevander crossed the room toward her. As if he understood what Zevander had done.
The assassin gave a short nod, and as he yanked his boots off, Raivox turned away, back to whatever roost he’d made for himself. He tugged his shirt off, keeping his eyes on her, and pushed his leathers to the floor, kicking them away.
She hardly stirred as he slid beneath the covers and pulled her close, desperate to feel her skin against his, to breathe in that sweet citrus scent. With blood on his hands, he held her to his body and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
A selfless man would’ve slipped out of the castle and journeyed to the mountains alone, sparing her the darkest days he still faced.
Unfortunately for her, Zevander was the most selfish bastard there was.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
ZEVANDER
Past …
Sweat beaded on Zevander’s temples as he pushed his body past the point of fatigue. His arms trembled with each upward thrust that hoisted him up off the floor, and he grunted as he lowered himself.
“Planning to go head to head with an orgoth?” Theron asked, the startling sound of his voice buckling Zevander’s arms a little.
Zevander sneered. “Facing off with an orgoth requires little strength,” he rasped, pushing up again for the three-thousandth time. “It’s speed that matters most.”
“Tell that to the Nyxterosi bastard who fought one of them this afternoon.” Theron crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside him. “With his hands bound together.”
Zevander snorted at that. “In what fantasy realm did this take place?”
“The mines. Ripped his tusks out of his face and stabbed him in the throat.”
