Eldritch (The Eating Woods, #2)

by Keri Lake

No sooner had she accepted the child than the acolyte watched in horror as Sacton Crain sliced a blade across the Lyverian mother’s neck.

“An ancient power…loosed…from thrall. Two worlds smothered…by a pestilent…pall.” The Lyverian mother’s words were broken by her dying breaths. “From the tree of rot…the insects…crawl. Decay and blight…unslain by steel…will bring…the strongest men…to kneel.”

His jaw trembled when he said, “No one must know of this. No one must ever know of this!”

“It is fortunate that you do not have a tongue to speak a word of this, or you’d meet the same fate.” Mother Vona tore her gaze from the bloody visual and turned toward her. “Dispose of the child with haste.”

Lowering her head, the acolyte nodded again and slipped from the cell with the too-quiet babe in her arms. She scurried through the tunnels of the undercroft—ones she knew well, as her mother had also been imprisoned by the Red Men.

raven sat beside the child, roosting close, which seemed to fascinate the babe, as it no longer screamed. Those eyes, silver eyes, remained riveted on the bird.

Eyes of silver and deathly pale skin. The child her priestess had prophesied would arrive with a new moon.

“The will of your god will be your demise. For, one day, it is you who will become The Banished. Maledicio tej’per nomed vetusza deosium.” I curse you by the name of the ancient gods.

“Goddess Death,” she rasped. “You will perish in the name of the goddess. For that is your fate.” “God … is … death.” The Crone Witch sighed. “Close enough.”

The hood angled just high enough that Zevander could make out a single, pale green eye that almost glowed from the dark depths within.

“No!” The cloaked woman growled and shot to her feet, the hood she wore slipping back to reveal the most grotesque deformities Zevander had ever seen, as if plucked from the most terrifying nightmares. Deep scars, far worse than his own, crossed her face over ruined lips. The other eye he hadn’t been able to see in the depths of her hood stared back as an obsidian orb, as if it’d been stained by ink. “He is mine! You swore that he would remain with me!”

“Clearly, you have no idea how irresistible you are if you imagine I can lie next to you even one night without the longing to touch you.” He rolled onto his back and tucked his bent arm beneath his head again. “How can I convince you that the only thing that could possibly force me away from you is death? And even then, I’d find a way to get back to you.”

“It isn’t staying to protect you that’s going to kill me. It’s staying away from you.”

Call it centuries of instinct, but something didn’t sit right with him. Through a plague of thoughts, one nagging certainty scratched at his mind—that the old woman had put her down there for a reason. She’d lied to Maevyth’s face. And even through all of that deception, Zevander couldn’t shake the suspicion that she’d done it for Maevyth’s sake.

She was his mate. His destiny. The more time he spent with her, the stronger the pull in his blood, like gravity shifting the tides. An unbreakable thread tied to his chest. And the fiercer his need to protect her.

He strode closer, the crunch of glass under his boots bringing him to a halt, and he knelt beside a strange black substance that’d dried into the wood. When Zevander angled the light closer, the stain left behind absorbed into the flooring. Disappeared before his eyes. Frowning, he stared down at it, wondering if he’d imagined it there. Maybe a shadow?

“To be fair, your chivalry, however dark and morbid and brimming with lunacy it may have been, warmed my heart. No one has ever offered to destroy the world for me.” “I’m nothing if not fiendishly and soullessly chivalrous.”

A creeping pain burned his chest, not like the sharp lance of a blade, but a slow, viscous poison crawling over his rib bones. Zevander pressed his hand to his heart, silently searching for the source of whatever writhed inside of him. An acidic taste lingered at the back of his throat, the acrid scent of rot and decay filling his nose. What in seven hells is this?

Zevander frowned. His father’s bloodline magic was forging metal. A long line of blacksmiths and farriers. His mother was an empath, a grief eater who also possessed the gift of reading minds. “There is nothing ancient, nor extraordinary, about my bloodline.”

“Yours is not derived from the sun or moon. It lives in the heart of Aethyria. It is the molten blackness that pumps through the veins of our world. Few gods take physical form, but this one lives within you.”

Zevander puzzled his words. “Who?” “Deimos. The god of sablefy...

I soaked the cloth in the basin of warmed water and lifted her arm to wash her armpit. A strange marking caught my eye. Through her worn chemise, a black splotch marred her ribcage beside her breast.

Frowning, I tugged at the sleeve just enough to reveal a large bulbous mass, the size of an apple and black as pitch. From it, protruded black veins, like those on Zevander’s face, but thicker and covered in a strange, rough texture. Could it have been caused by sablefyre?

“Kill her now.” Morsana’s voice slid through my head like liquid velvet. “It will be easier. You can return through the Umbravale without her.”

“You kept saying te’igniret abysira. What does it mean?” The already disturbed look in his eyes darkened. “It’s Primyrian. It means burn it down.”

His father gave a sharp nod. “The general of the Solassion army at the time sought me out to track down the wife of a shipping magnate. Lord Vanhelm, as you’ve been made aware by Lord Belthane.”

“Vanhelm claimed his estranged wife, who’d fled their home, was a heretic that practiced dark magic and child sacrifice. I’d certainly accepted far worse tasks for the kind of coin Lord Belthane offered, so when they asked me to track her down, I didn’t hesitate to agree.”

“Look at me, Zevander.” Eyes burning with the threat of tears, he stared back into his father’s sad, rheumy eyes. “You are born of fire. You will rise from the ashes.”

“She requested my services a while back. She’s the reason I was imprisoned by the Solassions.” “Who is she?” “Only knew her first name. Melisara.”

“What’s a sanguidin?” Ravezio asked,

“A mystical beast Nyxterosi parents told stories about, to scare the hell out of us when we were children. She drank blood to stay young and beautiful.”

“Do we happen to have any meat?” While the world had certainly changed since I last saw my sister, the question still struck me as odd, given that Aleysia had never had a strong affinity for meat.

“Zevander, do you think it was any coincidence that the moment that rabbit died, she awakened?”

After carefully handing it over, I sat on the chair across from her, watching her gracelessly shovel the soup into her mouth. The broth spilled down her chin, and she practically buried her face in the bowl for the meat. “Careful, Aleysia. It’s very hot.”

When she pulled the bowl away, she was staring at me, brows lowered, lips snarled in a way that reminded me of a feral dog. The sight of her had the hair on the back of my neck standing.

She quickly broke into laughter. “I was being silly. Remember Mrs. Castor’s dog that would growl at anything that passed its bowl?” The memory brought a half-smile to my face. “I ...

“Then, it is futile.” The older man rested his hands at his hips. “I’ve brought you to this place in vain.”

“Mor samanet,” he said. “What does that mean?” “It’s a Solassion phrase often spoken before heading into battle. It means death awaits. I pray you survive, my friend.”

“Who were the men following you?” “Scholars from the university. A secret society, of sorts.”

“How in seven hells did you incite the violence of scholars?”

Kazhimyr trailed his gaze to the next line reserved for siblings, to find Melisara Calzareth - unknown.

He knew that name. As rare as it was, he wondered if it might be the disfigured woman who’d hired him to track down the mortucrux all those years ago. “That’s his sister?” “So it seems. Whether she’s alive, or not, is another question.”

My hope is that he’s found Maevyth. She’s a critical piece in all of this.” “How so?” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, “I believe she’s the only one who can keep him from slipping into madness.”

Aleysia said, twisting to admire the black dress and cape she’d donned. She chuckled, “Goodness, I look like you. We look like good and evil personified.” “Which is good, and which is evil?” She twisted around, wearing a knowing smile. “That remains to be seen, I suppose.”

opulent

A curvy woman, painted in white, with long, golden horns atop her head, sauntered up to him. With both hands, she gripped either side of his face and whispered, “Mor samanet,” as a cloud of thick black smoke seeped from her mouth.

Zevander jerked his head to break her hold, and in doing so, his eyes tracked slower than the movement. His surroundings widened and shrank and he double-blinked, shaking his head. Knees and palms struck marble as he fell to the floor. The ceiling overhead swelled and contracted, as if it breathed, the voices around him slowing to a deep echo.

Ooo he trippinnnn

“Your insults are as weak as your riposte.”

Riposte

“Loyce…will come for you.” Theron gave a weak chuckle and gurgled on a glob of blood that poured out of his mouth. “You don’t…deserve the mortal…or your…forced bond.”

Forced bond? O.o

“Who hired you?” Torryn asked from behind. Dravien shrugged, his insouciance grating on Kazhimyr. “Can’t recall.” “Perhaps opening that window will jog your memory?” When he didn’t answer, Kazhimyr strode toward it. “Loyce! General Loyce hired me.”