Page 21 of Anathema

The man slowly straightened his posture, as the Letalisz approached, clearly uncertain whether, or not, he’d dare to intervene. Most didn’t.

“You got no business here,” the boy’s abductor said, raising his palm in threat. “I’m warning you. Go on now.” Not a single glyph marred his palm. The wily bastard might’ve possessed blood magic, but he certainly hadn’t mastered any of his power. The stranger spun away from Zevander, but before he could take so much as a step in the other direction, Zevander released the scorpion onto the ground, and it grew to the size of a melon as it shot across the wet cobblestones after him.

With little effort, the scorpion caught his ankle, its tail winding around his legs, and its razor-sharp stinger thrashed and slammed down into the man’s groin. The outcry that followed would’ve surely drawn a crowd in any other part of the city.

Zevander strode toward the writhing abductor, passing the boy who trembled and clung to the bars of his cage. The scorpion kept its hold of the stranger’s cock, while the man shook and batted it with an unsteady hand.

“Get it off of me! Get it the fuck off of me!”

Zevander reached for the scorpion, and it finally released the man on a spray of blood, before slithering its way up the sleeve of his tunic. “The sting carries a poison that will ensure you never know pleasure again. Each time your cock fills with blood, all you will know is a pain that will have you begging for death.”

Without another word, he left the man cupping his mutilated groin, squirming and sobbing on the ground, and swiped up the keys the abductor had dropped in his attempt to escape. A blast of heat radiated across Zevander’s back,and frowning, he turned in time to see a tendril of black flame slithering from his boot, across the gravelly ground, toward the suffering kidnapper. His muscles lurched to reel it back in, but before he could so much as raise his hand, the flame consumed the man, who screamed and gurgled in the mere seconds before his body turned to ash.

Fuck.

Teeth grinding, he lifted his palm, calling the fire back, butinstead of following his command, it streaked across the ground toward the boy in his cage.

“No!” Zevander took hold of the power with both hands,as it thrashed and snapped at the air, fighting to break free,to swallow up another life. He hauled it, hand over hand, winding it back, fingers cramping with his tight grip. Until,at last, the flame retreated, scampering up his sleeve and back beneath his skin.

With palmspressedto his knees, he stooddoubledover,eachdeep,burning inhalationcrackling in his lungs,as the flame settled inside of him. He let out a groan. While episodes like these,during whichhe’d sometimeslost control of the flame, were relatively rare, it was enough to trouble him. A testament to the unruly and unpredictable nature of his power.

Aftercollectingthe new bloodstone left behind and tucking it into his pocket alongside thatfromearlier,he unlocked the cage, freeing the boy, and kept on toward the tavern.

A pattering sound at his back had him turning around to find the boy running after him, fastening the pants that slipped over his too-thin hips. Zevander kept on and whistled for his horse, a cursed stallion who was as dark as pitch. A breed only found on the harsh and violent plains of Draconysia. The clack of its hooves reached Zevander through the darkness, and it came to a halt before him, its eyes as black as coal and fangs dripping with the blood of a recent kill.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Zevander said as he climbed onto the saddle, and to his dismay, he found the spindling standing alongside the horse. “Your master is dead. You’re free to return to your family.”

The boy lowered his head, his shirtless body trembling with the cold. “No family, My Lord.”

Seven fucking hells.

Zevander held out his hand, and a blast of radiant heat engulfed the boy, leaving his body no longer shivering, skin red with the warmth that would last him through the night. “Find some shelter. And stay out of trouble.” With that, he gave a light kick to the beast’s flank and sent it on a lazy walk.

Up the street and two over put him on the path toward The Hovel, situated on the seediest outskirts of Costelwick, farthest from the citadel. Highbloods wouldn’t dare venture to that part of town, where disease ran rampant and death waited in the shadows.

A strange sensation tickled the back of his neck, and he turned to see the boy running after him, his spindly arms struggling to hold up his pants.

Zevander groaned and turned his attention back to the road ahead. He set his horse to a mild trot in hopes the kid would give up the chase.

Through the gates of the city, a stretch of weathered shacks supplanted the once artisanal beauty of Costelwick’s most flourishing district that was now a faded and chipped remnant of its former self. Flickering gas lamps casted shadows on the decayed brick buildings and across the damp and winding cobblestone streets, where the haunting whispers of desperation echoed from the alleyways.

Zevander removed his mask. Hiding his face wasn’t necessary in this part of the city. Nearly everyone in The Hovel bore scars in one form, or another, and no one cared who he was, or what he’d been cursed with. It was only the hideous scar that stretched across his cheek and branched into tiny black veins down his jaw and neck that still garnered stares, even in the worst corners of Costelwick.

The air was thick with sanitation fog, an enchanted mist that the highbloods released over The Hovel, to keep their diseases contained. Fortunately for Zevander, the flame inside of him burned away disease and infection, making him immune to just about anything he might’ve encountered.

An approaching wagon kept a slow cadence toward him. Mortemian. Death collectors for the city. The coachman sat hunched over, undoubtedly weary from a long day of gathering the dead. A leather tarp stretched across the back of the wagon and covered the bodies held within, bound for the vein. While Nyxteros boasted a high rate of immortality, the poverty-stricken villages on the outskirts tended to skew the numbers, which was ultimately good for the king. More bodies equated to more vivicantem, after all. While the sablefyre contained within the vein had the power to transform flesh into bloodstones in a matter of seconds, it took approximately seven years for a corpse to phase into the much-needed nutrient that was then harvested from the rock. For centuries, the highblood immortals had relied on the sickly nilivir and spindlings to ensure a long and successful bloodline.

Zevander stopped his horse in front of a brothel and dismounted. As he slipped his mask into one of the satchels of his saddle, movement caught the corner of his eye, and he twisted to see that damned boy running barefoot toward him. En route to The Hovel, Zevander had slowed his pace, thinking he’d lost the kid, but it seemed he’d kept on him.

Dragging a hand down his face, he groaned again, and as he stepped in the direction of the brothel, the boy fell into step after him. Zevander swung around, pressing a gloved finger into the spindling’s chest. “Stay. You can watch my horse.”

The boy gave a spirited nod and scampered to the mount, where he gently petted its chest.

On a huff of frustration, Zevander strode up to the once-grand house that had since stood dilapidated and in decay, its roof bowing and wood rotting. A place of dark fantasies.

Beyond the door, a curtain of perfume clung to the air, masking the heady stench of pleasure. Sexsells, clad in ornate corsets, lounged across settees and couches, the curvy beauties primed and ready. After the shot of vivicantem, Zevander should’ve been all too willing to accommodate them–every one of them. Instead, he felt only indifference to their half-naked forms lying about. After all, he hadn’t come to the brothel for sex.

A voluptuous woman, breasts spilling over a black corset, sauntered up to him, her red hair wild and cascading over slim shoulders. To most, she went by Madame Lazarine, but Zevander had known her intimately enough to call her Ze’Kyra. “Well, hello handsome. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

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