Page 42 of Eldritch
He looked thoughtful for a moment, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he still carried the tension from earlier. “It’s possible the spell is fading.”
“Yes.” The look on my face must’ve reflected the conflict still burning through my mind.
“That’s good. Progress.”
“It is.”
He tilted his head, capturing my attention. “So, which of us has you looking troubled? Me, or her?”
“Both, to some degree, but …” Again, I found myself hesitating to say, based on the possibility that he might dismiss me, or accuse me of having lost my senses. “Something is…compelling me.”
“In what way?”
“Remember the voice I told you about. Morsana’s?” When he nodded, I kept on. “I remember what you said about the will of the wielder, and it makes sense. But I nearly killed her, Zevander. I nearly turned her to dust, just like Elowen.”
“I told you before. Your magic is tied to darkness. But it’s still your will.”
It was the fear of that which pressed against my ribs. “What if my will is to kill her?”
“I wouldn’t be questioning you in that case, but your sister. What about her is pulling at your instincts?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I won’t know until she wakes. But I noticed something today.” I gestured to an approximate location on my own body. “A strange mass on her flank, surrounded by veins that were black, like yours, but worse. That’s a symptom of your curse, isn’t it?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Is it possible she could be cursed, as well?”
“Mine was said to be a curse of sablefyre. A mortal would never withstand such a thing.”
A quiet sigh escaped me, and I couldn’t tell if I was relieved, or disappointed. “Then, perhaps it’s not the same. I just found it strange, how similar it looks. Which reminds me, is yours getting worse?”
Brows furrowed, he placed his hand over his scar, as if self-conscious of it. “It’s spreading. Happens when I’m deprived of vivicantem.”
“So, that’s a physical indicator of your deprivation?”
“I suppose it is.” He held out his hand. “May I have my cloak? It’s rather cold.”
“Of course.” I stepped forward, passing off both the shirt and cloak, and gave a gentle tug of the hand still covering his scar, lowering it from his face. “You are no less handsome.”
His lips twitched. “This scar has done a fine job of repelling.”
“It isn’t the scar, Zevander. It’s the way you carry it, like anyone who looks might turn to stone.”
“It’s a visible weakness.”
“It isn’t though. It’s a mark of your survival. Resiliency.” I flattened my palm against his chest, feeling his muscle flinch.“The baby who was thrown into sablefyre and lived to become a fierce assassin for the king.”
His gaze dipped to my lips, and I didn’t have to read his thoughts to know what he wanted.
I rose up to my toes and kissed him on his scar, then his lips. When I pulled away, his smoldering gaze stirred an unbearable ache in my chest. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, why was my whistle in your pocket?”
That rapacious gleam in his eyes simmered a moment longer. “It was in the castle’s undercroft when I searched for you.” He yanked the tunic over his head, relieving me of his bare chest. “Lying beside Akmyrios. I remembered you wearing it at The Becoming Ceremony.”
“It looks to be melted. I suspect it’s useless at this point.”
He flicked his fingers, and when I dropped it into his palm, he frowned down at it—just before a roar of black flame shot up from his palm. He clenched his hand to a tight fist, shaking it away. “Fucking hells!”
“What happened?”
