Page 31 of Anathema

Even years later, when the commands of those vile women were nothing but a distant memory in his ear, he still couldn’t bring himself to stroke his cock. Not even when it begged for relief.

It was especially difficult during the merging of moons, when his body naturally craved sex. A time when all Lunasier men, in particular, hungered for a hearty fuck, and their women ended up pregnant as a result. Those were the times when he’d find mindless release with sexsells. Emotionless sex that had him grinding his teeth to finish. A quick release.

Harmless trysts, because there wasn’t a chance in seven hells he’d ever settle down with anyone. Even if he wanted the headache of a mate, and he didn’t, no Letalisz had ever been granted permission to marry. It didn’t matter that he was King Sagaerin’s most skilled assassin. His loyalty was merely the price of living without exile. Otherwise, he’d have suffered the same fate as his father.

Zevander released himself and exhaled, tipping his head back to the edge of the basin and closing his eyes. While he’d never bond with a woman, he did long to enjoy the pleasures of one without the memories of his past destroying it all.

Willing himself to banish the thoughts pounding at his skull, he let his mind drift into the empty black void. Sleep he so desperately needed, but which had eluded him as of late.

From the silence, a voice called out to him.

Zevander! Zevander! It belonged to his mother.

The surrounding blackness lifted to a bright light that Zevander squinted against, as he placed the scorpion he’d just fed onto the grass. He watched as its stinger pierced a pea-sized spider in the abdomen, then gathered it to its mouth with pincers. Unbeknownst to his mother, he often played with the deadly critters that were known to kill with a single sting. While vicious toward their prey, they never stung him. Not even when he held them trapped in his palms.

“Zevander!” His mother called again, her voice impatient, and he turned to the vines of roses that charmed the outer stones of the castle, climbing the wall to the window from where she peered down at him. “Come. I need you in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Mother.” The boy pushed to his feet and entered the castle, winding through rooms, and as he passed his young sister playing with her dolls, he paused to kiss the top of her head and kept on.

In the kitchen, his mother stood at the wooden chopping table, adding bits of raw meat to a plate already piled high. Blood dripped over the edge of it, and Zevander frowned at the thought of its copper flavor on his tongue.

“I need you to take this to Branimir for me.”

Dread stirred in his gut. While he enjoyed seeing his brother on occasion, the dungeon had always terrified him. And those spiders. Ghastly spiders that watched him from the shadows of Branimir’s cell.

“Can Rykaia come with me?” the boy asked, despite not wanting his mother to think he was weak at ten years old.

“No, love. Branimir’s condition worsens, and I would not want her to become ill, as well. Besides that, she was nearly bitten last time.”

“Branimir would never allow her to be bitten, Mother. He loves Rykaia.”

One of Branimir’s spiders had bitten their cat, Gwinny. Two nights later, she’d lay moaning, convulsing. She’d thrown up all over Branimir’s cell, and Zevander had to retrieve her skeletal carcass, a task that’d left him retching the whole time.

That had been the cat, though, not their beloved sister.

“I’m sorry, darling. You’re the only one who can do this for me.” She sighed and ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “Your father should return soon. Perhaps Branimir will be better when he does.”

Zevander gave a solemn nod, and his mother kissed the top of his head. She handed him the dish of bloody meat, and the boy began his trek down to the dungeons.

The air turned cold as he descended the stone staircase, and puffs of white expelled with each breath. His arms trembled, and he wanted so badly to drop the dish and run back up the stairs, but Mother would only make him return with another. When he finally reached the bottom stair, he stole a moment to catch his breath, then kept on, past the statues of his ancestors, and the cells at the end of the corridor, beyond them, to the wooden door of the dungeon floor.

He stared at it a moment before setting the plate of food down while he lit the firelamp sitting beside the door. Once aglow, he carefully lifted the door on a creak of its rusted hinges and held the lamp over the gaping hole, below which he could see a dirt floor about two meters down. He reached down and hooked the lamp on a nail of the ladder and climbed down the first couple of rungs. Holding himself steady, he leaned over the edge of the hole and grabbed the plate, balancing it with one hand as he stepped down one rung at a time. Halfway to the ground, he unhooked the firelamp with his free hand, letting it slide to the crook of his elbow, and made the awkward descent the rest of the way down.

Chittering noises and the sound of something scampering over the dirt sent a chill down the back of his neck. He raised the firelamp up high, illuminating the expanse of the space and the shadows that hung on the fringes of light.

“Branimir,” he whispered. “I’ve brought your supper.”

The shadows shifted, and a pale white figure crawled toward him on hands and feet. While his form was grotesque and terrifying, the sight of him brought a smile to Zevander’s face.

“Zevander,” Branimir rasped and smiled in return. His black eyes had sunken deeper, and what should’ve been the muscled form of a eighteen year-old adolescent was instead a thin and skeletal body that hadn’t been properly nourished.

Not because his family hadn’t fed him, but because they couldn’t afford the amount of vivicantem it would’ve taken to improve his health.

His brother grabbed a handful of meat, shoving it into his mouth like an animal, and as he ate, Zevander looked over the space, catching sight of an enormous spider’s leg and eyes that watched him from the shadows. So many eyes. He lifted the lamp higher and gasped. An entire wall of webs showed thousands of spiders–some small, some medium. “Bran … are there more of them?”

A quick glance over his shoulder, and Branimir shoved more meat into his mouth. “I think they came from Gwinny. I saw them crawl from her body before you discarded it.”

“They were inside her?” The thought of such a thing had his own stomach twisting in disgust.

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