Page 72 of Eldritch
“Cursed.” Alastor hissed. “For centuries, men have long tried to understand the potential of the black flame. You’ve been gifted an incredible power.”
“I have nothing. I am a slave. Nothing more.”
A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Allow me to teach you what I know, and I will give you shelter in this place. You will not have to face the suffering of your circumstances.”
A phantom echo of hands grasping his cock made him wince, and he nodded. “For what purpose?”
“General Loyce longs to break you. I wish to strengthen your mind. What you learn from me, you will retain when you wake as if I were there in the waking world with you.”
“And what do you gain from these meetings?”
“Come. Let’s walk.” Alastor clasped his hands behind his back, and as they walked, the surrounding scenery morphed into a dizzying blur, coming back into sharp focus on another cobblestone path like that in the village they’d just left.
The two of them followed the suffering girl from earlier, who took cautious steps toward a set of red doors on what looked like an ancient cathedral, and once there, she pushed her way inside, Zevander and his companion slipping in after. The interior reminded him of the gods’ temple, where he’d grown up learning of the Lunadei and Soladei, only the temple at home was far more impressive, with its stone carvings and celestial maps.
The exterior of building she’d entered boasted gargoyles at the downspouts and ivy climbing the walls, but the inside was simple wood and candles. At the front of the expansive room, a statue loomed—a figure draped in red vestments and a cloak, revealing a pale, muscled chest, over which a glowing, red vial dangled from a delicate chain. Through the red hood, two glowing eyes stared out, the hostility reminding him of a lesser god he’d learned about as a boy—Atroxis, the god of war and bloodshed.
Rows of pews sat empty as the girl passed them toward a multitude of red candles flickering near the front of the church. She lifted a skinny bit of kindling and lit one of the candles, then knelt before the statue.
“Please, if you can hear me, I’ve a favor to ask.” Her quiet, angelic voice echoed through the nave. “Since I was a small child, I’ve longed to be like everyone. I’ve committed myself to your teachings, given my blood to Sacton Crain, and have tried to live good and godly. But still, they see me as aberrant. I know I do not deserve your mercy, or your kindness, but if I could be granted one small request, I would like to be like everyone else. To be no one. Invisible to their eyes. If only for one day.”
“They pray to a single god?” Zevander asked.
“Caedes. The Red God. They believe if they live by his principles, he will spare them from the great scourge.”
Zevander snorted and shook his head. “Gods do not spare anyone.” He picked up one of the anointing bowls behind her, nearly dropping it with the discovery that it was a tangible thing in his hand. Strange, for what was supposedly nothing more than a dream. In twisting the copper bowl, he noticed blood seeping out of a long gash on his palm and promptly dropped the object on a loud clatter.
The girl gasped and twisted around. “Who’s there?” she asked, her question distracting him from the wound.
Zevander stepped cautiously toward her. “How did she hear me?”
“The Liminal separates us from her. A boundary of time and space. If you should breach it, the consequences would be catastrophic. It could very well alter the events of her future.”
“Did I not breach it by lifting the bowl? And what does it matter, if it isn’t real? If I possess the power of a god in my thoughts, why not behave as such?”
“Because even gods must learn their limitations.”
“Hello? Is someone there?” she asked again.
“Who are you talking to, girl?” An older man in red vestments approached, and Zevander didn’t have to know his thoughts to recognize the contempt he’d felt for her. It was carved in his expression.
“I…heard someone. Or something. Was a loud clatter.”
Frowning, the man stepped past her and stooped behind the first row of pews, before lifting the bowl Zevander had dropped. “Clumsy girl. It’s a wonder anything remains intact in your presence.” He spat the words like a sour taste on his tongue. “What are you doing here?”
“My apologies for the intrusion, Father Crain. I came to pray.”
The old man sneered. “I am no father to you, girl. I am the sacton of this temple, and you will address me as such.” With a haughty tip of his chin, he stared down at her. “And why do you imagine The Red God would bestow his divinity upon you?”
“I’m imperfect, but I try to be as devout as all who worship. I only ask for his guidance.”
“Whatever for?”
“I want …” She swallowed a gulp, as if the words remained stuck in her throat. “I want to be accepted by the parish. To be one of you.”
“Foolish girl. What misery to be born so ignorant and naive. Look at you.” The man gestured toward her as if she was an awful stench in the air. “You are not one of us. You never were.” The subtle amusement in the man’s voice grated on Zevander. He had an arrogance about him, and a condescending tone that reminded him too much of the warden. “It’ll be dark soon. Go home.”
“Shall we commence our first lesson?” Alastor asked, interrupting Zevander’s observations.
