Page 87 of Eldritch
The moon sat high in the sky, as Zevander stared out one of the archways, the cool evening breeze a welcomed transition from the suffocating heat from earlier. Below him stretched miles of Solassion territory, completely inaccessible, as the balcony sat perched over a steep cliff thousands of meters above solid ground. Not unlike the cave where he’d slept in the mines, only far less treacherous. He’d already studied every possible means of escape, but General Loyce, ever so thorough, had created a very effective cage.
A book of Solassion gods lay in his lap, one of the very limited variety of texts he was allowed access to, and Zevander had decided it was best to keep his mind sharp, his thoughts tethered to something, to avoid spiraling into the maddening horrors to which he’d been subjected, but as he stared down at the ampoule in his palm, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of escape it might offer.
He pushed it around with this thumb, the tiny ridges of all the glyphs he’d learned reminding him that there was something more outside of this place. Fortunately, the scars from his glyphs were only noticeable by touch, or he’d have probably been strung up for using magic.
He glanced toward Theron, who lay with his back to him, seeming to sleep. Zevander’s fresh wounds inflicted by Loycehad kept him up most of the night—a constant reminder that even if his mind slipped away during those abuses, his body suffered and Caligorya was temporary. Dangerous.
Perhaps the ampoule would be a safer means of escape.
He snapped away the cap, releasing the scent of roots and leaves, and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint—a burnt scent that hit the back of his throat. He poured the fluid into his most recent wound. The newly sewn gash sizzled, and Zevander let out a quiet hiss as the icy liquid seeped into his flesh, his battered and aching ribs screaming in pain when he shifted his body.
In seconds, it numbed the wound.
Seconds more, and a tingling sensation spread like branching crystals of ice across his abdomen, up to his chest.
He rested his head against the wall, smiling as every ache and pain melted into a cold, dull bliss. His heart slowed, and a heavy silence invaded his mind, snuffing out the flurry of thoughts from before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ZEVANDER
In the misty haze of a dream, the ground moved beneath Zevander’s feet, and the air was crisp with the scent of wet leaves. He opened his eyes to find himself walking a well-worn path that was lined by crooked fences at either side, trees interspersed every few steps.
Ahead of him walked a girl.Thegirl. The one he’d observed many times before.
Except, he hadn’t been invited to Caligorya by Alastor, and as he glanced around, he saw no sign of his mentor there right then.
Only the girl.
Tipping his head, he trailed after her, as she carried a basket in one hand and what looked to be a small amphora of oil in the other. Three ravens flew overhead, landing in the tree branches ahead of her, their heads tipped, one eye tracking her, and as she neared, they flew to the next tree branch.
Zevander had seen them flocking around the girl before, as if they were drawn to her, for some reason.
Her angelic voice carried through the trees as she hummed an unfamiliar song, her long, black locks dancing around her shoulders as a gentle wind sifted through her hair. She casuallystrolled along, glancing around at her surroundings, her black cloak like a ghostly shadow in pursuit. She was beautiful, even if she wasn’t real, though Zevander toyed with the possibility in his mind. Imagining such a stunning creature existing in an otherwise dark world gave him a strange sense of comfort.
Something unseen seemed to catch her worn-down boots, and she stumbled forward with a gasp. Fruit tumbled from the basket onto the ground, figs and apricots rolling toward the sloping edge of the path.
“Damn it!” she said, falling to her knees and scrambling to gather the fruit back into her basket.
A streak of movement caught Zevander’s attention, and he tracked a squirrel darting toward one of the fallen figs.
She scampered on her knees toward it, but the squirrel skittered off back toward the adjacent trees with its bounty. “Oh, you wicked little ball of malevolence!” Chucking a fig at the creature, she missed it by a long shot, and Zevander let out a chuckle.
She turned toward him, frowning. “Is someone there?”
Curious, he stepped closer. Lowering to his knees beside her, he blew across her neck, watching as goosebumps scattered over her skin. When she turned, her lips were mere inches from his, and the scent of fresh figs on her breath made his mouth water for a taste.
“I know you’re there, even if I can’t see you.” Soft, winter eyes stared through him, but he imagined her being able to see him there. That the warmth in those eyes was meant for him. “Are you an angel?”
Zevander eased back a bit before answering, “Perhaps.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, falling backward, and kicked herself away from him. Eyes wide, she trailed her gaze back and forth, clearly unable to see him there.
He held his hand over her arm, careful not to touch her, and smiled to see more goosebumps prickling her skin.
Her chest rose and fell with panting breaths, and Zevander focused on the choker that clung to her throat. A cross of some sort.
“You’re an angel talking to me?Me?”
