Page 75 of Eldritch
Waking her wasn’t an option. Not when their journey to town could be fraught with danger, particularly given Aleysia’s state.
The scent of sweet citrus drifted over him, reminding him how impossible it was to ignore her, and groaning, he sat up,swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Head bowed, he rested his elbows atop his thighs. It’d be morning soon. Just a couple more hours was all he had left to get some sleep. He rubbed his hands over his skull, daring himself to look at her.
Don’t do it, his head urged.
He couldn’t help himself. Refusing to look at her was like trying not to look at a star captured in the palm of his hand. He twisted around, and the face that greeted him sent a sickening dread to the pit of his stomach. General Loyce.
He shot to his feet, backing himself away to where his weapons lay scattered over the table.
“Hello, darling,” she said, her voice like snakes crawling over him. “You thought you could escape me by running to the mortal lands?”
He trailed his gaze over the dark room in search of Maevyth. “Where is she?” he growled.
“On her way to Aethyria. Food for my beloved pets.”
A furious, guttural sound tore from his throat, and he reached behind him for the dagger. In one short breath, he was at the bedside, looming over her like a deadly storm.
Her lips pulled to a smile, stirring his rage.
Zevander struck fast and without warning, stabbing her in the chest. Instead of a smooth, quick jab, his blade caught on something stiff and impenetrable. He yanked hard and stabbed again, forcing the metal past her chest. Over and over and over, he jabbed the knife into her body, his mind a thrashing sea of thoughts, too violent to sort.
Until he struck again, and no blood came forth.
He struck again, and there were no cries of pain.
Only a hard surface, as if her chest were made of stone.
Hand drawn back for another strike, he paused when quiet whispers reached his ears. Zevander snapped his gaze toward the sound, indiscernible through the closed door. When helooked back, he was staring at Maevyth’s sleeping face, her lips parted for a quiet snore.
A shocked breath burst from his chest, and he tumbled backward, his mind echoing the last few seconds—how exuberantly he’d stabbed what he thought was General Loyce. He looked down to find the dagger clutched in his palm, a small sliver of wood caught on the jagged teeth of it. Below him, carved into the wood of the floor, were deep grooves like those they’d seen beside Aleysia’s bed.
Zevander recoiled fast, tossing away the blade as he kicked himself backward. Not even the thud of the metal woke her. Another thought sickened him more: She’d have never seen it coming.
Knees bent, he clutched his head, catching his breath.What the hell am I doing?
Gods, he’d almost stabbed her.
He covered his eyes with the palm of his hand, desperate to banish the image from his mind.
Did I hurt her?
He lurched forward, but stopped, not trusting himself to be so close. In the dim light of the room, he trailed his gaze over her, searching for a single wound he might’ve inflicted.
She sighed again, rolling onto her back, and kept on with her snoring. No sign of injury from what he could see. No blood on the sheets. No evidence that he’d stabbed her.
Fuck.
Fuck!
He rubbed a hand down his face, the visual gnawing at him.
Zevander gathered up his blade, setting it on the table, and stared back at those grooves again. The depth and strokes of the marks resembled those on Aleysia’s floor, except they were absent of the black substance, but in Aleysia’s room, it could’ve come from her wound.
He paced, rubbing his skull, teasing the possibility that he might’ve left them there.
More whispers drifted to his ear, and he ground to a halt. He stalked toward the door, opening it on the main room of the cabin, where the hearth flickered and the whispers were louder.
Zevander slipped out of the room and quietly crept toward Aleysia’s door.
