Page 48 of Eldritch
After binding her to the bed with some rope he’d managed to scrounge from the empty stable behind the hovel, Zevander searched every corner of the small dwelling for any sign of whatever may have left those markings. Including the small crawl space, but he found nothing more than some beetles and a few house spiders that were content to crawl on his hand before he returned them to their webs.
It was nearly dusk when I settled by the fire to gather my thoughts, while Zevander performed his usual perimeter check outside. As a startling warmth spread across my thigh, I patted my leg and noticed a small bump in my trousers. I fished into my pocket and pulled out the silvery stone that was once my whistle and held it up to examine its surface. Pinched betweenmy blackened fingertips, the stone grew hotter, until the surface of it collapsed into molten silver.
“Oh!” I shook my hand, watching in horror as it stuck to my skin. The seething liquid seeped across my palm, as if it had a will of its own. A gasp escaped me, and I shook my hand harder, as the hot silver traveled down my wrist, to the scar on my forearm where I’d cut myself on the archway all those weeks ago. It seeped into the tiny grooves there, creating perfect lines like the barbules of a bird feather.
Panic washed over me, and with frantic hands, I attempted to rub it away. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Get off me. Get off me.” I rubbed harder, turning the surrounding skin a screaming red with my abrasive scratching. Still, the silver wouldn’t wipe away.
A burn streaked across my palm, and I lifted it to see a new glyph glowing there. A complex network of tiny symbols etched into what appeared to look like a bird with its wings spread. My hand trembled as I studied it, wondering if its purpose was now tied to that whistle, or merely coincidence. An itch scratched at my throat, and I rested my palm across my neck. I attempted to clear it, and a whistle squealed out of me.
I slapped a hand across my mouth, every muscle shaking. Lowering my hand, I attempted to speak. Again, nothing but that high-pitched squeal came forth. I covered my mouth with my hand once more.
What have I done?
The door swung open to Zevander who stepped inside, and I pressed my lips together, swiping up my book to hide what must’ve been sheer panic on my face.
“Reading again, I see,” he said with amusement, but I didn’t bother to answer him.
Not that any of it was my fault, since I’d only retrieved the damned thing from my pocket, but somehow I felt as if I’d done something ignorant.
“Feels like the temperature is dropping a bit. You may want to dress warm tonight, and be sure to wear extra stockings when we head to the village.”
Wearing a forced smile, I nodded, watching his brows slowly lower.
Of course, he’d notice something was wrong. Did the man always have to be so damned perceptive?
“Are you all right?”
I gave another nod, but worry got the best of me and I shook my head.
He closed the space between us quickly. “What is it? Did Aleysia do something?”
I shook my head.
“Are you hurt?”
I shrugged and shook my head again.
The furrow in his brow deepened. “Can you not speak?”
Lips pressed to a hard line, I shook my head.
“What happened?”
I lifted my arm to show the scar there and the silver lines that glistened in the flickering firelight.
Gentle hands gripped my elbow and wrist as he examined it closer. As he ran his hand over the scar, it bubbled, the sight of it twisting my stomach. “Silver…from the whistle?”
I nodded, surprised how easily he’d caught on, and grateful when he pulled his hand away and the bubbling stopped.
“Show me. Open your mouth and try to speak.”
Still feeling silly, I turned away, not wanting him to hear the strange sound that’d come out of me twice before.
“C’mon. Say something.”
Eyes closed, I took a deep breath. “Something.” My lids shot open, and I touched a finger to my mouth. “I…before, I couldn’t…it was a strange whistling sound.”
Zevander raised my arm again, staring down the length of the scar. “How did the silver get into your skin?”
