Page 29 of Eldritch
“No, but those teeth came awfully close to your face.”
“Worried about marring this handsomeness?”
When he sneered alongside his comment, I wanted to tell him that not even the wretched black scar across his cheek, nor the blood of Mrs. Primsley, could make him less attractive. I wanted to tell him he was the most devastating man I’d ever laid eyes on, and that I would have, in fact, kissed him, in spite of the bits of gore clinging to his cheek.
Instead, I gave a small smile. “Is it possible that we might train againwithouta rush of adrenaline?”
“That depends on you. Have you learned to accept that warding off an attack doesn’t require apologies over tea afterward?”
“Are you telling me that you’ve no intention of making me a cup of tea?”
Snorting, he swiped the cloth out of my hands and dragged the freshly-dipped rag across his tight abdomen, where faint scars begged to be kissed. “I’ll spare you the grief of drinking whatever awful concoction I might’ve scrounged.”
“To answer your question. Yes. I think I’ve found a way of casting aside my empathy.”
“How so.”
“Recalling that spider atop of you. How scared I was in that moment. How powerful the urge to kill it.”
He stared down at me, the smirk on his lips enticing enough to kiss, if I were so bold right then. “I know that feeling well.”
“Then, we’ll resume tomorrow. Early morning.”
“Early morning.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAZHIMYR
Four days ago …
Afiery thirst scorched Kazhimyr’s throat, the chains around his wrists biting into his flesh. Suppression of his blood magic always made him thirsty, and the agony of fresh wounds reminded him that his body was slow to heal without his power. The stench of old piss and rot clogged his nose, while a copper flavor burned across his tongue. For hours, he and Ravezio had been beaten, fed ungodly amounts of Nilmirth, and endured hours of interrogations into the whereabouts of both Zevander and Dolion.
Captain Zivant of King Sagaerin’s guard paced in front of Kazhimyr, who hung limp from his shackles, each clap of the haughty bone-licker’s shiny boots counting down the seconds to his impatience. “Dolion was seen by a number of my men after Princess Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony.”
“I have told you…countless times. I never…saw Dolion.”
“But you have seen him alive since the time Zevander claimed to have killed him.”
The fucking Nilmirth he’d been forced to consume had caused him to spill that bit of information, otherwise he’d have denied it to his face.
“As we speak, I have a half-dozen of my men on their way to Eidolon now, but it is my gut instinct that they won’t find either one of them there.”
Kazhimyr snorted. “Then, why waste the trip?”
A splintering pain cracked against his cheekbone, when the captain’s fist plowed into his cheek, kicking Kazhimyr’s head to the side on a spray of blood. “I knew I should’ve urged the king to let you rot in that Solassion prison. Every one of you.”
“And miss the bitter resentment you’ve worn on your face every day since? Not a chance.”
The captain drew back his arm for another punch.
“Captain Zivant!” a voice called out, and he lowered his fist. The king’s scrawny cupbearer, perhaps no more than nineteen years old, stood bent over, hands to his knees, as if he’d just galloped from the far reaches of Draconysia. “The king requests your presence with haste,” he wheezed.
“Tell him I’m interrogating our traitorous assassins.”
“Sir, he insists you come right away!”
The captain bared his teeth. “I’m busy at the moment. Let the king know!”
