Page 67 of Eldritch
“Is there something I should know?” He ran his dagger over the length of what looked like a deer antler, the scraping sound only a minor intrusion to my thoughts.
“In the cellar…he had a tank.” The rhythmic scratch of the steel blurred into the memory of that contraption outside the tank, pumping air into the masks the women wore on their faces. “It housed two Lyverian women he’d kidnapped. He’d sewn their legs together and turned those poor women intomermaids.” Iwinced at the visual of their raw, peeling skin and ruined bodies. “He kept them alive with a makeshift breathing apparatus.”
“And this was your betrothed?”
“Yes.” I shivered at the thought of being forced to marry him. “Thankfully, fate had other plans.”
“If we find him there, I can’t promise he won’t suffer an equally gruesome death.” Shuttering one eye, he studied the edge of the blade and flicked his thumb over its sharpness.
“We won’t find him there. Aleysia said he fled. But we might find those women.”
“And if we do?”
“I pray they’re not alive. Is that cruel to say?”
“No. Sometimes, death is the kindest mercy to wish someone.”
I stared off into the hearth, trying to imagine such an awful existence, trapped inside that tank while the rest of the world crumbled. “Then, if we find them, I’m asking you to be merciful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
ZEVANDER
Past…
Hands shackled in chains, Zevander found himself in the center of an opulent room that reminded him of an observatory with its domed ceiling and curved walls. The white marble flooring, veined in gold, caught the sun’s light beaming from the open archways that offered no barrier to the scorching heat outside.
Around him lay about a dozen young men and women, roughly his age, scantily clad in loincloths. Their pale, thin bodies indicated none of them had worked a day in the mines—at least, not recently. He glanced around at their curious, but dismal, faces, all staring back at him. The women wore nothing to cover their breasts, and much as Zevander tried to force himself to look away, he couldn’t help himself. Aside from the occasional Bellatryx that prowled the mines, he hadn’t even seen a clothed woman in nearly six years, never mind a bared one. Why he’d been brought to that place remained a burning mystery, as he drank in his surroundings.
Pain pulsed in his ankle, and he hobbled a step ahead of Warden Vicarek, who stood beside him, letting out a grunt as the agony shot up into his bones. Once it had passed, Zevander straightened himself, taking in the adornments of golden leaves and ivy over the white pillars that were set about the room, with long white drapes between them. A circular fountain with an expansive, sunken basin dominated the center of the room, where the water spouted out of a golden sculpture of the sea gods. White, silk pillows and long, crumpled fabrics lay piled around the edge of the fountain, delicately draped over those who lounged there. His gaze caught on a hook sticking out from one of the columns, and he couldn’t help but puzzle on its purpose.
Paintings that must’ve been ten feet tall hung about the room—graphic depictions of orgoths engaged in various sexual acts with Solassions—easily identified by their blond hair and bronze skin.
Zevander had been no more than a pubescent boy when he’d first been sent to the mines and had never been with a woman to know the intricacies of those paintings, though he had spied on the women in the brothels on the occasions he’d accompanied his father into town, so he knew enough to know the artwork’s intent.
“It’s said that every generation of Zephromyte becomes more mancer.” The mere sound of that voice tore through his mind like a jagged blade. The need to silence it had his hands balled into tight fists, as he turned to find General Loyce standing behind him.
“Open your mouth…now swallow.”
The memory of those words twisted his guts, as the rage burrowed into his muscles. Even then, he could taste the ash on his tongue, could smell his father’s burnt flesh as he spat him outonto the concrete. Tremors pulsing through his limbs pounded a steady cadence of violence, a desperate need to be unleashed.
Zevander clenched his jaw, tamped it down, and forced himself to remain steady.
Calm.
Do not let her crawl under your skin.
It was the first time he’d ever seen her without armor, and still she stood with her chin tipped up, her stance rigid and stiff. She wore a loose tunic and trousers, her shoulders broad and muscled, though she didn’t lack in feminine qualities. Flanking either side of her were two male Zephromytes—half mancer, half orgoth—easily distinguished by their excessively muscled build and long golden hair. “Orgoths may look like beasts, but they are some of the most intelligent and resourceful beings in this world.”
Zevander had neither the energy, nor care, for conversation with her. It was only his curiosity wanting to know why he’d been sent to a place so rich with luxury.
She sniffed the air, crinkled her nose, and her eyes fell on the warden. “I’m certain that I instructed you to bathe him.”
“Apologies, General. I’m afraid we don’t have amenities to make him smell any better.”
Shifting her attention back to Zevander, she tilted her head in a curious way. “I watched you defeat that orgoth. How clever to use his very means of defense against him.” She tilted her head to the side, running her finger over where the vitaelis vein would sit—not as prominent as a full-blooded orgoth’s, but Zevander could see it pulsing beneath her skin. “Unlike orgoths with their tusks, Zephromytes must learn to protect their precious vulnerabilities in other ways.”
If there was one thing Zevander had gleaned from imprisonment, it was to always make a point to learn his captor’s weaknesses. Hers clearly wasn’t divulging the means toeffectively kill her, so he didn’t bother to ask how she managed to protect her vulnerabilities.
