Page 50 of Anathema

The fact that the flammellian targeted sexsells in particular would’ve made the job all too enticing for Torryn, seeing as he knew Rykaia liked to frequent the brothels.

“And may he find him before I do.” Zevander didn’t bother to tell his fellow Letalisz that Rykaia had been subjected to firebleeding. He’d also not bothered to mention the dealings he’d had with Dolion in trying to break the curse. Or the fact that he’d humiliated himself trying to retrieve the final stone.

He’d have preferred to forget everything all together, except that his dreams had become more vivid the last few nights since having laid eyes on that girl, and Zevander had grown weary of waking each morning with intense pain in his groin.

Over a mortal, no less.

Zevander reached for the glass of fervenszi he’d poured earlier and polished it off. “You and I can handle this assignment alone.”

The idea was ludicrous, given what they’d be up against, and the cock of Kazhimyr’s brows told Zevander his brother thought the same. Unfortunately, Zevander had no intentions of carrying out the king’s order to assassinate Dolion, and the fewer who knew of this betrayal, the better.

“You and I take on the Carnificans alone? I don’t know what’s worse—your request, or the king’s.”

“If Dolion is alive, as you say, then he managed to get past the Carnificans himself. They’re not a particularly docile lot.”

Due to their high levels of vivicantem, they were known to have incredible strength and agility, their powers greater than a normal Mancer. Or Letalisz for that matter. Had they larger numbers, they could’ve probably wiped out the king’s Imperial Guards fairly easily. Fortunately, most Aethyrians made a point to avoid vivicantem poisoning at all costs.

“Don’t tell me you’re less confident than a drunk old mage.”

“Speaking of, mind if I have a drink?”

The question made Zevander smirk, but he passed over the decanter of liquor and a glass.

Kazhimyr tipped back the whole snifter of it, his nerves clearly rattled by the prospect of taking on the Carnificans alone. “And what happens if you’re wrong? What happens when we’re severely outnumbered by a whole colony of cannibals?”

“We send up a quick prayer before shitting ourselves.”

“Doesn’t sound like a stable backup plan.”

“I never claimed to be much of a strategist.”

Kazhimyr sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Fine. I’ll keep it quiet. Getting eaten alive certainly isn’t the worst way to die, I suppose.”

“Care to enlighten me on what your opinion of the worst might be?”

“Cock in a meat grinder?”

Zevander frowned. “We’ll do our best to avoid both.”

With a nod, Kazhimyr pushed up from the chair. “When do we set out?”

“It’ll take five days to arrive by horseback. Dusk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MAEVYTH

On a quiet click, I opened the door to the shed and peered inside the open, dark space. A grotesque, squelching sound arose from somewhere toward the back, and I frowned, searching for Raivox in the dark. Padding quietly toward the center of the shed, I followed that horrible noise, peering through the dim light for anything that moved.

Along the east wall, a stack of pine boxes, built by Uncle Riftyn, sat waiting for the bodies stored in the morgue. How fortunate for Agatha, that both sons happened to be skilled in carpentry–one of wood, and the other of bodies.

The repulsive memory of Uncle Felix’s lips on Danyra’s breast sent a shiver spiraling down my back.

At the same time, a wet mass squished beneath my foot.

Lips twisted in a grimace, I lowered my gaze to the dirt floor, where a pink, fleshy mound enveloped my shoe. Tilting my head, I examined it, trying to imagine what I could’ve possibly been staring at, when a flash of black bolted in from the left and swiped up an end of it, before dashing back into the shadows. The pink mass trailed behind it. Long. Glistening.

Entrails.

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