Page 42 of Anathema

It zipped past him again, and Zevander’s black flame coiled and struck like a snake, holding the nefarious little beast captive, while it squealed and chirped and trilled, its teeth snapping at the vaporous flame. Spirityne. Strange to see one on that side of the Umbravale. He tipped his head, studying its trembling stick-like body that appeared like an actual twig, with a humanoid face and tattered black wings, making it almost entirely camouflaged in the surrounding wood. Had Zevander wanted, he could’ve breached the protective halo of magic that kept the creature from burning alive right then. Instead, he looked away, releasing the creature, and it flew off chirping, likely warning other Spiritynes.

Zevander strode on, and at the crunch of something beneath his boot, he paused and reached down into the mist. He lifted a broken and decayed human skull, his senses labelling it as at least a century old. Tossing it aside, he kept on, more crunching beneath his boots in what must’ve been a feeding ground.

He walked what he estimated to be two furlongs before noticing a structure ahead–another archway that shimmered like the first he’d passed through. This one made of bones and twisted wood. As Zevander made his way in that direction, a cold tingle brushed across the back of his neck, his instincts telling him there was something hidden amongst the trees. Watching him. A scan of the forest showed only the dark trees looming above the mist, and the dappled moonlight illuminating the bats flitting through their canopies.

He strode on, until he arrived at the ancient structure—the entrance from the forest to the mortal world.

Gaze trailing over the archway of bone and wood, he spied a spattering of black, as if it’d been burned into the structure, and ran his finger across it. The spatters sizzled and smoked and slid into his palm like black snakes. They gathered into small puddle, and the black faded for red. He closed his palm over it and opened it to a solid red stone. Skinny silver lines appeared as small cracks in the hard surface, a characteristic he hadn’t seen before. His mind wound back to the conversation with Dolion at the tavern. “A stone with silver markings.”

The clues leading to his quarry always revealed themselves, somehow, and Zevander trusted blood above everything else.

He lifted the tiny sphere up into the moon’s light, examining the strange coloring and patterns, and felt a hum of energy vibrating across his palm as he held it. Sensing power in the blood was nothing new for the Letalisz, but the oddly pleasurable intensity that rippled beneath his skin, trembling across his bones like prey in a spider’s web, struck him as foreign. Entirely unexpected.

Tongue wet with the urge to lick the salty stone, he screwed his eyes shut to the voice in his head that chimed Taste. Consuming blood was like playing with the devil’s flame. A reckless indulgence that led to madness, as blood could be a very powerful aphrodisiac. He quickly tucked the stone away in his leathers.

A shimmer across his eye drew his hand to the ward. As he ran his finger across, tiny electrical impulses tickled his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined his hand passing through. When he opened them, the barrier enveloped at his wrist.

He stepped through.

Once on the other side, Zevander surveyed the open field of frost that glistened like diamonds, the scattered trees, and nocturnal animals scampering in the dark with eyes glowing. Clouds of white smoke drifting up from chimneys.

Life. So much unexpected life.

From a young age, he’d been taught the mortal world was a dead and barren wasteland. A place no Aethyrian would ever dare to venture. Above him, stars twinkled around a single crescent moon. The air, though crisp and cold, felt dry as it breezed over the exposed half of his face. Desiccated, like an aging world, but certainly not a dead one.

In the distance stood a dark cottage, and he spied a window near its roof.

An archway of bones seen through a window.

A glance back at the archway showed it to be in the path of the window’s view.

He stuck out a hand, calling upon his powers, and across the frosty ground, a trail of fallen blood glowed red–the drops leading toward that same cottage across the dirt road. He strode toward it, following the blood path to the entrance, and through the door that creaked on worn hinges. The lower level stood empty and quiet. Up the staircase, he trod lightly, his boots making nary a sound over the aging wood. The blood trail stopped at what appeared to be a bathing suite–one far less elaborate than his own, back at the keep. It held a simple tub, and chamber pot with a pull string, the kind one would find in The Hovel. He kept on down the corridor of closed doors, and halfway toward the end of it, he felt a vibration in his pocket as the stone radiated warmth across his thigh.

The strange sensation seemed to heighten, the deeper he ventured, until he stopped before a door at the end of the hallway. Opening it gave a light squeal of the hinges and revealed another staircase. When he reached the top, he found two beds across the room from one another. Mingled with a strong floral scent was something that hit the back of his throat, stiffening his jaw. Like sweet oranges.

A dizzying weakness swept over him, and he stumbled back a step, his senses overwhelmed.

Fucking hells …. What in the gods was wrong with him?

From the ceiling, dangled small white sachets decorated in flowers. Perhaps the source of the scent. He drew one to his face, nose crinkling at the strong, spicy herbs that didn’t carry so much as a whiff of that orange scent.

As he set his sights on the bed directly across from him, the stone in his pocket flared with warmth. He shook his head of the strange vertigo and crossed the room, coming to a stop alongside his victim’s bed. Nestled in the blankets, the creature slept soundly, its body rising and falling with easy breaths. Beneath the delicious orange scent that watered his mouth, something earthy loomed. A wicked odor, like brimstone, and he rounded the bed for the other side, nearest the window. On the floor, tucked halfway beneath the bed’s frame, he found a black object and lifted it up to the light.

An egg, it seemed, but not one he recognized. The scales on the surface suggested some kind of raptor. He’d seen similar eggs in Draconysia in the north, when he’d crossed over from Solassios. When told they were drake eggs, Zevander had made the mistake of stealing three of them, not realizing he was committing himself to raising the damned things.

Resting another hand over the top of the egg sent the black flame over the surface, which glowed a bright purple, and the silhouette of the tiny creature cocooned inside, squirming and writhing, confirmed that it was alive. He glanced down at the bundle of blankets below him, and back to the egg.

Zevander carefully placed the egg on the floor. He’d be sure to take it with him, as it’d certainly be worth quite a bit in the black markets of Costelwick.

He held out his hands toward the bundled mass beneath a flowered quilt, the stone in his pocket so hot against his thigh, he let out a grunt, adjusting its position in his leathers. Curls of black flame lifted from his skin and scaled down his arm, where it gathered in his palm. He directed the flame onto his victim, letting it wind around the blankets, and at the first movement, Zevander knew the flame was heating the pathetic creature’s blood. Cooking it.

A soft but agonizing moan bled through the coverings, and Zevander frowned at the way the sound strummed his muscles. The bundle shifted, movement pulling the blankets away to reveal a face that snapped his spine straight.

Long, black hair lay strewn about her pillow and plastered to her sweaty brow. Porcelain skin that carried the soft pink of a fever. Full, bow-shaped lips, slightly parted.

Fucking beautiful.

As he pulled back the flames, he tipped his head, staring down at her. What a pity.

---