Page 79 of Eldritch
His lips thinned. “I’m not permitted to leave you alone. In the event you take your life.”
“Then, I’m shackled to you, as well. Fucking brilliant.”
“Could be worse. I could be an orgoth.” Theron snorted a laugh, and while Zevander might’ve also laughed at that, he couldn’t summon so much as a twitch of his lips—the rage inside him was too thick. “If you insist on challenging her every word, at least let me offer something. From his pocket, he pulled a tiny ampoule of purple liquid that he held up for Zevander.
Reluctantly Zevander let him deposit it into his palm.
“It’s a powerful elixir. Eliminates the pain and heals. Spill it into your wounds and you’ll be floating on a dream.”
Zevander sneered. “Is that how she commands you to do as she wants?”
“Your cock will be useless. Humiliating for her. And in time, she may even grow bored of you.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
Clearing his throat, he turned away. “It took a while to grasp, but yes. She’s found other uses for me.”
“Mending wounds.”
“Don’t imagine that anyone here enjoys their punishments or sleeps so soundly at night that they can’t recall the horrors of what she’s done to them. Most die within the first month. Eitherself-inflicted, or like you, they refuse to break. Those of us who remain must learn how to bend. How to choose our grief. The weight of a chain grows heavier with time.”
Zevander ground his teeth. “I will not break, nor bend to anyone.”
Lips pressed together, Theron pushed to his feet, lingering a moment longer. “Mor samanet,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a Solassion phrase often spoken before heading into battle. It meansdeath awaits. I pray you survive, my friend.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ZEVANDER
Present day …
Afeeling of dread palmed the back of Zevander’s neck, bringing him to a halt on route to the village.
He looked back in the direction of the hovel that had shrunk too far in the distance to see.
Maevyth?
Instinct gnawed at him to return to her, as the final moments just before he’d left flickered through his head, and the worry he’d seen in her eyes lingered in his mind like a sliver. Perhaps an omen, if he were more astute.
He glanced back toward the winding, uneven path ahead that was scarcely discernable beneath the freshly fallen snow, which stretched toward the dark silhouette of Foxglove in the distance. “Fuck.”
That kernel of unease expanded in his chest, hardening into a cold realization that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Abandoning his journey, he turned back for the hovel, trudging over his own tracks in the snow.
“Mor samanet.”
The same voice he’d heard the day before in the woods reached him, and Zevander scanned his surroundings—the steeply sloping hills that met the remnants of a decayed wooden fence at either side of the road. Twisted, skeletal limbs of barren trees loomed over the ever-present fog that lingered across the path, but there was no sign of anyone.
No movement.
He kept on toward the cottage, passing a long-abandoned watermill and its visibly rotting footbridge, and again his senses flared. He reached for the sword at his back as he caught a scent on the wind. Oiled leather. A faint whiff of smoke and ash.
