Page 210 of Eldritch
“Where am I?”
“Out of the rubble.” He flicked his fingers, urging me out. “Perhaps you might be grateful.”
I didn’t budge, but watched him with wary eyes. “Where is my family?”
“They are here, as well.”
“Alive?”
“For now.”
“I want to see them.”
He raised his bushy brows. “To see them, you must first exit the carriage. Now, come.”
Ignoring the needling pain shooting down through my knee and shin, I scrambled on hands and knees toward him and jumped from the back of the cart.
The moment my boots hit the ground, the surrounding crowd gasped in unison, backing away.
I glanced around, noting their dark clothed bodies and the black feathers they wore.
Fingers clamped around my wrist. I snapped my attention toward the older man and wrenched my arm free. The path of gawkers parted as I ran for the next carriage, peering into the cage behind it.
Black wolves paced inside, and breath shot out of me as I jumped back.
I ran to the next after that.
Cords of wood stacked in neat piles.
The next after that held piled stones, like those which had crumbled back at the church. Had they dug us out of the rubble?
Through panting breaths, I turned back to the man.
He stood behind me, brows tipped up. “Would you like to see your family now?”
I exhaled a shaky breath and nodded.
Jerking his head, he led me up black, slate stairs, toward a much larger cottage that sat at the top of a cliff. As I followed him, I searched the sky for Raivox, hoping he might’ve followed us. The last I’d seen of him, he’d been swarmed by vyrmish, who viciously clawed at him. A pang of sadness stirred in my chest at the thought of him succumbing to those faceless creatures.
“You’re looking for your bird dragon.” The man ahead of me glanced over his shoulder. “He flew off. Perhaps back to his nest.”
“His nest?”
He pointed upward, toward the mountain whose summit couldn’t be seen beyond the clouds.
“He nests here?”
“Has been for quite some time.”
That made no sense. None of it made sense.
Breath wheezed out of me by the time we reached the flat of the cliff, my injuries sapping what little energy I’d mustered.
Symbols carved into the wooden door of the cottage reminded me of the ones I’d seen drawn on Elowen’s door. Four vertical lines with about a dozen symbols in each row.
As if noticing my curiosity, the man beside me said, “It’s a warding spell.” He swung open the door, releasing a waft of heat and the scent of burning herbs. The room inside was lit only by a fire that sat in the center of it, which drew my eyes to a cauldron hanging from a soot-caked trammel hook and tripod. Bundles of dried plants hung from the walls, and small sachets dangled about the room, like those I made at home. Wooden shelves sagged under the weight of bottles and apothecary jars, and whatever colorful, strange things had been preserved in them.
Posted about the room were men donned in black feathers, holding black stone spears with white tips that seemed to sparkle in the firelight.
