Page 17 of Anathema

“And you’re the lucky third.” Frowning, Zevander opened the miniature scroll to view ancient words written in black ink. He recognized enough of the old language to know it was a passage spell.

“I trust you can speak it?” Dolion asked, tapping his finger impatiently against the tabletop.

“My mother was Vespyri. Born of the ancients. Yes, I can speak it.” He rolled it back up and tucked it away in his pocket beside the vial.

“Good.” Dolion leaned back in his chair, chin cocked indignantly. “In my vision, I can see a forest from a bedroom window. An archway made of bones.”

Zevander groaned and shook his head. “You better not be sending me on a long trek through the mortal lands for this one.”

“I can count on you to retrieve the stone, then?” Retrieving it meant boiling the blood of a victim into a hardened mass, which they expelled out of their mouths before the body combusted into a cloud of black dust. Something the overzealous mage couldn’t seem to bring himself to say.

“You’re asking me to venture beyond the boundary, a crime punishable by execution, and retrieve the stone from what has only ever been described as hell.” Zevander rolled his shoulders back. “Of course. I want this fucking fire out of my veins.”

“What does it feel like? The black flame? The power of Aethyria’s most dangerous element at your fingertips.” The intrigue in his eyes sickened Zevander. Much as they, the high and holy mages, denounced the power, they were always intrigued by it.

“Imagine your cock in the hands of a pyromage, only it’s your whole fucking body.” He didn’t bother to smile as the older man winced at the visual. “I’ll caution again, you attempt trickery, and I’ll personally see to it that you know exactly what it feels like to burn from the inside out.” Grabbing his sword from beside him, Zevander pushed to his feet and strapped it beneath his cloak, then exited the tavern, noting the hooded stranger no longer sat at the booth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MAEVYTH

The sensation of sharp needles piercing my arm roused me from sleep, and I lifted it into the dappled rays of moonlight streaming through the window beside me. Noticing a strange blackness bleeding through the bandage where I’d cut myself, a sickening cold filled my chest.

I hissed a shaky breath and unwound the sticky bandage to find an oozing wound on my arm beneath.

Oh, no.

Angry red flesh surrounded the gash, and the veins branching out pulsed a distressing silver with each beat of my heart. Silver? A cold panic crawled over my chest, as I stared down at the abnormal color beneath my skin. Deep red drainage leaked from crusty edges, and when I lifted it to my nose, the stench of it tugged a gag from my throat. I pressed on the corner of the wound, and a thick, black substance, swirled through with what looked like whorls of molten silver, oozed out of it. Gurgling in my stomach had me breathing hard through my nose to stifle the urge to retch.

As a child, I’d had the silly notion that I’d one day become a physician. Ridiculous, seeing as women weren’t permitted to study medicine, but I hadn’t known any better. It turned out to be a futile ambition on my part when I’d discovered I had a weak stomach for blood and death.

And what grave misfortune that, of all places, I’d end up living in a mortuary.

“Help!” A frantic scream broke me from my thoughts, sounding like it echoed from the vent.

I turned to see my sister’s bed stood empty.

“Please, someone help me!” The voice arrived again, the intensity heightening to panic.

Aleysia.

I shot out of bed, wrapping my wound as I crossed the room toward the door, which I cracked open to find a dark and empty corridor. The pictures of grandfather’s relatives added an eerie feel, like eyes watching me, as I made my way down the hallway toward the staircase.

“Please! Someone! Oh, god!” The voice cried out again, though I didn’t entirely recognize it as my sister’s.

“Aleysia?” I whispered, as I stepped lightly down the staircase to the lower level.

“I’m begging you! Please! Stop!” The voice goaded me through the kitchen, washroom, and pantry, only to find nothing but stillness in each room.

From the front of the house, a thumping sound drew my feet closer to the viewing parlor. Tiptoeing toward the entryway, I followed the sound and rounded the wall. On the other side, stood Uncle Riftyn pressed against my sister, her head thrown back, bottom lip caught between her teeth. A twinge of alarm spiraled down my neck, and he turned toward me, his lips stretched to a grin, just before he captured my sister’s bare breast between his lips, never bothering to turn his gaze away from me.

Violent ripples of mortification pulsed through me, and I shuffled back around the wall before my sister could notice, wanting to scrub my eyeballs with soap and salt.

“Oh, gods be damned,” I muttered as I made my way back up to my room. It was then I noticed the cries I’d heard before had stopped. Certainly not my sister’s cries, with the risk of Agatha finding the two of them.

If not Aleysia, then who had called out for help?

Once back in my room, I paused by the vent, listening again.

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